Along the Massachusetts coast, I’ve learned to follow my nose as much as any map, because there’s a very particular moment when salt air catches a ribbon of fryer scent and suddenly you’re walking a little faster, scanning for a small window where orders slide out in hot paper boats.
These places don’t feel like restaurants in the traditional sense, more like coastal punctuation marks, quick, practical, and quietly beloved, the kind of spots locals trust because they’ve been good on too many random afternoons to be a fluke.
I like how the eating happens wherever it needs to, on benches that face the water, on car hoods in parking lots, at picnic tables where gulls linger with suspicious patience, and somehow the food tastes better for being slightly exposed to the wind…