February 8, 2026

When I was a kid growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, Fisherman’s Wharf was just that. A working wharf with fishing boats and real fishermen. Dungeness crab was their legendary catch, and it appears on the Fisherman’s Wharf logo to this day.

My first taste of so-called “cracked crab” didn’t come from a restaurant, but from our Irish-Italian neighbors, the Sheridans, who invited me to join their feast. I was led out to the covered patio, where their long picnic table was laid with newspaper. Each place setting was punctuated by a hunk of San Francisco sourdough, a nutcracker and pick, damp hand towels, and a paper bib stamped with a grinning red crab. Between every two settings sat a dish of drawn butter, balanced over a candle to keep it warm.

When Mrs. Sheridan emerged with a massive platter piled high with Dungeness crab legs, claws and knuckles, I gasped. The sheer quantity was intimidating. So was the prospect of getting all that meat out of those shells. Sensing my hesitation, Mr. Sheridan took me under his wing. He showed me how to crack, twist and pick, leaning in to whisper that the knuckles were by far the best part. He was right. I was hooked for life.