Choptank in Greenwich Village

As a 12-year veteran of Maryland residence, I've had "the Baltimore conversation" hundreds of times.  It's only complete once you've praised The Wire in all its glory (a Barksdale or McNulty quote isn't required but a stylistic choice), traded thoughts on a recent only-in-Baltimore news story (for the past year or so, I've gone with the Hopkins kid who used a Sumurai sword to dice up an intruder), and ultimately concluded that, despite all B-more's flaws, you just can't help but love the damn place.

This past weekend, Dave and I had a high-quality version of this conversation.  What was unusual was that the discussion took place with a New York bartender and a local cross-dresser in full make-up.  That was a first.

Where else would you have that opportunity but Choptank, the seafood restaurant in Greenwich Village that opened this past January.  The food is inspired by the flavors of the Chesapeake Bay, and, according to co-owner Bobby Werhane, targeted to NYC residents in a one-mile radius.

Ed felt the need to grab more than his mallet at Choptank.  As should go without saying, it was his birthday this past weekend.

If the framed oil-paintings of sailboats don't convince you of the place's Chesapeake bonafides, get to know the people who work there.  The bartender, Mid-Atlantic golden boy/Gilman-grad Mark, says he's regularly approached by other Maryland transplants with the same request: "You're from Baltimore, I'm from Baltimore, you seem cool - want to date my sister?  She's really hot!"  (Mark reports that he's flattered by all the attention but skeptical about the attractiveness of girls offered up to a random bartender.)

Still not convinced this place is dishing straight Maryland?  Well, there's a sweaty, musclebound dude back behind the restaurant steaming crabs for about six hours most days!

We shared a dozen Jimmies scattered over the middle of the table cast in a nice soft light filtering through a planked roof.  Ed and Betty listened closely to my crab-eating tutorial, and it didn't take long before they'd mastered the backfin pressure points and were gently coaxing hunks of meat like a Dogwood Harbor waterman. 

Dave, on the hand, ignored my advice and hammered the crab's midsection with the blind rage of the Trinity Killer.  The force with which he pounded his victim gradually ebbed to a half-hearted love-tap until, finally convinced that his strategy was hopeless, he retired his weapon and gave up.

The Indian Lithgow.  Anticipating the tomale-spatter, Betty recoils in horror.

Luckily for Dave, each of us also ordered entrees.

Dave's "CLT"

Dave and Ed both went with the "CLT" - catfish, lettuce, tomato, bacon, and spicy mayo, along with some awesome Old Bay potato chips.  On the recommendation of our "burger aficionado" waiter (like Mark, another cool guy who talked food, cars, and music with us), Betty went with the Choptank Burger, topped with Hook’s cheddar, pickle pepper mayo, and bacon jam and paired with "dark, brown, salty" fries that earned a "double huzzah" from Sam Sifton.

Demonstrating my unnatural obsession with crab meat, I decided the perfect complement to our big pile of crustaceans was "The Chesapeake": another big pile of jumbo lump crab and spicy hollandaise topped with creamy poached eggs and chervil.

The other patrons followed our lead - the thwacks of mallets filled the room as did easy conversation with the sun-bleached waitstaff that seemingly had been recruited from an Annapolis sailboat academy, or maybe the stands of Homewood Field during the High School Lacrosse Showdown.  Reviewer Sifton seemed a bit disappointed the place felt "safe as Cal Ripken" and didn't conjure The Wire.  Personally, I was fine talking about Detective McNulty while having no need for his murder-solving skills.