Marrakesh Chowder

The Bitter End, Wells, Maine

On Fridays the Marrakesh Express runs up the Maine coast, sometimes as far as Freeport, but usually no further than Kennebunkport, well short of Portland.

Kennebunkport is known as the summer home of the first President George Bush, and the tourist trap shops in its center sell t-shirts, hats, postcards, mugs, placemats, and lots more worthless junk with his and what appears to be Alfred E. Newman’s pictures to remind us.

Before you reach K-port, you pass through the town of Wells which is known for absolutely nothing but which does have more than its share of attractive seafood restaurants lined up on both sides of US Route 1.

Regrettably, the Maine run is always first thing in the morning for the Marrakesh Express, and I would no more have seafood for breakfast than I’d have old cold cannibal stew, so I can’t tell you about any of them.

However, there was another restaurant, a sports pub judging by its signage and flags, that long held my curiosity due to its improbable name.  How could a place well-inland on a US highway, midway between Portsmouth and Portland, really in the middle of Maine’s south coast summer tourist action, be called The Bitter End?

Every now and then, some customer has a special need for Marrakesh to arrive earlier or later than usual, and sometimes the accommodation is made by running the entire route backwards.  On one such Friday, before returning home in mid-afternoon, I took a craving for clam chowder to The Bitter End.

When alone, I prefer to sit at the bar, so the service is quick, and the barkeep always close by.  She heard my spoon clatter on the bar after my first taste, but I spoke before she could ask what was wrong:

“I can’t believe how good this is!”

Couldn’t tell if she was more relieved or surprised:  “Well, glad you like it!”

Took another spoonful of the thick broth as she served beer to two fellows at the end of the bar.  On the wall behind them, a framed page from a newspaper caught my eye.  Over a story with a large picture of a football player running into the end zone while two defenders lay on the field in his dust was a headline in a huge font:  “Bitter End.”

Figuring that this solved the mystery of the pub’s name, I resolved to read about that game when I left.  Meanwhile, between gulps of one of the best clam chowders I’ve ever tasted–even though I usually prefer a thin broth–I took in all kinds of sports paraphernalia attached to the walls and ceilings.

All four Boston pro teams were well represented with photos autographed by players as far back as Carl Yastrezmski and Bobby Orr; basketballs autographed by Auerbach, Russell, Cousy, and teammates; red jerseys worn by the then-Boston Patriots.

As if for comic relief, there were items of the kind that teenage boys would steal to display in college dorms, including signs for the parking lot in San Francisco’s late and lamented Candlestick Park and the concessions at Baltimore’s late but not-at-all-missed Memorial Stadium.

My memory may be off on those, but please forgive me.  I was savoring the chowder way too much to take any notes. Instead, I called to the barkeep:

“What gives it this smoky taste?”

“Ah, let me ask.” When she disappeared into the kitchen, I figured the chef would refuse to give away the secret, or that he or she would name some other ingredient unique to The Bitter End’s recipe. She returned and spoke with conviction:

“Frank’s Hot Sauce.”

Going along with the ruse, I nodded, and made my taste buds concentrate. Yes, there’s a touch of hot sauce, but what I’m tasting is bacon.

Before leaving, I went to inspect the wall-hanging, but those two fellows at the end of the bar were still seated. I didn’t want to inconvenience them. All I could see was that someone in a black and red uniform had outrun two New England Patriots, in a game that the smaller headlines identified as a Super Bowl. As any Pats fan knows, our only Super Bowl losses in this century were to the New York Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles, and to the Green Bay Packers and Chicago Bears in the last. None of those teams wear red and black.

Back to the barkeep: “Say, that picture makes no sense.”

Her laughter told me that I was far from the first customer to ask this question, and so her reply was well prepared:

When the Atlanta Falcons surged to a 28-3 lead in the third quarter of the 2017 game, the Boston Globe decided to go to press for the Maine (and likely New Hampshire) run rather than delay distribution any later than they already had. The story never says that the Patriots lost, but the implication was that defeat was inevitable, and the headline sealed the deal.

It is the sports page version of “Dewey Defeats Truman.”

Since the Globe updated the story with a glorious photo of the victorious Patriots after the Maine run was out the door, subscribers in Massachusetts or Rhode Island never saw it. So it came as a shock to me:

“Ah, so that’s where the name comes from!”

The barkeep denied it, saying it was a gift from a local customer, but I thought that was just more of her hot sauce. On the way home, the Marrakesh Express made an unscheduled stop for the ingredients to make my own chowder. A day later, I put them together and came reasonably close to The Bitter End’s. Give me a few more tries.

Yes, the hot sauce matters, but that smoky flavor has more to do with smoked bacon, trust me. As for the name, here’s a summary of what the barkeep claimed as it appears on the website:

Opened in 2018 by Kate and Peter Morency who after 97 years collectively in the restaurant business decided to do “just one more” after Pier 77 and The Ramp as well as Pedro’s in Kennebunk. We wanted a name that implied it will be the last restaurant we’ll run, hence, The Bitter End. Not knowing when we named it this is a nautical term for the end of a working line or rope. Perfect.

Yes, it is perfect, certainly preferable to a laughable headline.

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