He heads down to the ocean, where a lot of the cheap motel chains are lined up a block off the beach. The first one he tries is just fine — decent bed, decent shower. And there are bars of every variety in both directions. You could trip over the bars. He checks in and takes himself for a walk, looking for that good crab cake he had back in the seventies. A good crab cake is one of the glories of American cuisine, he lectures to the ocean. A bad crab cake is a crime against nature. People look at him as he passes by, but he doesn't care. Golfers and shag dancers. What makes a great crab cake, he continues, is that it should give the appearance of being only crab — nuggets of sweet, buttery, sea-salty back fin crabmeat with a shake of Old Bay seasoning mixed in for spice — and that's it. It should seem to be held together by nothing more than its own innate desire to be a perfect crab cake. Then it should be sauteed in oil with a nice dollop of lard melted in. The lard gives the oil a nice bottom. Then, just before you serve it, one more sprinkle of Old Bay on top — so that the first thing that hits your tongue wakes up your taste buds and starts your juices going. Now he's hungry. He's talked himself into lunch.