To be clear, my ‘vacation’ consisted of a weekend trip to Baltimore, with a Friday drive down the New Jersey Turnpike thrown in as a bonus.

Unlike other summer getaways planned around a combination of sun, fun and water parks teeming with E-coli, this one had a more practical purpose: My wife and I were delivering our high school junior/senior to a month-long program of intense designy-ness at the Maryland Institute College of Art.

Now before you start penning one of those apple-doesn’t-fall-far-from-the-tree witticisms, you should know that the kid in question is very much his own creative being and possesses artistic talents that make mine look like cave drawings — not the ancient, cool ones; the kind you find on rocky outcroppings created by bands of teenagers sh&%tfaced on Natty Light.

No, Zach’s got real talent (he takes after his Mom). Enough to get him into a prestigious summer program and quite possibly make design a viable career choice. I know, weird, right? But enough about him. Back to the trip…

It was really about food.

Things started innocently enough at Camden Yards, an amazing throwback-style ballpark in the heart of downtown, where we saw the O’s vs. Nat’s. Here’s a breakdown: Decent chow (sliced pork sandwiches on potato rolls, outstanding cole slaw), ridunculous seats (thanks, Jenn), fantastic game (but Nyjer Morgan’s all-star performance wasn’t enough to hold off a 9th-inning, come-from-behind Birds’ win).

It was, however, all just a prelude to the crabs, without which no visit to MD would be complete.

Yup, I’m that guy—the one who feels compelled to eat the local specialty on every single road trip, from Trenton to Tokyo. Oh, and I refuse to accept the stuff that’s fobbed off on tourists as ‘authentic.’ I go where the locals go; a practice that’s yielded mixed gastronomic results, but consistently landed me in some fascinating places.

Like Mr. Bill’s Terrace Inn, the top recommendation of our Inner Harbor hotel’s doorman. Located in the quaint (read: honkytonk) community of Essex (which, though technically be in Baltimore, feels more like Cape Fear), Mr. Bill’s is…unique.

Oh sure, they’ve got crabs. [Insert wisecrack here.] And, like most places in the area, they use the crustaceans mainly as elaborate and dangerous delivery systems for hypertension-inducing amounts of Old Bay seasoning.

Old Bay, in case you’re unfamiliar, is a tasty concoction of salt, paprika and crack.

But the real draw at Mr. Bill’s is the people. From the likely underage bartender, to the waitress wearing the Final Net hair helmet, to the friendly food runner delivering mounds of steaming crab to tables of Old Bay-jonesing patrons with one latex glove and an air of sweaty disdain, I was smitten with them, one and all.

The end of the meal resembled a crime scene from Homicide: Life on the street.

This time, at least, I was the perp as opposed to the vic. But stay tuned for the next episode. After all, we’ve gotta pick the kid up in a month…