Washington Post, Sunday, February 14, 1999; Page E04

Not long ago, we received this letter from a New Yorker who had just visited the Chesapeake Bay area. We're happy to publish it here, hoping the man in question may indeed be reading. The restaurant at the Robert Morris Inn, (Morris Street, Oxford, Md., 410-226-5111) reopens April 1 for dinner.

Since I am not sure whom to thank, I thought a letter published in the Travel section might reach the kind man (the owner, perhaps?) who served me the last crab cake of the season on the steps of the 250-year-old Robert Morris Inn. It was a poetic moment that I feel I should share.

After driving alone for many hours up the East Coast at the end of Thanksgiving weekend on my way home to New York, I took a long, winding detour off Route 50 in the late afternoon toward Oxford, with a yearning for the famous crab cakes of the Robert Morris Inn. I had not eaten them for more than a decade, but their taste was firmly planted in my memory, like Marcel Proust's immortal petits madeleines.

I drove down quiet Morris Street, parked my car and walked up the stone path to the entrance, only to find a sign that the restaurant had closed for the season just 15 minutes prior and would not reopen until April. A man stepped out to the porch and confirmed that indeed the restaurant and inn were closed. Despondent, I explained that I had driven for hours, anticipating with great delight the delicate flavor of the inn's famous crab cakes, the most delicious I had ever tasted. (Author James Michener also rated them the best.)

Recognizing my sincerity, he showed great sympathy and asked how I would like my crab cake--baked or fried, on a roll or a plate, with lemon or sauce. He was offering me the very last crab cake of the season. Overwhelmed by his generosity, I said I would be grateful for even one bite, any way he prepared it.

He pulled a long wooden bench onto the porch, swung it around to face the Tred Avon River, and told me to have a seat. The weather was extraordinarily beautiful for this time of year. It was a quiet Sunday at the end of a long holiday weekend. The drone of the distant interstate highway traffic was now replaced by the sound of soft surf on sandy shore and the gentle motor of the tiny Oxford-Bellevue ferry, which chugs across to St. Michaels every half-hour. The sun, which had shone brilliantly all day, was flashing its last few beams across the water. After a few moments, the kind man presented me with my freshly baked crab cake. "Here you are, the very last crab cake of the Robert Morris Inn until 1999. Enjoy this special Oxford moment."

If he had presented me a jewel-encrusted crown on a damask pillow, I would not have been more elated than with this perfect crab cake ensconced in a warm bun. I savored every bite, especially the solid lump of crabmeat at the center, the sign of a premier crab cake. I lingered over my serendipity and good fortune in meeting someone who understood hospitality in its truest sense and offered it so graciously.

Thank you, sir, for this beautiful memory. As Proust wishes for a friend . . . "May you always see blue skies overhead."

© Copyright 1999 The Washington Post Company