maciek M.
Google
The setting? Sublime. Sand between your toes, sun kissing your forehead, surf whispering sweet nothings. It’s the kind of place where you expect your lobster roll to arrive like Poseidon’s gift, divine, decadent, and worth every dollar.
Instead, I got a $31 BLT that felt more like a prank pulled by Neptune’s intern.
Let’s talk standards. A proper lobster BLT should be a symphony, sweet, briny lobster, crisp bacon, fresh lettuce, juicy tomato, all nestled in a toasted, buttery roll with a hint of seasoning that says, “I care.” Bonus points for aioli, a touch of citrus, or even a pickle sidekick. What I got was a sad solo act: stale hotdog bun, wilted tomato slices, no lettuce, no seasoning, and a lobster portion that looked like it had second thoughts about showing up.
Service was adequate, like someone reading off a script titled “Minimum Viable Hospitality.” Not rude, not warm, just present. Like the lettuce should’ve been.
If you’re going to charge $31, at least flirt with the idea of quality bread. Brioche, potato roll, even a toasted pretzel bun, anything but this limp, flavorless sponge impersonating a vessel.
Final thoughts: come for the beach, stay for the existential crisis about what qualifies as a sandwich. Red Hook, I wanted to love you. But next time, I’ll pack my own roll and call it a picnic.