By Scott Reitz | Dallas Observer | 2014 March 13
On the weekends outside The Boiling Crab the action in the parking lot is just shy of chaotic — not as bad as the pavement that surrounds Trader Joe's before a forecast dusting of snow or the American Airlines Center when Beyoncé comes to town, but packed full, with vehicles circling like slow-motion sharks and white-knuckle grips on steering wheels.
Inside, the desperation is worse, as those who have just bled to find parking on this side of Walnut Street are told their wait will be nearly as long as it takes to drive to the shore from which their eventual dinner hails. Three-and-a-half hours for a party of two one weekend evening, four hours the next. There are no buzzing pagers, no cell phones for text notification, just a teenager sprouting fresh facial hair, a pen and the fate of your happiness hanging in a spiral-bound notebook. Drop your name, say a brief prayer and then hope for the best.