Crab Crusted Salmon

There are meals that arrive like a small, quiet weather change—nothing dramatic, just enough to make you notice where you are.

Crab Crusted Salmon showed up on a wide white plate, the filet capped with a golden crust that looked like it had been coaxed into place. A pale, creamy base held it up like soft snowdrift, and a neat bundle of green beans lay across the top edge—bright, simple, almost matter-of-fact. Around the rim, flecks of herbs were scattered like the leftovers of a kitchen’s attention.

Cape May always seems to do this: take something familiar—salmon, a little richness, a little salt—and make it feel tied to the coast. The crab brings that briny sweetness, the kind that reminds you oysters exist even when you aren’t eating them, the kind that makes you think of cold air near the water and warm light inside.

I ate slowly, not because it asked for ceremony, but because it had that settled feeling—balanced and unshowy. Crisp crust, tender fish, a sauce that softened the edges, and vegetables that kept the whole thing honest.

Some dinners don’t try to become a story. They just sit with you for a while, and later you realize you’ve been carrying the memory around like a pocketed note.