The air is crisp with the first frosts of autumn, the fire is roaring, and before you sits a dozen coldwater beauties. You squeeze the lemon. The citrus hits the brine. It is an ancient ritual, a culinary tradition that speaks of stormy seas and weathered fishermen.

They said we couldn’t bring the coast to the mountains. I told them they lacked imagination.

Every single Tuesday at The Copperhead Lodge we don't just shuck 'em cold. We drop 'em in the fryer until they're golden brown, served hot on a plate or piled high into a legendary, overstuffed Poboy.

Slurp boldly, my friends. The sea awaits.