The Ultimate (and Unabridged) Guide to New England Seafood

A
is for Atlantic Cod

Whether you prefer it pilfered, sacred, or baked with a dusting of crushed Ritz crackers, if you’re from New England, you know cod. And to know cod is to know that this “big, stupid, slow-moving” fish—as the New England Historical Society blog lovingly describes it—was a major catalyst for the American Revolution, not to mention post-Revolutionary economic development.

Long story short: By the mid-1700s, New England was producing so much salt cod that the Colonies saturated the British market and began selling to Catholic countries (like France) due to the Pope declaring an increasing number of meatless days. This trade with France, via the French West Indies, brought molasses, sugar, and rum in return—and thus Colonial prosperity. The British Parliament feared this and tried to crush it. Years of tariffs followed, whittling away at Colonial trade with non-British countries (so much for all that dried fish). As British-Colonial tensions mounted, fishing vessels sat empty in Massachusetts harbors, and fishermen searched for work.

Cod. / Photograph by Nina Gallant. Styling by Madison Trapkin.

But Britain wasn’t finished. On March 30, 1775—less than three weeks before the “shot heard ’round the world” that many consider the start of the Revolutionary War—Parliament went a big step further and passed the New England Restraining Act, prohibiting the region’s trade with just about anyone aside from Britain and the British West Indies. It also banned New England ships from the fisheries off Canada. Colonial fishing industry: crippled. Revolutionary feelings: stoked.

Fast-forward through the war to 1783, and the cod industry was back, baby. In the war-ending Treaty of Paris, John Adams negotiated the inclusion of provisions allowing United States cod fishermen access to the Grand Banks of Newfoundland in what was then a British colony. From there, cod-fishing and ancillary businesses—salt-mining, shipbuilding, ice-mining—became central to the economic development of the region.

Cementing the cod’s legacy as a symbol of Bostonian wealth, merchant John Rowe (of wharf fame) gifted a 5-foot wooden cod sculpture, years later dubbed the “sacred” cod, to the Massachusetts state legislature in 1784. (It was actually a replacement—earlier versions had been lost to fire and the chaos of the Revolution, because apparently even wooden fish weren’t safe in Colonial Boston.) Since moving to the “new” State House in 1798, the cod has escaped its suspended perch just twice: in 1933, at the hands of Harvard Lampoon pranksters, who snuck it out wrapped in a florist’s box, and in 1968, by a decidedly more earnest group of UMass Boston students protesting what they saw as legislative indifference to their institution.

In modern times, Atlantic cod has largely disappeared from menus due to fishing restrictions to help the population rebound from overfishing. What you’ll find instead is imported cod, mostly from Iceland, which lacks the historical romance but still delivers that flaky, mild flavor. Even if it’s the imported variety, cod remains a New England staple, and plenty of local chefs are keeping the tradition alive with their own spins on the classic. So while Atlantic cod’s era in the spotlight may be long gone, at least we’ll always have Cape Cod—yes, it’s named for our favorite fish.

See also: Top 5 Cod Dishes in Greater Boston

Illustration by Dale Stephanos

B
is for “Baby F***in’ Whale!”

In 2015, two guys from Malden went fishing in Boston Harbor and encountered something that would make them internet famous: a sunfish. But Michael Bergin and his buddy Jason Foster didn’t know that’s what they were looking at—and their five minutes of pure, unfiltered Boston bewilderment became the city’s most viral video of the pre-TikTok era.

Picture the grainy footage: Bergin narrating with the occasional interjection from Foster. “It’s a baby f***in’ whale, man!” Bergin enthusiastically intones in the richest of Boston accents, pronouncing whale like “wheel.” Interspersed with swear words and increasingly urgent pleas to Foster (“What is that thing!?”), our guide identifies the animal as a sea turtle, a flounder, and then a tuna (“tuner”). He deems it dead, then “dyin’,” or maybe just hurt. Then, something with “good meat” on it that “we could get some big money for, buddy.” He also calls Foster “kid,” “bro,” and “dude.” (A truly Boston trifecta.) Bergin wants to call the aquarium, and Foster really does phone the Coast Guard.

The narrator’s genuine awe brought the duo international press, an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel Live, and staying power a decade later—yes, this memorable moment still lives rent-free in our heads. To paraphrase the archetypal star, we were seeing some shit we ain’t never seen before (and, truthfully, we haven’t seen since).

Off-camera, the “monstrous f***in’ thing” is confirmed to be a perfectly healthy sunfish, but that is entirely beside the point.

Best of Boston clam chowder from the Banks Seafood and Steak in Back Bay. / Photograph by Joe St. Pierre. Styling by Joy Howard.

C
is for Clam Chowder

Made in more styles today than you might think, clam chowder is a reminder that we have more that unites us than what divides us (even if we love to hate on the tomato-y Manhattan version).

The soup’s origins are far richer than the red-versus-white regional food fight suggests. Clam chowder’s roots trace back hundreds of years to coastal Indigenous tribes such as the Wampanoag, Narragansett, Mohegan, and Mi’kmaq, who’d use shellfish to make flavorful stews. With potatoes not arriving until the late 18th century, Indigenous staples like corn and beans did the heavy lifting.

What we recognize as clam chowder today is melting-pot magic. French and British settlers blessed us with the dairy-based New England version—that thick, creamy gold standard that Bostonians grow up with, while Italian and Portuguese newcomers brought the tomato-enhanced Manhattan style. Salt pork, celery, and thickeners like potato and wheat flour remain the usual suspects, but there are more variations than we can count: herbaceous “clear” broth chowder is now a thing, especially in Rhode Island; New Jersey has its amped-up Manhattan style with extra seasonings; and even Cabo, Mexico, has a version with clear broth, chipotle, and lime.

One thing upon which all clam fans can agree: The briny bivalves belong in stew. Imparting texture, minerality, and verve to even the most bland of vegetable soups (we’re looking at you, Manhattan), clams make the quintessential chowder.

See also: The Top Clam Chowders in Boston

Photograph by Nina Gallant. Styling by Madison Trapkin.

D
is for Duxbury Oysters

Skip Bennett’s oyster empire started with a catastrophe—his clams got wiped out by parasites in the ’90s, so he threw some oysters in the water and prayed. “Out of desperation, I tried growing some oysters,” he says. “It worked out pretty well.”

That’s the understatement of the century. On a recent spring day south of Boston, with the smell of salt in the air and the sight of cormorants on the docks, we joined one of Island Creek Oysters’ popular farm tours to see just how well it had worked out. Somewhere at the intersection of high-tech science and raw nature, a shellfish pioneer arose—now selling millions of oysters per year.

Counting from when Bennett began growing clams in Duxbury Bay in 1990, Island Creek Oysters celebrates its 35th anniversary this year. Bennett’s operation grew and put Duxbury Bay on the shellfish map: 24 other farms have sprung up in the bay, and Bennett’s oysters became the gold standard for oysters nationwide. There was even a time in the 2000s when they were on every three-star Michelin restaurant menu in the country, starting with a gutsy cold call to chef Eric Ripert at New York’s Le Bernardin. “I was really surprised by how excited people were to have direct access to an oyster farm,” says Bennett, but it made sense: Before, chefs would get whatever the distributor sent—maybe a Maine oyster one day, Louisiana the next. “We created that consistency in the market, and a degree of accountability.”

In later years, Island Creek got into the restaurant business itself with Island Creek Oyster Bar (now shuttered) and Row 34, which still operates at soon-to-be five locations but has since split off under separate ownership. Island Creek also has the Winsor House at the farm as well as raw bars in Duxbury, Boston, and Portland.

On our day at the farm, we split our time between a crash course on oyster life cycles in the science-lab-like hatchery and an exhilarating, windswept boat ride through Duxbury Bay. We perused the hatchery, starting in the broodstock and spawning room, where an astounding 100 million baby oysters are born after a 5-gallon bucket of eggs are fertilized in a busy half hour.

We followed their journey from room to room, from water-filled vats to wide tubes; the oysters that grow to one millimeter graduate to the nursery outside. The survival rate from spawning to graduation is shockingly low, around 3 percent: It’s tough being a baby oyster. From there, they keep growing in stages—first at the water’s edge, then fully submerged.

While Duxbury Bay isn’t quite warm enough to support natural oyster reproduction—hence why there weren’t any there until Bennett started farming them—it’s very hospitable to oyster growth, full of cold water and tasty algae. The vast majority of the water empties out into Cape Cod Bay twice a day, replenished by water coming in from Duxbury’s Back River, constantly giving the oysters a fresh meal. As our tour guide Molly Quilty put it: “Typically, an oyster [from other locales] is either salty or sweet,” but thanks to that frequent water exchange, “we have all of it.”

A Duxbury native himself, Bennett is proud to have turned the one-time sleepy town into a shellfish industry hub. Pointing to Duxbury’s fishing and farming heritage, he sees aquaculture as a blend of the two and thus an homage to the past. “I’ve been here 60 years,” he says, “and it’s the best version of Duxbury I’ve ever seen.” Not bad for a guy who started with dead clams and a prayer.

E
is for East Cambridge

There’s something fishy about East Cambridge—in the best possible way. It doesn’t look like much of a seafood destination—no harbor views, no salt air—but it’s quietly been Greater Boston’s fish-market capital for more than a century. That’s thanks in no small part to the legendary New Deal Fish Market. Nearly a century old, it’s now run by third-generation owner Carl Fantasia, who sources fresh seafood every morning from the South Boston docks and can tell you exactly which waters your scallops came from—and how to cook them perfectly.

Just a few blocks away, Courthouse Fish Market held down its corner for more than 100 years before closing its doors in 2024. Fortunately, its sibling restaurant is still going strong in the adjacent space, slinging fried-seafood platters, lobster rolls, and more. And we can’t forget that the original Legal Sea Foods (a market before it was a restaurant) was just a mile away in Inman Square until it tragically burned down in 1980.

The seafood tradition dates to early-20th-century immigrants from Poland, Italy, Portugal, and Cape Verde, who brought their trades—retailer, fishmonger, restaurateur—to their newly adopted neighborhood. According to Jason Alves, executive director of the East Cambridge Business Association, many bought two-story buildings, living above their own storefronts.

The neighborhood’s food makeup is a little different these days; you’ll find a fancy baking store, Thai food, a taqueria, and Uyghur cuisine steps from New Deal. But as long as we can swing by Fantasia’s shop for the freshest catch (and accompanying pantry staples), East Cambridge still feels like the kind of place where your fishmonger knows your name—and your usual order.

Woodman’s of Essex. / Photograph by Nina Gallant

F
is for Fried Clams

Take it from the birds migrating through Joppa Flats and the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge on the North Shore year after year: The eating is good across New England’s Great Marsh. As far as people are concerned, that eating includes the best fried clams in America. Here, there’s shellfish alchemy in the ecosystem, and a century-plus of New England culinary history. The only question worth asking: whole-bellies or strips?

The commonly accepted version of the fried-clam creation myth pins the invention on North Shore landmark Woodman’s of Essex in 1916 (though fried clams have appeared in older menus and cookbooks). Husband-and-wife duo Lawrence “Chubby” and Bessie Woodman had opened the business as a concession stand with groceries, house-made potato chips, and fresh clams. One day, a friend jokingly suggested frying the clams like chips, and that stroke of greasy genius launched crispy, briny history.

Since then, fried clams became New England summer gospel. While tourists might prefer strips, popularized by Howard Johnson’s back when HoJo’s orange roofs dotted every highway, North Shore natives will likely tell you it’s bellies or bust. That means the whole soft-shell-clam shebang, a tender, ocean-flavored Gusher.

The best you’ll have are made from clams from the Great Marsh, a coastal tract spanning more than 25,000 acres from Gloucester to the New Hampshire border. “The salt marsh is made out of peat, which is dead organic material,” says Heather McIntosh, the Great Marsh restoration coordinator at Mass Audubon. “It’s a very good food source for shellfish.”

But the Great Marsh faces challenges that threaten its native flora and fauna. Runoff affects water quality, invasive plants displace important native ones, and the salt marsh is “starting to degrade at an alarming rate,” McIntosh says. Through removal of invasive plants and other interventions, “we’re trying to restore the historical infrastructure and assist the salt-marsh hydrology to be the most effective it can be.”

It’s something seafood lovers should care about—after all, healthy marshes make for better clams. And as McIntosh puts it, “Who doesn’t love fried clams?”

See also: Top 5 Clam Shacks on Massachusetts’ North Shore

Denis Tangney Jr. / Getty Images

G
is for Gloucester

America’s oldest fishing village has been serving up seafood—and heartbreak—since 1623. And the numbers tell quite the story. The “February gale” of 1862 claimed 120 lives. February 1879 took more than 150 fishermen. Storm after storm, collision after collision—the sea has always demanded its due. Two memorials now stand sentinel in the city: the Gloucester Fishermen’s Memorial (known as the “Man at the Wheel”) and the Gloucester Fishermen’s Wives Memorial, honoring both the lives sacrificed to the trade and the families left behind.

Then came The Perfect Storm. Sebastian Junger’s 1997 book and the 2000 Mark Wahlberg film turned Gloucester’s connection to tragedy into pop culture, immortalizing the Andrea Gail and its crew lost in 1991’s meteorological catastrophe. Suddenly, everyone knew about this little fishing town and its brutal relationship with the Atlantic.

But here’s what Hollywood didn’t tell you: Gloucester is still very much in the fishing biz, even though the country mostly shops internationally for its seafood. “The United States imports 65 percent of its seafood, and 90 percent of all seafood sold in this country has either been imported or processed outside of the United States,” says Alex Koppelman, the city’s community development director. Translation: most of your “fresh” fish traveled farther than you did to get to dinner.

Enter “Gloucester Fresh,” launched in 2017 by then-mayor Sefatia Romeo Theken. Through a website and community outreach, the initiative helps diners find restaurants and markets serving locally caught seafood, profiles fishers, and shares recipes—all to celebrate the dangerous work of the fishermen who remain the very heartbeat of the city.

The best way to honor Gloucester’s profound maritime legacy? Simple: eat local.

See also: Top 5 Seafood Restaurants in Gloucester

H
is for Historical Figures

Illustration by Dale Stephanos

New England historical figures: They’re just like us—totally obsessed with seafood. Take John Adams, nicknamed “His Rotundity” for obvious reasons, who had a thing for cod-fish cakes, poached salmon, and something called “eleven fish roasted on a plank”—which was actually just shad. Dutch settlers called it that because they typically saw the first shad on March 11, which makes perfect sense if you don’t think about it too hard.

Fast-forward 32 presidencies to another famous John, JFK: The man loved soup. Like any good New Englander, the Brookline-born politician was particularly enthusiastic about chowder—but not clam. No, his chowder of choice featured haddock, with salt pork, potatoes, and celery adding flavor and texture. He was also known to regularly enjoy lobster stew while sitting in his favorite booth at Boston’s still-operating Union Oyster House.

Then there’s former Governor William Weld, who apparently had the palate of a suburban dad, ordering the same bland and colorless tuna sandwich on white bread—with milk—multiple times a week at the Capitol Coffee House while perusing the latest missives from Senate President Billy Bulger and Senator Tom Birmingham.

A Legal Sea Foods fisherman. / Photo by Pat Piasecki

I
is for “If It Isn’t Fresh, It Isn’t Legal”

Established 75 years ago in Cambridge as a family-owned fish market (see “E is for East Cambridge” above), Legal Sea Foods exists today with 25 locations ranging from its hometown to Arlington, Virginia, and Chicago. In other words, it’s become a legitimate chain—and it’s embracing that evolution. “Previous ownership used to say that we were in the fish business, not the restaurant business,” says Matt King, president and COO of Legal and its parent company. “We’re well aware that we’re in the restaurant business.”

At a massive new commissary kitchen in Milford known as the Innovation Center, Legal Sea Foods has centralized production of its most essential menu items, including crab cakes and its famous New England clam chowder (traditionally served at presidential inaugurations since the Reagan administration). It’s the culinary hub for all of the brands within PPX Hospitality Brands, which acquired Legal in 2020 and also includes steakhouse company Smith & Wollensky and the Seaport’s Strega Italiano.

A central production hub isn’t the only way the chain maintains consistency. Instead of sourcing and processing its own seafood, like it did for many years, today Legal partners with Boston-based distributor North Coast Seafoods. It’s led to more reliable product availability for the restaurants—and fresher fish than ever, according to Dave Welch, the new facility’s director, who’s worked at Legal for decades. Take the calamari, for instance, which Legal has committed to ensuring is 100 percent domestically processed—not always the case for squid sold in the United States, as the messy job is often outsourced overseas. Seventy-five years later, Legal’s slogan still holds—even at scale.

Alamy

J
is for Journey of the Eels

American eels are the ultimate overachievers of the ocean. They hatch in the Sargasso Sea, then somehow navigate 2,000 miles to Cape Cod using Earth’s magnetic fields like some kind of aquatic GPS system. For centuries, we rewarded their impressive feat by fishing the hell out of them; they were even reportedly served at the first Thanksgiving feast, courtesy of the Wampanoag.

Then, the Cape’s eel-fishing industry went largely defunct around the mid-1990s, with scientists pointing to a variety of possible causes, from habitat loss to overfishing. Massachusetts commercial fishermen still bring in around 1,000 pounds of eels per year—compared to hundreds of thousands annually from the mid-1960s until the early 1990s—but now they’re mostly used for bait, live or frozen, especially for striped bass and bluefish.

While we’re not eating much local eel anymore, we can’t stop obsessing over their fascinating travels. Scientists—such as Larry Pratt at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution—have studied the mysterious migrations, but many questions remain. “Why do American eels migrate all the way to the Sargasso Sea to spawn?” Pratt asks. “How do their larvae, tiny creatures with limited swimming ability, get back to the East Coast estuaries? How do they get across the Gulf Stream, a major current that would tend to carry them toward northern Europe? How do they navigate?” Hopefully, the eel population—currently described as “depleted” along the U.S. Atlantic coast by the Atlantic State Marine Fisheries Commission—will rebound enough for scientists’ explorations to continue.

Illustration by Dale Stephanos

K
is for Kids Eating Kelp

School lunches that don’t suck? Thanks to Boston-based North Coast Seafoods and its recently renewed partnership with Boston Public Schools, the answer is a resounding yes. Through next school year, BPS students will dig into local-kelp-based vegan sliders and meatballs (marketed under the delightfully silly name Seaweed-ish Meatballs) several times a month in an effort to boost health while helping the environment. “The meals we serve our young people not only need to be nutritious but also tasty, locally sourced, sustainable, culturally relevant meals that will give them the fuel they need to succeed,” the aptly named Mary Skipper, Boston Public Schools’ superintendent, said in a press release.

Indeed, North Coast Seafoods touts its products as highly nutritious: The meatballs and sliders are low in fat and calories and packed with calcium, antioxidants, probiotics, and other good stuff. And then there are the environmental benefits: Kelp is basically a sustainability rock star. It doesn’t need much of anything to grow, and it’s great at absorbing carbon dioxide. Take that, sad rectangle pizza and mystery-meat patties.

Photograph by Nina Gallant. Styling by Madison Trapkin.

L
is for Lobster Economics

Maine’s lobster empire is worth a cool billion dollars—not bad for a crustacean that was once so reviled that Colonial servants demanded in their contracts that they not be made to eat it more than three times a week. So how did a bottom-feeder become a bank-maker? Blame John D. Rockefeller Sr., who accidentally ate lobster stew meant for his help at his Mount Desert Island summer palace and was instantly converted. The rest is history.

Today, Maine’s 5,000-plus lobstermen haul in 90 percent of America’s lobster, while more than 14 million tourists drop $9 billion annually in the state—many of them chasing that buttery, claw-cracking obsession. But this empire built on crustacean shells faces serious headwinds: The Gulf of Maine is warming faster than most other ocean waters, sending lobsters fleeing north like climate refugees. New size restrictions aim to prevent overfishing, but they’re another headache for an industry that still operates like it’s 1823—everything hauled by hand, because dragging nets would obliterate other marine life. Economic pressures aren’t helping either: Tariff wars threaten exports to China and Canada, plus inflation-spooked consumers are cutting back on $35 lobster rolls.

Still, from roadside shacks to white-tablecloth restaurants, the lobster roll endures as New England’s most delicious economic indicator. Here’s hoping it stays that way.

Lobster Price Index

The lobster industry’s wild financial ride over the past 15 years reads like a case study in supply, demand, and nature’s chaos. Using dockside pricing—what fishermen actually pocket—the numbers tell a story of boom, bust, and boom again.

Take Maine, lobster’s mothership, where fishermen rode the roller coaster from $3.51 per pound in 2008 down to $2.90 in 2013 (despite hauling nearly twice as many lobsters—classic oversupply panic), then surged to $4.98 by 2023. Massachusetts had an even more dramatic ride: $4.28 to $6.25 over the same period, a 46 percent spike reflecting both the premium Bay State lobsters command and smaller catch volumes. The 2013 crash hit everyone, but the rebound has been strong across New England’s lobster ports.

See also: Where to Eat Lobster Rolls in Greater Boston

Illustration by Dale Stephanos

M
is for Mackerel Year

What does an 1815 volcanic eruption in what is now Indonesia have to do with mackerel in New England? Everything, it turns out. (The aftermath also inspired the writing of Frankenstein, but that’s a story for another day.) The eruption of Mount Tambora—the largest and deadliest in recorded history—temporarily cooled average global temperatures by a few degrees, plunging much of the Northern Hemisphere into more than a year of tumultuous weather and severely disrupting crops and livestock. It became known as “the year without a summer.”

Over in New England, it earned a couple of other gloomy nicknames, too—“1800-and-froze-to-death” and “the poverty year”—but also “the mackerel year.” The abundant, oily fish emerged from the wings when the main fish of the era, the alewife, was adversely affected by the sudden climate change. Think of it as the ultimate “right place, right time” scenario. Even after alewife populations recovered (which took around 25 years), mackerel remained a staple around here for decades to come. That is, until the fish met its own volcano, albeit metaphorical: Overfishing collapsed the industry in the 1880s.

New Bedford. / Photo by Denis Tangney Jr. / Getty Images

N
is for New Bedford

Most people think New Bedford peaked sometime around Moby Dick. They’re wrong. This city across Buzzards Bay from Cape Cod is still the nation’s wealthiest commercial fishing port, buzzing with hundreds of scallopers, fishermen, and shoreside support services. There’s new blood, too: Island Creek Cannery, a trendy tinned-fish processor from the Island Creek Oysters team, recently opened its doors—the first seafood-canning facility on the East Coast in a century.

But it’s not all smooth sailing for the Whaling City. Recent reporting by the New Bedford Light has revealed some serious headwinds: potentially higher equipment costs from proposed tariffs, a freeze on offshore wind permitting just as that sector was gaining momentum, and immigration enforcement raids targeting at least two seafood-plant workers.

Still, New Bedford keeps bouncing back. Venture beyond the docks and you’ll find an authentically gritty downtown that’s on the rise. There are two new commuter-rail stations with service to Boston, a growing crop of restaurants with prime harbor views, and some seriously cool bars tucked into cobblestoned side streets. Bonus points if you know New Bedford birthed its own strain of hardcore punk—you can still catch it thrashing in dive bars downtown. In other words, this walkable waterfront city makes for a perfect weekend trip, or at minimum, a scallop-and-beer detour that’ll have you wondering why everyone makes a beeline for the Cape.

See also: Top 5 Seafood Restaurants in New Bedford

Oyster crackers. / Photograph by Nina Gallant. Styling by Madison Trapkin.

O
is for Oyster Cracker Origin Story

We love a good food-origin dispute, whether it’s Chelsea-based Katz Bagel Bakery feuding with a California spot over the advent of pizza bagels in the 1970s or New England’s Westminster Bakers Co. claiming the creation of oyster crackers way back in 1828, a full 19 years before an Englishman in Jersey who often gets the credit. Maybe we’re biased, but we’re gonna go with our hometown hero when it comes to those salty little chowder-toppers.

Now based in Rutland, Vermont, Westminster Bakers was founded closer to home in Westminster, Massachusetts, churning out wood-fired, brick-oven crackers with care (and a horse-powered treadmill) in a Colonial house. The technology is a little more modern these days—no horses are involved.

But the crackers are still made with seven ingredients: flour, water, yeast, baking soda, salt, canola oil, and cane sugar. Nope, no oysters. The name’s origins are as murky as the snack’s invention, but the main theories are that the crackers are shaped kind of like oysters (sure) and were made to be served in oyster stew (makes sense). Nowadays, you’ll rarely get a bowl of clam chowder without the accompanying cracker packet—but we suppose it’s too late to change the name to “clam cracker.”

Jim Cornwell, Jr., a participant in the Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby, photographed around 2017. / Photo by Jonathan Cornwell

P
is for Pretty Awesome Fishing Derby

Liam Welch has rarely been without a fishing rod since moving with his family to Martha’s Vineyard when he was 13 years old. “My grandfather introduced me. Took me out during the derby,” he says, referring to the island’s signature sportfishing contest, which celebrates its 80th season this fall. Officially called the Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby, the monthlong contest now focuses on bluefish, Atlantic bonito, and false albacore (striped bass are currently off-limits due to population concerns).

Returning September 14 through October 18 this year, the derby attracts up to 2,000 anglers to the shores and waters surrounding Martha’s Vineyard and Chappaquiddick islands. Anglers as young as four years old can sign up in the mini junior division, but the rules require every competitor to hook and land their fish without any help. Welch, who graduated from high school in June, says fishing the derby has grown his skills on the water. He’s even won a handful of prizes. “But it doesn’t really matter,” says Welch, who plans to keep fishing once he heads to Vermont for college. “Passing down the skill is what it’s all about.”

Quahogs. / Photograph by Nina Gallant. Styling by Madison Trapkin.

Q
is for Quahogs

Mashpee Wampanoag chief Vernon “Buddy” Pocknett has always harvested quahogs. The hard-shelled clams are central to his people’s ways of life around the Popponesset Bay on Cape Cod, going back thousands of years as a primary food source. “I eat them all different ways,” Pocknett says—steamed, served raw, or made into chowder, fritters, or “stuffers.”

But Pocknett’s traditional diet has become a battleground. While much of what he eats comes from ingredients foraged, hunted, trapped, or fished, wild seafood is now harder to come by due to external factors—from overdevelopment of the land and overfishing of the bays to under-education of government officials and neighbors on the rights of the Wampanoag. Translation: People don’t want to acknowledge that the tribe has legal rights to fish, hunt, and trap “in their usual and accustomed places” (and use easements to access those places).

Plus, the ecological destruction of modern times is staggering. Nitrogen pollution from the septic tanks of nearby developments, for example, has decimated the shellfish population. “When I was younger, you could just walk in the water and get a bushel of quahogs within a 6-foot radius. These days, it would take a half-acre to get a bushel,” Pocknett says. And good luck getting the people who caused the problem to acknowledge the tribe’s rights to what remains.

Now, as a sagamore (“sub-chief”) within the community, Pocknett has to simultaneously fight for Indigenous rights while trying to restore what’s been lost. He stewards traditional ways of life, educates Mashpee Wampanoag on their Aboriginal rights, leads efforts to remove invasive plants and establish native species, manages First Light Shellfish Farm, and is overseeing construction of the tribe’s first federally food-safety-certified seafood-processing facility. “I’m trying to get back to letting the people know what they need to eat,” Pocknett says. “It’s about survival, not only traditions.”

Wampum jewelry, made from quahog shells. / Courtesy of Elizabeth James Perry

What Is Wampum?

Those quahog shells Pocknett’s harvesting? They’re also currency, art, and storytelling all rolled into one. Quahogs provide the material to make wampum, the purple-and-white shell beads used to adorn regalia, trade, and tell stories within East Coast Native communities. Elizabeth James-Perry, an internationally known Aquinnah Wampanoag artist from Dartmouth, makes one-of-a-kind jewelry, accessories, and fine art using shells and other supplies she grows and gathers herself, like milkweed fiber and natural dyes. “A lot of my inspiration comes from life in New England,” she says, and is meant to encourage others to relate with the flora and fauna of the region, too.

Where to buy wampum from Indigenous artists

Elizabeth James-Perry, Dartmouth
See available work at elizabethjamesperry.com, starting at $200.

Wampum Moon Art, Cape Cod
See available work at etsy.com/shop/WampumMoon, starting at $50.

Wampanoag Shells, Cape Cod
See available work at wampanoagshells.com, starting at $7.

R
is for Really Old Restaurant

Union Oyster House. / Photo by Carol M. Highsmith / Buyenlarge / Getty Images

Really old? Try the oldest continually operated restaurant in America: Union Oyster House—which our brains always want to put “Ye Olde” in front of—was established in 1826 under the name Atwood & Bacon. Nestled on an old-timey block steps from Faneuil Hall, the spot couldn’t get more Boston if it tried. JFK was a regular and had his own private booth named for him. (Jump back to “H” in our seafood alphabet to find out what he ate there.) Kennedy wasn’t the only senator to grace this institution when the hankering hit for some oysters and a cold one. (He wasn’t even the only Senator Kennedy to do that.) This place is old enough that Senator Daniel Webster drank brandy at the bar, and that dude was born before the United States celebrated its sixth birthday. In fact, long before politicians became celebrities and celebrities became politicians, both were frequently spotted at Union Oyster House. Ozzy Osbourne substituted a briny bivalve mollusk for his usual bloody dove when he dined here, and Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, and Michael Corleone have all had their alter egos stop by. And, of course, no self-respecting presidential candidate misses a photo op or a meal at this iconic (and old) gem, which was designated a National Historic Landmark in 2003.

A diver swims along rows of sugar kelp at a farm off Canada’s Vancouver Island. / Photo by Brian Skerry

S
is for Sustainable Aquaculture

Sure, the New England Aquarium has cute penguins and sticky-fingered kids gawking at animals through glass. But behind the scenes, it’s running a full-scale ocean rescue operation—because guess what? We’re eating the seas to death. As Michelle Cho, a marine biologist and director of the BalanceBlue Lab at the Anderson Cabot Center for Ocean Life (the aquarium’s research arm), puts it, “Humans are an important part of the [ocean’s] ecosystem.” Seafood, after all, accounts for a whopping 17 percent of the world’s animal protein, and for some coastal communities, fish makes up a staggering 70 percent of their protein intake.

The BalanceBlue Lab is at the forefront of helping businesses make ocean-friendly decisions. “We’ve been collaborating with the seafood industry for 25 years,” Cho explains. “Companies have items that they need to sell, so we just look for the best sources of that product.”

The lab’s influence stretches across the entire supply chain, from major retailers and restaurant chains to international seafood importers. They’re partnering with a frozen seafood distributor, a global hotel chain, and even a major buyer of seaweed for alginate, a natural thickener used in everything from food to pharmaceuticals. The BalanceBlue Lab also advises the aquarium’s own food-service provider on sustainable choices for menus and even guides the team feeding the animals in their care—because it’s improtant for the aquarium to walk its talk.

While the BalanceBlue Lab primarily collaborates with large global corporations, its research could have a ripple effect, informing farming practices locally, too. Last year, the team traveled to Iceland, Australia, Norway, and Indonesia, learning about low-impact methods for farming and harvesting seaweed. This knowledge helps the BalanceBlue Lab advise East Coast sugar-kelp farmers on best practices.

Ready to be part of the solution? Cho says there are several key ways individuals can make an impact. For one, she advises diversifying your diet, as the majority of seafood eaten worldwide is boringly limited to shrimp, salmon, and tuna; don’t be afraid to try new things, which helps maintain balanced fish populations. You can also look for ecolabel certifications, including Best Aquaculture Practices and Marine Stewardship Council credentials. Additionally, Cho suggests asking at stores and restaurants about seafood products’ provenance and how things were caught. As she notes, “We need to use the ocean’s resources responsibly”—and knowledge is power.

T
is for Tasting Merroir

What do wine and oysters have in common (other than making our date nights better)? Both get their complex flavors from their environment. Yep, just as wine has terroir, oysters have merroir. Derived from the French word for the sea, mer, it refers to the characteristics of the bivalves based on their provenance—hence why an East Coast oyster tastes completely different from a West Coast oyster, which might even taste completely different from an oyster from elsewhere in the very same bay. An oyster’s merroir is mostly contingent on three factors, says Anna Bouthillier, a marine biologist and co-owner of Deluxbury Sea Farm in Duxbury:

1. Salinity: The saltiness of the oyster’s native habitat contributes to its flavor. Salinity varies greatly from region to region, governed largely by that region’s estuary source—basically, how much freshwater flows into a semi-enclosed saltwater body. More freshwater means lower salinity, which makes for a less briny oyster.

2. Algae: Yes, oysters eat! The filter-feeders love algae. Depending on variables such as water temperature, depth, and whether the oysters are growing wild or farmed, different species of algae may be present in their habitat. The species of algae an oyster eats affects how the oyster tastes to us.

3. Minerals: In the most direct parallel to terroir, the mineral content of the sea floor plays a big role in an oyster’s taste.

Courtesy of Regalis Foods

U
is for Uni to Japan

Maine lobstermen used to curse the spiky green sea urchins that clogged their traps. Then Japan discovered them, and suddenly, these underwater pests became liquid gold.

It might seem counterintuitive that Japan, a nation renowned for its exquisite seafood and with its own highly prized uni from Hokkaido, would turn to the chilly waters of Maine for this delicacy. But by the 1970s, Japan’s deep love for uni created a demand that its domestic fisheries simply couldn’t satisfy. This led to an initial search for alternative sources from the Pacific Northwest and British Columbia.

It wasn’t until the mid-1980s that Maine’s uni made its way to the Japanese market, fostered by a unique flavor from the algae and kelp upon which it feeds. (Just how does the bizarre, spiky ball feed, you might wonder? Through a five-toothed, mouth-like orifice called “Aristotle’s Lantern.”)

The acceptance of the Pine Tree State’s uni was far from automatic, though. Japanese experts were dispatched to Maine’s processing facilities to inspect the quality of the green sea urchins before deeming them acceptable. The result was an astonishing boom: Maine’s uni valuation skyrocketed by about 30,000 percent between 1987 and 1990.

It’s the kind of unlikely partnership that proves how far people will go for the perfect bite. What was once Maine’s worthless bycatch became essential to Japan’s seafood culture, a reminder that culinary obsession knows no borders.

See also: Top Sushi Restaurants around Boston

V
is for Vodka Made from Oysters

Rachel Hulin Studio for ISCO Spirits

Oysters and corn are welcome at any picnic—but in your cocktail? The Industrious Spirit Company of Providence, Rhode Island, makes a strong case for it with Ostreida vodka, believed to be the world’s first oyster vodka. The unique distilling process starts with New York–grown corn for a neutral grain base, with locally farmed oysters tossed in during the final step. “It imparts oysters’ briny and creamy qualities while still remaining bright and fresh with the vodka backbone,” says Ben Chesna, wine and beverage director for several Himmel Hospitality Group restaurants, who uses the vodka on the menu at the Banks Seafood and Steak in the Back Bay. (Try it in a martini infused with kombu, a.k.a. edible kelp.)Dirty martini and margarita fans alike know that salt can work wonders for a cocktail, from balancing flavors to making the texture more silky. Oyster brine works similarly but more subtly, says Traveler Street Hospitality beverage director Ryan Lotz. At Black Lamb in the South End, his team complements the Ostreida martini with manzanilla sherry, mignonette, and a lemon twist. According to Lotz, the essence of oysters adds “a savory little umami thing that you might not even really notice, but you definitely notice that it brings something different to the table.”

Baked scrod. / Getty Images

W
is for What Is Scrod?

It’s not just the punchline to a slightly risqué grammar joke—it’s the most New England thing ever, a mystery fish served with zero apology. More specifically—er, less specifically—it’s a way to refer to a variety of “catch of the day” fish, often in the lowest weight class. “I’ve always heard that the old-timers used the word to refer to small whitefish,” says Jared Auerbach, CEO of Boston-based seafood distributor Red’s Best. “Basically, whatever was coming in that could be breaded and baked, which is a great way to prepare all of the local whitefish we have in the ocean around here.” Cod, haddock, hake, pollock—every longtime New Englander has probably eaten these mild, flaky fish under the name baked scrod (or schrod) a thousand times, split and deboned, breaded in buttery crumbs (or perhaps crumbled Ritz crackers), baked in a mini casserole dish, and topped with a squeeze of lemon.

One oft-told tale pins the origin of the term to Boston’s Parker House hotel (now the Omni Parker House), where the staff would pick whatever small, firm fish was best from the day’s catch and use the word “scrod” as a catchall term to keep the menu accurate. But other potential origin stories date earlier than the hotel’s 1855 opening, so nice try, Parker House. Some think it came from the Cornish word “scraw,” a method of cooking that involved lightly seasoning, drying, roasting, and finishing with butter. Or the Old Dutch “scrood,” which referred to small, cut-up pieces of young cod that were salted and dried.

Regardless of where it came from and what it actually is, scrod’s ethos still resonates today. “The irony is that this old-school term is actually extremely relevant to what Red’s Best does in 2025,” Auerbach says. “Our role in the supply chain is to make markets for the fish that come off the boat. We often struggle when people want one type of fish, but Mother Nature gives us something else…we are looking for ways to encourage consumer flexibility.”

To that end, Red’s Best now runs a popular “catch of the day” program where customers commit to a quantity and price, but the company picks the species. “When we build supply chains like this, everyone wins,” Auerbach says. “It’s the most sustainable way to interact with the ocean.” It’s also the most honest: Scrod never pretended to be anything other than whatever showed up that day.

Illustration by Dale Stephanos

X
is for Xiphosura

Surprise! Horseshoe crabs are not true crabs. In fact, as arthropods of the order Xiphosura, they’re more closely related to scorpions and spiders than to crabs. Outside of Asia, humans don’t widely consume them, so how did they claw their way into a New England seafood guide? Turns out the prehistoric, hard-shelled, pointy-tailed creatures, plentiful in our local waters, are absolutely vital to the coastal ecosystem.

Everything from small fish to sea turtles and sharks loves to munch on ’em. Their eggs, meanwhile, are particularly important to shorebirds, especially the red knot, which stops to refuel off the coast of Massachusetts during its extraordinarily long migrations from the Arctic to South America.

While the horseshoe-crab population in New England is fairly stable, threats loom, particularly the practice of harvesting them for bait to attract whelks, striped bass, and eels. In 2024, Massachusetts banned their harvest during part of the spawning season, a step in the right direction, although some conservationists say it doesn’t go far enough. Another threat to their existence: biomedical use of the crabs’ blood, which contains the frankly wild ability to detect dangerous contaminants known as endotoxins on medical equipment, from vaccine needles to stents. But more good news from 2024: Synthetic alternatives have finally gotten approval, so the use of horseshoe-crab blood may one day be ancient history.

As regulations increase and demand for horseshoe crabs diminishes, we have reason to be cautiously optimistic about the future of this resilient species. After all, they’ve been around for more than 400 million years (surviving five mass extinctions along the way). Here’s to the next 400 million.

A harbor seal swimming on a misty morning in Maine on the Sheepscot River. / Photo by Rabbitti / Getty Images

Y
is for Yikes, Did We Save Too Many Seals?

We humans are suckers for seals, with their doe eyes and playful antics (and who could forget Hoover, the seal with a Boston accent?). But if you chat with someone in New England’s fishing industry, you might get a less-than-enthusiastic earful.

Some argue that 50-plus years of seal conservation, thanks to the 1972 Marine Mammal Protection Act, was too successful. Seal populations, once teetering on the brink (partly due to historical bounty hunts), have bounced back big time. Now, they’re often branded as villains, accused of gobbling up fish and even luring sharks closer to shore.

Yes, the tens of thousands of gray and harbor seals in New England waters do love a fishy feast—sometimes even snagging dinner straight from nets, especially in gillnet fisheries. Occasionally, they get tangled and damage gear. As science writer Alix Morris, author of the newly released book A Year with the Seals, puts it, “It’s hard to blame the seals in these instances; it’s like an all-you-can-eat sushi buffet right in front of their faces.”

But are these adorable creatures just convenient “scapeseals” for a much murkier problem? Morris’s research, sparked by the outcry after a deadly 2020 shark attack in Maine, paints a more nuanced picture. Her chats with everyone from fishermen to scientists reveal a less “seals are bad” scenario than you might expect. For instance, while folks worry gray seals are hindering Atlantic cod recovery, new seal-diet studies suggest the animals are opportunistic eaters, often chowing down on hake and sand lance—which, as Morris notes, both eat fish eggs and juveniles, including cod.

Meanwhile, the Gulf of Maine is warming faster than almost anywhere on earth, likely pushing cod into deeper, cooler waters, Morris explains. “So it’s not that you have this massive predation going on right now, but rather there are these environmental changes.” In other words, while gray seals certainly nibble on cod, she says there’s “currently no evidence” they’re having a significant impact on cod stocks.

Still, Morris gets why individual fishermen might point fingers. They’re battling a million different ecosystem shifts: changing regulations, soaring living costs, rising diesel prices, and climate change. “It’s difficult to point your finger at all of those things at once,” she notes. “Whereas if you’re seeing seals messing with your gear and eating your catch for the day, I can completely understand that you want it to be a simple solution: If it’s just the seals, okay, that’s simple enough. But it’s definitely not.”

See also: Where to See Seals in Massachusetts

Z
is for Zon’s Zebrafish

Zebrafish, those small freshwater fish from South Asia, are more than just captivating creatures—they’re practically tiny, striped humans. Their genetic makeup is remarkably similar to ours, with many analogs between our body parts and theirs. Plus, they grow and reproduce quickly, and the embryos are translucent, giving scientists a front-row seat to observe development. Right in our own backyard, Leonard Zon’s lab at Boston Children’s Hospital uses these genetic goldmines to study hematopoiesis—or blood cell production—among other issues applicable to human health, from stem cell development to melanoma.

So what does this have to do with New England seafood? If you’ve enjoyed a meal at Legal Sea Foods, you may have actually helped fund cancer research—for more than 25 years, the Cambridge-born restaurant chain has helped bankroll Zon’s lab. “It supports work focused on studying blood stem cells and cancer in the zebrafish,” Zon says. “It is allowing us to find new treatments for leukemia.”

Legal runs various fundraising events for the cause throughout the year—holiday gift-card promotions, the annual dollar-a-cup “Chowda Day.” Plus, a portion of every kid’s meal sold in 2025 goes to the research. It’s a team-up that’s generated millions in research funding over the years. “We’re so proud of the partnership,” says Matt King, president and COO of Legal Sea Foods. It’s a weird but wonderful pairing: your seafood dinner funding zebrafish research. Who knew those little striped guys could help cure cancer?