The Lobster Boil – Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia

From ocean to plate – a fireside feast of the world’s finest seafood

The sound of the engine was faint at first and it was hard to determine the direction from where it came. But a boat soon appeared, framed by a thicket of spruce trees that ended at the edge of the cliffs below. The Bay of Fundy was calm despite the tide having already begun to recede and the vessel, with its bulging cabin and low stern, cut through the glassy water with ease. Finally it slowed and sat back in the water as those onboard began to work. Here, on the west coast of Nova Scotia where the lobster are plentiful, it was nearing the end of the season and these fishermen were making the most of the time they had left.

The lone figure in the cabin was barely discernible but for his occasional signals to the three crew on the deck. They moved in well-rehearsed harmony, first hooking a cable attached to a buoy that marked the start of the string – a group of ten or more lobster pots joined on a line. Once full they fed the cable onto a pulley that slowly dragged it to the surface, each pot emptied of their catch, re-baited and dropped overboard again, ready to entice another victim.

The skill of the fishermen meant that this work finished quickly. The boat turned and headed south to a deeper part of the bay as the first rocks appeared in the water below. Their day had only just started and there were at least 12 hours in front of them before they returned to harbour. There was also work in front of us; a mission to get 30 lobsters for a water-side feast. So we too headed south, towards Harbourville, in search of a fisherman named Kevin.

Arriving at the harbour we found Kevin working on his boat, The Fundy Breeze. In seasons that run from March to July and again from October to January he, his two sons and one other fisherman go out every other day, crisscrossing the bay to harvest the pots, changing their location depending on their success. And though this was supposed to be his day off, it barely resembled one.

Kevin has had The Fundy Breeze for 21 years, first buying the shell and then fitting it out over time. It is a proud beast and as I joined him on deck I found it bigger than I had imagined. In the cabin the smell of the engine’s diesel and grease reminded me of my Australian home and the farm machines I grew up around. So too did his stories – the parallels with those of my father and grandfather were striking, all forged through a life of honest hard work. He had been a fisherman since the 1970s and, though it could be tough at times, said it was worth it. “I wouldn’t do anything else,” he told me, “I’d keep going until I couldn’t get up that ladder anymore.” It wasn’t difficult to understand why.

We made arrangements and returned a few days later to pick up our bounty of crustaceans, happy in the knowledge that these would be the freshest of catches, Kevin having brought them in from the bay the previous evening With coolers loaded to the brim and the lobsters covered in seaweed and saltwater we headed across the province to Chester where we would hold the feast.

Down on the rocky beach by the jetty small logs and kindling were piled high under a sturdy tripod of thick timber. A good squirt of lighter fluid ensured the fire started with a woof and a puff of acrid black smoke. As it settled, a large pot of water was hung from the centre of the tripod and a waiting game began. Knowing the risk to our chances of eating before dark that a watched pot presented, we busied ourselves with other things, tables were brought out, then utensils, more food, condiments and, of course, Champagne.

As the first bubbles appeared in the water fresh sweetcorn was brought over and dropped in. In the time it took to drink a cold beer they were ready, disappearing as everyone did their best to roll the too-hot- to-handle cob in a large block of butter. Conversations quietened to a murmur as we devoured kernels slathered in salty butter, only for the noise to rise again once we had finished, a sign that we were now ready for the lobster.

We took eight of the creatures out of the coolers, removed the rubber bands binding their claws and lowered them into the pot, their mottled brown shells changing to a red hue as they sank to the bottom. 18 minutes later they were pulled from the water, bright orange and steaming hot. The first lot was snapped up by the hungry guests on the jetty and soon the sound of cracking shells was heard all around. More went into the pot, the final six reaching the table just as the sun dropped behind the houses high up on the hill.

With a plated lobster on my lap and a small pot of melted butter beside me, I worked my way along its length. First the tail fins, a small entree gained from pressing and scraping the soft meat out of the ends. The large tail quickly followed – a twist and a crack revealed my favourite part. I savoured mouthful after mouthful, dipping each one in butter and washing it down with dry Champagne. Finally, I reached the legs and claws with the sweetest meat, a seafood cracker and fork ensuring nothing was left behind.

I returned to the fire, its flames slipping away like the light above as the evening took hold. I desperately wanted to eat another one but was more than sated, so much so I thought that once I sat down there was a chance I might never get up. They say Canadian lobster is the best in the world. I reckon they’re probably right.