Chowder

It was quite late in the evening when the little Moss came snugly to anchor, and Queequeg and I went ashore; so we could attend to no business that day, at least none but a supper and a bed. The landlord of the Spouter-Inn had recommended us to his cousin Hosea Hussey of the Try Pots, whom he asserted to be the proprietor of one of the best kept hotels in all Nantucket, and moreover he had assured us that Cousin Hosea, as he called him, was famous for his chowders. In short, he plainly hinted that we could not possibly do better than try pot-luck at the Try Pots. But the directions he had given us about keeping a yellow warehouse on our starboard hand till we opened a white church to the larboard, and then keeping that on the larboard hand till we made a corner three points to the starboard, and that done, then ask the first man we met where the place was: these crooked directions of his very much puzzled us at first, especially as, at the outset, Queequeg insisted that the yellow warehouse—our first point of departure—must be left on the larboard hand, whereas I had understood Peter Coffin to say it was on the starboard. However, by dint of beating about a little in the dark, and now and then knocking up a peaceable inhabitant to inquire the way, we at last came to something which there was no mistaking.

It was quite late in the evening when the little Moss anchored safely and Queequeg and I went ashore. So we could attend to no business that day, except getting supper and a bed. The landlord of the Spouter-Inn had recommended his cousin Hosea Hussey, of the Try Pots. He said Hosea owned one of the best-run hotels in all Nantucket. He also assured us that Cousin Hosea, as he called him, was famous for his chowders. In short, he plainly hinted that we could not possibly do better than try our luck at the Try Pots. But his winding directions puzzled us at first. He had told us to keep a yellow warehouse on our starboard, or right, side until a white church came into view on our larboard, or left. Then we were to keep the church on our left until we reached a corner three points to the right. After that, we were to ask the first person we met where the Try Pots was. To begin with, Queequeg insisted that the yellow warehouse, our first landmark, had to be kept on the left. But I had understood Peter Coffin to say it was on the right. Still, after wandering around in the dark and now and then waking a peaceful resident to ask the way, we finally came to something we could not mistake.

Two enormous wooden pots painted black, and suspended by asses’ ears, swung from the cross-trees of an old top-mast, planted in front of an old doorway. The horns of the cross-trees were sawed off on the other side, so that this old top-mast looked not a little like a gallows. Perhaps I was over sensitive to such impressions at the time, but I could not help staring at this gallows with a vague misgiving. A sort of crick was in my neck as I gazed up to the two remaining horns; yes, two of them, one for Queequeg, and one for me. It’s ominous, thinks I. A Coffin my Innkeeper upon landing in my first whaling port; tombstones staring at me in the whalemen’s chapel; and here a gallows! and a pair of prodigious black pots too! Are these last throwing out oblique hints touching Tophet?

Two enormous wooden pots, painted black and hanging by donkey ears, swung from the cross-trees of an old topmast. The mast stood in front of an old doorway. The cross-trees’ projecting ends had been sawed off on one side, making the mast look rather like a gallows. Perhaps I was overly sensitive to such impressions at the time, but I could not help staring at the gallows with a vague sense of unease. My neck grew a little stiff as I gazed up at the two remaining projections. Yes, two of them, one for Queequeg and one for me. This is ominous, I thought. A Coffin as my innkeeper when I landed in my first whaling port. Tombstones staring at me in the whalemen’s chapel. And here was a gallows! And a pair of enormous black pots too! Were the pots hinting at Tophet?

I was called from these reflections by the sight of a freckled woman with yellow hair and a yellow gown, standing in the porch of the inn, under a dull red lamp swinging there, that looked much like an injured eye, and carrying on a brisk scolding with a man in a purple woollen shirt.

A freckled woman with yellow hair and a yellow dress drew me from my thoughts. She stood on the inn’s porch beneath a swinging, dull red lamp that looked much like an injured eye. She was briskly scolding a man in a purple wool shirt.

“Get along with ye,” said she to the man, “or I’ll be combing ye!”

“Get out of here,” she said to the man, “or I’ll give you a beating!”

“Come on, Queequeg,” said I, “all right. There’s Mrs. Hussey.”

“Come on, Queequeg,” I said. “All right. There’s Mrs. Hussey.”

And so it turned out; Mr. Hosea Hussey being from home, but leaving Mrs. Hussey entirely competent to attend to all his affairs. Upon making known our desires for a supper and a bed, Mrs. Hussey, postponing further scolding for the present, ushered us into a little room, and seating us at a table spread with the relics of a recently concluded repast, turned round to us and said—“Clam or Cod?”

And so it turned out. Mr. Hosea Hussey was away from home, but Mrs. Hussey was fully capable of handling all his affairs. We asked for supper and a bed. Mrs. Hussey put off her scolding for the moment and led us into a small room. She seated us at a table still covered with the remains of a recent meal. Then she turned to us and said, “Clam or Cod?”

“What’s that about Cods, ma’am?” said I, with much politeness.

“What’s that about Cods, ma’am?” I asked very politely.

“Clam or Cod?” she repeated.

“Clam or cod?” she repeated.

“A clam for supper? a cold clam; is that what you mean, Mrs. Hussey?” says I, “but that’s a rather cold and clammy reception in the winter time, ain’t it, Mrs. Hussey?”

“A clam for supper? A cold clam? Is that what you mean, Mrs. Hussey?” I said. “But that’s a rather cold and clammy welcome in winter, isn’t it, Mrs. Hussey?”

But being in a great hurry to resume scolding the man in the purple Shirt, who was waiting for it in the entry, and seeming to hear nothing but the word “clam,” Mrs. Hussey hurried towards an open door leading to the kitchen, and bawling out “clam for two,” disappeared.

But Mrs. Hussey was in a great hurry to resume scolding the man in the purple shirt. He was waiting for her in the entryway. She seemed to hear nothing but the word “clam.” She hurried toward an open door leading to the kitchen. Shouting “clam for two,” she disappeared through the door.

“Queequeg,” said I, “do you think that we can make out a supper for us both on one clam?”

“Queequeg,” I said, “do you think we can make a supper for both of us from one clam?”

However, a warm savory steam from the kitchen served to belie the apparently cheerless prospect before us. But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends! hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favourite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and bethinking me of Mrs. Hussey’s clam and cod announcement, I thought I would try a little experiment. Stepping to the kitchen door, I uttered the word “cod” with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few moments the savoury steam came forth again, but with a different flavor, and in good time a fine cod-chowder was placed before us.

However, warm, savory steam from the kitchen suggested that things might not be as cheerless as they seemed. When the steaming chowder arrived, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, dear friends, listen to me. It was made of small, juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazelnuts. They were mixed with crushed ship biscuit and salt pork cut into little flakes. The chowder was enriched with butter and generously seasoned with pepper and salt. Our frosty voyage had sharpened our appetites. Queequeg, in particular, saw his favorite fishing food before him. The chowder was so excellent that we ate it very quickly. I leaned back for a moment and remembered Mrs. Hussey’s announcement about clam and cod. I decided to try a little experiment. I stepped to the kitchen door, said “cod” with great emphasis, and returned to my seat. A few moments later, savory steam came out again, but with a different flavor. Before long, a fine cod chowder was placed before us.

We resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I to myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What’s that stultifying saying about chowder-headed people? “But look, Queequeg, ain’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”

We went back to eating. As we spooned chowder from the bowl, I wondered if it had any effect on the head. What’s that silly saying about chowder-headed people? “But look, Queequeg, isn’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”

Fishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, which well deserved its name; for the pots there were always boiling chowders. Chowder for breakfast, and chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper, till you began to look for fish-bones coming through your clothes. The area before the house was paved with clam-shells. Mrs. Hussey wore a polished necklace of codfish vertebra; and Hosea Hussey had his account books bound in superior old shark-skin. There was a fishy flavor to the milk, too, which I could not at all account for, till one morning happening to take a stroll along the beach among some fishermen’s boats, I saw Hosea’s brindled cow feeding on fish remnants, and marching along the sand with each foot in a cod’s decapitated head, looking very slip-shod, I assure ye.

The Try Pots was the fishiest of all fishy places, and it deserved its name. The pots there were always boiling with chowder. Chowder for breakfast, chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper. You ate so much that you began to look for fish bones poking through your clothes. The ground in front of the house was paved with clam shells. Mrs. Hussey wore a polished necklace of codfish vertebrae. Hosea Hussey had his account books bound in fine old sharkskin. Even the milk tasted fishy, and I could not explain why. Then one morning I took a stroll along the beach among some fishermen’s boats. There I saw Hosea’s brindled cow feeding on fish scraps. She was walking along the sand with each foot in a severed cod’s head. She looked very poorly shod, I assure you.

Supper concluded, we received a lamp, and directions from Mrs. Hussey concerning the nearest way to bed; but, as Queequeg was about to precede me up the stairs, the lady reached forth her arm, and demanded his harpoon; she allowed no harpoon in her chambers. “Why not?” said I; “every true whaleman sleeps with his harpoon—but why not?” “Because it’s dangerous,” says she. “Ever since young Stiggs coming from that unfort’nt v’y’ge of his, when he was gone four years and a half, with only three barrels of ile, was found dead in my first floor back, with his harpoon in his side; ever since then I allow no boarders to take sich dangerous weepons in their rooms at night. So, Mr. Queequeg” (for she had learned his name), “I will just take this here iron, and keep it for you till morning. But the chowder; clam or cod to-morrow for breakfast, men?”

After supper, Mrs. Hussey gave us a lamp and directions to our room. But as Queequeg was about to lead me upstairs, she reached out her arm and demanded his harpoon. She allowed no harpoons in her rooms. “Why not?” I said. “Every true whaleman sleeps with his harpoon. But why not?” “Because it’s dangerous,” she said. “Young Stiggs came back from his unfortunate voyage after four and a half years away, with only three barrels of oil. Then he was found dead in my back room on the first floor, with his harpoon in his side. Ever since then, I haven’t allowed boarders to take such dangerous weapons into their rooms at night. So, Mr. Queequeg,” she said, having learned his name, “I’ll take this harpoon and keep it for you until morning. But what about the chowder, men? Clam or cod for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Both,” says I; “and let’s have a couple of smoked herring by way of variety.”

“Both,” I said, “and let’s have a couple of smoked herring for variety.”