In the afternoon, the boys—somewhat reluctantly—got into what they referred to as "shore-going clothes." These consisted of slacks, sport shirts, light casual jackets, and loafers. Steve had a bag packed. They got into his car, a late-model convertible, and headed for Cambridge.
The plane, a small twin-engine craft, was late coming from Norfolk. By the time Steve was en route to Washington, it was nearly the dinner hour.
"Eat out?" Rick suggested.
"Absolutely. More crab cakes?"
Rick shook his head. "Crab imperial. Maybe some steamed clams."
"You're making me hungry," Scotty protested. "I'll say one thing for the bay area. The folks eat well. How about some terrapin stew?"
"Crab imperial," Rick said again. "Baked in a crab shell. Lots of mayonnaise, paprika, and butter. I'll have a hearts of romaine salad on the side, with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Maybe tarragon vinegar. A few French fries, too. But first, a couple of dozen steamed clams. What do they call 'em here? Manos, pronounced Man! Oh!"
"Just tell me where," Scotty begged. "Say no more."
"How about that place we passed just before we got to Cambridge? The one built like a Colonial mansion."
"The Bay Gourmet," Scotty remembered. "Okay. You're driving."