I’m Jake Newman. The Portland Logbook is my love letter to this city: the food worth hunting down, the history that refuses to die, the corners you only find if you’re paying attention.

The Oyster Moves In

For a long time I didn't get oysters. The little fork, the way people close their eyes after the first one like they're in a perfume ad. And the things themselves. Cold, gray, kind of glistening. Sea boogers.

Then a friend showed up to a Friendsgiving with a hundred oysters her uncle had grown on the Damariscotta River. A hundred. She hauled them in and started shucking them right there at the dinner table, crushed ice, mignonette, the whole operation. With someone working that hard right in front of you, it would've been rude not to try one. So I did. Cold, plain, with a little mignonette. And that was it.

Now I'm one of those people. I ordered the dozen. I have opinions about the brine. Mignonette and a squeeze of lemon, that's the whole religion, and if you're dumping cocktail sauce on something that delicate, I don't know what to tell you. You're not tasting the oyster anymore. You're just tasting the sauce.

What I didn't know, working through that pile at the table, was that I was eating something that points to where Maine is headed.

Maine is a lobster state. That's the brand, the license plates, the reason your relatives visit. We pull in around 80 percent of the lobsters caught nationwide. It's the thing.

But the water is changing. The Gulf of Maine is warming faster than almost any patch of ocean on the planet, and the lobster is a cold-water animal, so it's drifting north and east toward colder, deeper water. The catch in 2024 was the lowest in fifteen years. The lobster isn't going anywhere tomorrow. The price is up, and the guys hauling traps still had a good year. But for the first time in a while, you can see the edges of the thing.

And here's what gets me. The same warming nudging the lobster out is also opening the door for the oyster. Oysters like it warmer. They feed faster, build shells faster, and get to market faster. So while one Maine animal eases toward the exit, another moves into the empty room. No announcement. Just more of them every year.

You can see it in who's growing what. Of the roughly seven hundred small aquaculture licenses in the state, around three-quarters now include oysters. A decade ago, there were a few die-hards in Damariscotta. Now it's everywhere, lobstermen included.

The part I love is the oldest part. Wild oysters used to be all over this coast. Thousands of years ago, the people living along the Damariscotta ate so many that they left a heap of shells a thousand feet long and three stories tall. It's still there. You can go stand next to it. The same river that my friend's uncle is farming right now.

Then, somewhere around the 1900s, the wild ones basically vanished, and for a hundred years, everyone figured that was that. Until they started turning up again on their own, outside the farms, in the warmer water. Researchers confirmed it just this spring. The oyster was here long before the lobster was ever a brand. It left, and now it's coming back to a coast that's warming back into the kind of place it likes.

If you want to meet the thing head-on, your timing's good. The Maine Oyster Festival is in Freeport this weekend, Saturday and Sunday, the 27th and 28th. Dozens of farms, tens of thousands of oysters, free to get in. Some boat tours depart from Yarmouth if you want to get on the water and see where they come from. Go eat a few at the festival. You're tasting the new Maine a little ahead of everybody else.

Go to the Oyster Festival!

Crying in the Rain at Regards

A gift card to Regards sat on my fridge for eight months, stuck under a magnet, staring at me every time I opened the door. Friends gave it to me for my birthday. You'd think that would be motivation. Instead it became the thing I'd do later, the dinner I was saving for no occasion in particular. The places you most want to go are sometimes the ones you put off the longest.

Then I finally went. And then I went again four days later. Twice in one week, to the same restaurant, in a city where I have a running list of a hundred places I keep meaning to try. That's not how I work.

Here's what happened the first time. We were halfway through dinner, right after the appetizers, right before the mains, when the fire alarm went off. Turns out the kitchen runs open-fire grills, and somewhere back there it had smoked itself out, and now there's an alarm screaming through the dining room. A real one. Loud.

The staff handled it like pros. Came around to every table, apologized, offered to comp the whole bill, and let everyone clear out. A reasonable person leaves. And almost nobody did. We sat there. The mains hadn't come yet, the food up to that point had been some of the best we'd had in a long time, and nobody wanted to give up their table.

We stepped outside for a minute as the firemen piled in. On the way out though my friend Maya grabbed the peanuts off the table, the árbol and garlic ones, and got a big handful. Somewhere in there were a couple of the chilis. There she is, out in the rain, fire truck lights going, alarm still blaring, crying from the heat. I still laugh out loud when I think about it, which is often.

And the thing that brought us back to our seats through all of it was the tamale. I've been thinking about it for two weeks. Macadamia nut mole blanco, which I'd never had in my life, a white mole, nutty and soft and deeply savory, nothing like the dark mole you picture. And then the cotija cream over the top, which is the part I'd drive back across town for on its own. Salty, cool, rich. The whole thing comes out warm and comforting in a way restaurant food usually isn't. It's the most cravable thing I've eaten in Portland in a long time. I mean that literally. I've been craving it. I crave it.

The rest of the table held up too. Those peanuts, árbol and garlic, dangerous in more ways than one, ask Maya. Raw oysters with tangelo kosho and husk cherry, bright and acidic. The hamachi collar everybody raves about was beautifully done, though I'll be honest, it leans smoky and I've never made peace with heavy smoke, so that one's on me, not the kitchen. The execution was perfect. I'm just not the right guy for it.

But I'd go back for the tamale alone. Have gone back. Will go back again. Eight months that thing sat on my fridge, and now I can't stay away.

Go Get the Tamale

THIS WEEKS CONDITIONS
☀️ SUNRISE: 5:00 AM
🌅 SUNSET: 8:27 PM
✨ Local Opening’s: Matcha Mood on the Go
✨ Local Favorite “Shop” of the Week: LB Mini Mart
✨ Local Artist of the Week: Elizabeth Moore
❤️ Local Job Listings: Maeson Maine

Portside Real Estate Group

Thinking of Moving?

🏡 Hi its me Jake! I write The Portland Logbook, but I also help people buy and sell homes in and around Portland.

If a move is on your mind, I’m always happy to help you think it through.

Lets get a coffee!

🐾 Adoptable Buddies of the Week! 🐾

🐶 Teddy – 1 yr
A sweet, gentle little dog who just needs time to build trust. Shy at first, but incredibly loyal once he feels safe. Looking for a patient home that will let him come out of his shell.

🐱 Jabberwockey – 2 yrs
A confident, easygoing cat who loves people and settles in quickly. The kind of cat who acts like he’s lived there forever by day two.

🐹 Lenora – 1 yr
A sweet-and-spicy hamster with high standards and plenty of personality. Loves treats, enjoys respectful handling, and is looking for a home that will spoil her properly.

🐕 Interested? Check them out here

If the link doesn’t open anymore, it means they’ve already been adopted!

My friend Elizabeth Moore is one of the most talented artists I know. She makes pottery you'll want to live with.

She's got a pop-up this Sunday at 33 by Hand on High Street. Go check it out and Ill see you there!

Go check out the Pop up!