CHOWDER HEAD
ALM No.94, October 2026
SHORT STORIES
Debt blanketed Jack Malloy as heavily as the falling snow. He leaned on the worn wooden bar near the empty kitchen, fretting over receipts, unpaid bills and his blunder in buying a waterfront pub. He rested one hand on a whiskey neat, while the other hand hovered over a calculator, which he tapped harshly.
“You gonna make it through February?” Bobby Blue Eyes asked.
“I’ll let you know in March.” Jack replied.
Bobby gulped his beer and, with the ice blue eyes for which he was nicknamed, gazed out of the window at the frozen canal.
“Damn bad storm,” Bobby said. “Not a sign of life out there.”
Snow swirled about the bay in a wet white frenzy. Over the door, a neon Hurricane Harry’s sign flickered in the blizzard, the H in Hurricane dim on the edge of darkness.
Jack looked around the bar at the few fishermen waiting out the storm and the usual drunks drinking their disability checks, hunched over their pints, like patients in a hospital ward.
“Yeah, Bobby. Not a sign of life,” Jack said, then sipped his whiskey and exhaled a long, boozy breath.
Jack’s sallow face betrayed his twenty NYPD years patrolling the Bronx streets, dreading a call to a crime. Back then no sign of life equaled safety, but now silence meant financial ruin.
The door opened.
A young man walked in, bringing the cold wind with him. He stomped his boots at the threshold and brushed snow from his black pea coat, leaving a white dusting on the floor. The newcomer pulled off his thick gloves, and scanned the bar as he swept damp strands of black hair from his forehead. His eyes settled on Jack.
“Are you the owner?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?” Jack said, worried he was about to be served by another stalking debt collector. His years on the force had made him alert, but now his debt made him paranoid.
“I’m Cal,” he said, extending his hand. “Cal Harkness.”
Jack detected a southern accent. He shook the young man’s cold hand, catching the salted scent of the sea on him. Bobby appraised Cal up and down with watery half-drunk eyes. He glanced at Jack and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not hiring if that’s your proposal,” Jack said.
“I got a job,” Cal said. “But it’s not paying at the moment. I’m signed on to crew one of those trawlers out there.”
He nodded toward the line of dead fishing boats docked across the canal, one indistinguishable from the next in the storm. The snow continued to blow and howl, casting the moored vessels in a ghostly glow.
“But the captain ain’t payin’ us,” Cal continued. “Says no money till we start fishing.”
Cal looked down at his boots. He fidgeted with the woolen watch cap in his hands, only releasing his grip to swipe back the hair that kept falling over his eyes.
“Could you front me a couple beers?” he asked. “As soon as I get paid, I’ll settle my tab.”
“This ain’t a charity, kid. Sorry,” Jack said. “I’ve got my own problems and giving away free beer won’t solve them. “
Cal surveyed the bar. His eyes stopped on a paper sign taped above the register. It read:
ANNUAL CLAM CHOWDER CONTEST
$1,000 CASH PRIZE — TROPHY — PRIDE OF THE NAUTICAL MILE
The entry date was tomorrow.
“I tell you what,” he said, nodding at the sign. “Let me drink on the house and I’ll win that contest for you…promise.”
“Come on, Jack. Let the greenhorn try. It’s just beer.” Bobby Blue Eyes leaned in, offering his not-asked-for opinion.
The barroom philosophers, the chorus of Hurricane Harry’s, rose in harmony.
“Give ’im a go,” Billy “Skipper” Doyle chimed in, spittle flying from the space in his mushy mouth where two teeth were missing.
“I’ll chip in for a beer,” added Old Petey Navarro, who was behind on his rent, drank for sustenance, and had absolutely nothing to contribute. The remaining detritus at the bar bobbed their heads in agreement.
“Not gonna lie, if you pull it off, a grand would come in handy,” Jack said. “Alright, pull up a stool. Tap beer only.”
“Thanks,” Cal said. He sat at the bar rubbing his hands together. “I’ll need a few ingredients.”
“Ingredients?” Bobby said from his end of the bar. “Clams and taters, that’s how my mom did it…easy peasy.” Bobby Blue Eyes punctuated his opinion with a deep slow draw on his beer, as if to confirm his authority on the subject.
“Well, my chowder’s a little more complicated,” Cal replied. “It’s just clam chowder, I know, but it’s got a lot in it.”
Jack plopped an order pad in front of Cal along with a flattish pint from the cheapest tap, and pulled a pencil from behind his ear.
“Write down what you need,” Jack said.
“Here’s to good chowder,” Cal said and raised his glass toward Bobby Blue Eyes.
Seeing a tremble in Cal’s hands and unsure if it was a cold shiver or edgy nerves, the policeman Jack notified the bar owner Jack to keep a close eye on him.
Cal sipped his beer, then placed the glass gently on a wrinkled cardboard coaster that protected the deeply scuffed and stained bar top from further abuse. He scribbled furiously on the pad, pausing only to visit his beer, tap the pencil to his chin, and then continue writing. The bar patrons watched as if witnessing a great author at work. Close to a minute passed when Jack interrupted.
“Excuse me, Hemingway. How many ingredients in this masterpiece?”
“Quite a few, but don’t worry, nothing expensive…except for the clams, I guess.” He raised his near-empty glass and wiggled it at Jack.
“I see your glass is empty…no need to wave it at me.” Jack pulled him another beer, slid the headless pint to Cal and rapped his knuckles twice against the bar.
“Sláinte,” Jack said.
The men drank, joked, lied and fell into long stretches of silence as the storm raged deep into the night. One by one, they drifted out into the snow, leaving Jack alone to await their return.
****
At sunrise Hurricane Harry’s hosted the daily morning drinkers. Known as the Breakfast Club, its members were the same crew that occupied the bar at sunset. The morning bartender was Mickey Abbott, a Dubliner who spoke with a heavy brogue despite living in New York the past 30 years. He walked with a limp, favoring the right leg he had injured in a fall from a ladder after a whiskey fueled lunch break. Jack had once asked him about it, but Mickey took offense at the inquiry.
“Once a cop always a cop,” he muttered and limped away.
Mickey now leaned one elbow on the bar, his head cocked toward Bobby Blue Eyes, the two whispering like men in a confessional. Their eyes were fixed on the kitchen, where Cal Harkness worked—chopping, stirring, tasting, sprinkling, and shucking. Jack stopped by the serving window and watched Cal pry open clams, one after another, and scooping out the meat with practiced speed.
“You’re pretty good at that,” Jack said.
“Worked a clam house in the Outer Banks a few years,” Cal replied without looking up at Jack.
Cal’s sleeves were rolled back revealing a black dagger tattoo on his left forearm and a winged cherub on the right.
“Nice ink,” Jack said. “What do they mean?”
“The good and bad in us, I guess,” Cal said as he raised the cherubbed arm to wipe his sweaty brow, then returned to his labor.
Hurricane Harry’s soon filled with the scent of sautéed onions, garlic, and something none of the men could quite name. When Cal lifted the stockpot lid, a cloud of clam-laced steam rolled out in a succulent fog. The aroma carried the old men to their youths: crabbing from skiffs in the Great South Bay, summers at the bay houses of the Jones Beach inlet, fishing Zachs’s Bay with their fathers, when they were young and strong, swimming in the deep water of life.
“Damn, that smells good,” Bobby said. “My mouth’s watering. Tide’s coming in, if ya get my drift.” Bobby winked to no one, proud of his pun.
“Ay, it smells very good,” Mickey mused. “Smells like me sainted mum’s cooking, may her name be blessed.”
He made the sign of the cross and swallowed a mouthful of Guinness.
Skipper Doyle called across the room to Jack, who sat at a high-top table sipping a whiskey-laced black coffee and reading the Long Island Press.
“Hey Jack, what’s in this soup the kids makin’?”
“Not sure,” Jack said. “Weird stuff. Vermouth, scallions, heavy cream…a bunch of things, some I never heard of.”
Jack patted his shirt pockets, then his pants. He lifted the newspaper and peeked beneath.
“Cal wrote it down somewhere, can’t find it now,” Jack said. He gave up his search, and returned to his coffee and paper.
At noon, Old Petey Navarro, who was smoking and coughing out on Hurricane Harry’s deck, poked his head inside.
“Hey fellas, looks like the chowder contest is about to start,” he said.
They gathered at the street-facing window. In the parking lot next to Big Lou’s Boat Store, a large tent had been erected. An inflatable balloon man shook in the wind, holding a Big Lou sign. The man himself, Lou Krikowski, strolled about the tent in a puffy gray parka, a thick cigar jutting from his mouth. Beneath the tent were two long tables; one for the judges and the other for the entrants. At each corner of the tent, flames danced from rusted metal barrels filled with firewood.
Cal emerged from the kitchen, wearing a stained cook’s apron. He held a serving tray arrayed with white coffee mugs. “Soup’s on,” he said. “I ladled a few cups for you guys. “
The men lined up, and each took a spoon and mug to their corner of the bar. The creamy stew was thick with chopped quahogs, the kind they pulled from the marsh grass and mud flats of Reynolds Channel, in the cold quiet hours before dawn. The bar was silent as they tasted the chowder, the only sound the wind along the canal.
“Lord that’s good.” Bobby Blue Eyes said.
“Delicious.” whispered Old Petey.
Mickey Abbot took a spoonful, and then another. He closed his eyes a moment.
“It’s as if God Almighty himself came down from heaven to make this bloody chowder.” he said, “Sweet Jesus.”
The consensus among the crowd was absolute: this was the finest chowder ever made, the summit of their collective seafood-eating lives—it was a glorious.
“Thanks for the compliments, guys.” Cal said. “But in the end, it’s just soup.”
“No, no this is special.” Bobby Blue Eyes declared. “It’s as if God came down and cooked it up himself.”
Cal offered Jack a taste, but he declined.
“Sorry son, clams don’t agree with me, but I’m sure it’s great.”
Cal shrugged and returned to the kitchen. He ladled the remaining chowder into a chipped clay pot, and returned with it nestled safely in his hands.
“Let’s go win that trophy boys.”
The Breakfast Club reverently held the door open for Cal and followed him out to the contest. On the way, Cal slipped on the icy sidewalk, but righted himself, protecting the chowder. They all reached to grab him, as if he carried the Holy Grail.
From behind the bar, drying an empty pint glass with a grey dish rag, Mickey Abbott watched the procession leave, his eyes wide, his mouth tight, threatening a frown.
“Go with ‘em, Mick,” Jack said. “I’ll man the bar.”
“Thanks,” Abbott’s face erupted with a broad grin. “I got a good feeling about this kid, Jack.”
Mickey limped after the group, his bar apron still wrapped around his waist, flapping in the winter wind. Jack poured himself a double whiskey and carried his drink into the kitchen. It was spotless. The floor was swept and mopped, the oven polished to a gleam, pots and pans put in their place. On the stove sat the large dented stockpot in which the chowder had simmered, some remnants left behind. Jack dabbed his finger along the inside and placed a dollop of the thick broth in his mouth.
“God damn. That is good.”
Jack topped off his drink, sat on a stool, and surveyed the warped floorboards, the wobbly bar stools, the scratched panel walls. He tossed the bank letter on the table, raised the whiskey glass to his lips and savored the burn in his throat. He closed his eyes and imagined his debt staring him down like a boxer at weigh-in. Jack was behind on the mortgage, behind on the liquor bills, behind on child support—behind in life.
What was I thinking, buying a bar? I don’t even know anyone named Harry.
On the tabletop the foreclosure notice lay splayed open, like the wreckage of the car accidents Jack had responded to as a cop. He tapped the paper with his finger, as if to make sure it was real. He picked it up and folded it until the letter resisted another fold, and placed it in his pocket, out of sight.
The Islanders game was on the television that hung in a corner above the bar. Otherwise, the place was quiet; not a customer in sight. Jack drank alone and waited for the loss that was coming. The disappointed crew would soon be back toasting to missed glory. At least today, losing would bring business.
The door burst open, frigid air rushed in, and along with it the Breakfast Club. They carried a plastic golden trophy—the shape of a fat quahog clam perched atop a pedestal. A plastic ribbon billowed above the clam in an eternal, never-completed wave, engraved with the words “Best Chowder on the Nautical Mile.”
They carried the trophy, about a foot tall, as if it were the Stanley Cup, cheering as they entered. Besotted with pride and vodka from the flask they had shared during the contest, the men placed the trophy on the bar.
“We did it,” Bobby hollered as Jack lined up a round of Jameson shots.
“To the greatest clam chowder in the world,” Jack raised his glass. “This will put Harry’s on the map.”
The possibility of surviving the winter until the spring tourists returned appeared before Jack. The chowder would draw customers and the prize money would cover some bills.
“Hey, what about the thousand bucks?” Jack asked and looked around for Cal. He was not there.
Jack asked if anyone had seen him, but no one could recall when they last saw Cal Harkness. In the frenzy of the contest, they had lost track of their chowder savant. Jack poured another round of Jameson, and kept one eye on the door.
“Probably went back to check in with his captain,” opined Bobby Blue Eyes. “I hear the ice is thawing and trawlers heading out again.”
“Which boat was he crewed to?” Jack asked.
No one answered.
“Dunno,” Mickey Abbott shrugged and frowned. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”
“He better,” Jack said. “He has my money.”
“Of course he will.” Old Petey said and raised his glass. “Here’s to a good kid. To Cal.”
The men drank deep into the night. Their ruddy faces glowing with hubris and booze, they toasted Cal again and again. Something good had happened; for once they were winners.
Jack joined in every shot, but kept his increasingly blurry sight on the door, but the door only opened when the drunks stumbled home.
“Mick, you mind closing up? I’m gonna look around for Cal.”
“Sure boss, no problem.” Mickey said.
Jack walked to the boatyard on other side of the canal. Pleasure boats and fishing trawlers sat frozen in their berths, icicles hanging from the rigging like sheets on a clothesline. A few slips were empty. He located the dock master, Cory Widmer, a gray bearded bayman clad in yellow chest waders and black watch cap. Jack inquired if any commercial trawlers had set out tonight.
“They all did,” Cory said. “There were a few draggers here waiting out the snow storm before heading north chasing herring, mackeral, and what not…or out to the canyon after squid and whiting. But who went where I can’t tell you.”
Jack listened and shivered as the cold night air cut through him.
“You okay Jack?” Cory asked. “Seems like you had a few.”
“Guess too many drinks has dulled me,” Jack said. “I keep making mistakes.”
“We’re all chowder heads at times,” Cory said. He walked back to the dock house, leaving Jack standing alone in the winter night.
****
The next morning, Jack opened Hurricane Harry’s for the Breakfast Club. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry and his mood was black.
Cal Harkness, the great chef of the South, the savior of Hurricane Harry’s, the salve to Jack Malloy’s fiscal wounds and lying thief, never returned. He was gone, and with him the recipe for the glorious chowder and the thousand-dollar buoy to keep him afloat.
He unlocked the door, yanked the pull chain on the neon Budweiser sign, and waited for the regulars to arrive for their morning medicine. The phone rang, the sound setting off sparks in Jack’s head
“Hurricane Harry’s.” Jack said.
He listened to the young woman talk. In the background he could hear a baby’s cry, incessant and needy. Jack did not interrupt the woman, as her voice cracked with anger. After a time, he became aware that Cal’s baby mama had stopped speaking.
“Sorry ma’am…didn’t know he had a family…he left nothing here…other than a clam chowder we’ll never forget.”
Jack ploughed his dehydrated mind for something more to say, but nothing came. The line went dead, leaving a droning buzz in his ear. He placed the phone on its cradle, and stared out at the canal, the open bay and the sea beyond.
His head throbbing, Jack wiped the bar with a damp rag, dunked dirty glasses in the sink filled with soapy water, and straightened the stacks of cardboard coasters. His attention strayed to the framed photos that adorned the walls, faded images of smiling fishermen, their names long forgotten. They were as anonymous as the dead catch they held up for the camera. He looked for a spot where his picture would one day hang.
Jack Malloy patted his empty pockets, searching again for the lost recipe, for an answer—for something. In the distance, the forlorn foghorn of a passing trawler drifted across the bay.
John D. Coville is practicing attorney in New York. Prior to law school he worked as an editor for trade publications. He graduated from Fordham University (B.A.) and DePaul University (J.D.) In the early 1960s his mixed-race parents moved to a white neighborhood in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. He is working on a novel based on their experience. His work appeared in Literary Yard, and he has a flash fiction piece forthcoming in Bewildering Stories.
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