On the shellfish-as-grub scale, the mussel is neither as distinguished as the lobster nor as misunderstood as the sea urchin. It is loved by the Old World and neglected by the New—a Belgian’s moules et frites is an American’s burger and fries, and our chefs began to pay heed only after clams became scarce. Late last year, the restaurateur Bobby Shapiro débuted, on the Upper East Side, a version of a sea-weathered mussel shack that charmed his family while they were vacationing on the South Shore of Prince Edward Island. The name, though reminiscent of a Tarzan boast, is apt: Flex Mussels forgoes European and American tradition and puts the mussel on steroids. Amid oil paintings of life on P.E.I., little metal sand pails as bread baskets and light fixtures, and, curiously, a dozen security cameras, Shapiro offers pounds of P.E.I. mussels steamed twenty-three different ways—a tour of the world’s herbs and spices.
“What country do you feel like visiting?” a server asked the other night. Nearly all stops are postcard-worthy, but some are more adventurous than others: the Dubliner combines Guinness, toasted walnuts, and caramelized onions; the Bombay employs curry, mango, and garlic; and the Spaniard uses chorizo, olives, tomato sauce, and red wine. In an impromptu voyage to Asia, the Peking (duck, ginger, rice wine) narrowly surpassed the Thai (curry-coconut broth, lemongrass, coriander). Kiddie forks help you pluck mussel from shell, but you quickly learn that the bang is in the broth, and it’s best to roll up your sleeves and apply the scoop-and-slurp. (There are some half dozen non-mussel items—lobster roll, seafood stew, steak frites—all in distinctly secondary roles.)
The main attraction at Flex Mussels, though, is a P.E.I. native named John Bil, whom Shapiro brought down to help him open up shop. Bil, who mixes drinks and commands the dining room with both a surfer’s insouciance and a shipbuilder’s precision, is a three-time oyster-shucking champion—“You know how you’ve got dog walkers here?” he asked recently. “Well, we’ve got oyster shuckers up there”—and he and his beach buddies like to steam a batch of mussels, freeze them in seawater, and, when drunk, thaw them and eat them like popcorn. Over a couple of bottles of Sauvignon Blanc in a room that smells more like the Atlantic Ocean than Coney Island does, Bil teaches you to eat them that way, too. He resolves moments of confusion without pretense or condescendence. Is a cooked but still closed mussel okay to eat? “Open it. If it looks wrong, don’t eat it.” It didn’t, and he did. (Open daily for dinner. Entrées $16-$32.) ♦
