It is that time of the year when our streets are filled with dusty cars bearing license plates from places like Nebraska, Arkansas and other states that have seen record heat waves and, in some cases, wildfires.

Tourists are lured here to enjoy pleasant summer days, take a scenic boat ride, and enjoy cool evening breezes topped off by a savory evening meal at one of our top restaurants.

Last week, I had the pleasure of spending time with some lovely Midwestern friends who drove a thousand miles or so to do just that. In the evening, as we drove around the peninsula, they marveled at the shoreline, the waters, the woods, and wildlife. When we stopped for dinner, they looked at the menu like it was written in Latin. They quickly passed over the succulent scallops, lovely lobster, sweet clams, and tasty halibut and settled on chicken and beef.

It was not surprising. Midwesterners often find our regional seafood dishes a bit strange. I know, as I was born in the Midwest.

Years ago, 57 years ago, to be exact, I remember sitting at a picnic table on the Co-Op dock getting ready to order a hamburger. No, no, said my host, you are in Maine. Lobster is what you want. Like my Midwestern friends, I was in a pickle and didn't want to insult or challenge my host. But I had no idea what to do with a lobster. I knew I liked hamburgers.

About that time, I remembered being on vacation as a boy and staring at the menu of a Michigan restaurant. Dad whispered that I might choose something I could not get at home, suggesting I should try something new. So I ordered swordfish, and it was lovely. The sweet cherry pie was pretty good, too.

Years later, I told the host I would try the lobster, but someone would have to help me with it. Sure, she smiled. Moments later, a pitcher of beer appeared on the table flanked by a plate of bright red lobsters. My companions and the host tore into them with relish.

I just stared at that armored critter, comparing it to the tiny crawdads who lived under the rocks in the crick (not creek or brook) named Pleasant Run that meandered through a park not far from my childhood home.

The truth be known, Pleasant Run was not very pleasant at all. All along its banks, the board of health posted signs warning us to stay away, as there was a chance the waters might infect us with a dread disease called polio. Of course, we ignored the warnings.

Back to the point, as I stared at the red-clawed beast on my plate, my host took pity on me and asked a petite, and very lovely, young woman to help me.

She smiled, picked it up in both hands, and tore into it like a great white shark meeting a slow harbor seal. In no time, she de-clawed the beast, cracked the claws, slithered out the shiny red meat, attacked the knuckles, and sucked on the legs.

Then she tore  off the tail, coaxed out the meat, and pointed to the dark line running down the center of the tail meat.

You have to take that out, she said.

Oh, what is it? I asked. She sneered at me and said what do you think it is? After a minute or so, I figured it out.

In about three minutes, this little woman shucked the beast, leaving me with a pile of warm red and white flesh. She then picked up a fork, dipped it in a paper cup of melted butter, and shoved it into her mouth. That is how you eat lobster, she said with a grin.

About that time, a seagull landed on a nearby railing and focused his eyes on my plate. As the gull got ready to hop, I grabbed the plastic fork, stabbed the meat, dunked it in butter, and scarfed it down.

As his easy meal disappeared, the gull flew away, and I had an epiphany. The lobster was more than just good. It was wonderful.

Last week, I thought about that incident as we entered one of our top restaurants and my Midwestern friends ordered beef and chicken. I suggested we might want to try something different, and ordered a plate of mussels.

When the steaming mussels arrived, my friends looked mystified by the plate of open shells. They asked if I would show them what they should do. So, I picked one off the serving plate, opened the shell, stabbed the mussel, dipped it in the savory juice, and popped it in my mouth.

They scrunched up their faces and followed suit. Their frowns turned into smiles. Hey, it tastes pretty good. After a few more bites, one asked if I would let him try a bit of my halibut?

Dad was right. When you go to a nice restaurant, it is always a good idea to order something you won't get at home.

Be well.