I’ll admit it-I’m a lobster‑loving road‑tripper.
One Saturday morning, after a half‑hour of scrolling through endless Instagram reels of buttery claw‑splays and steam‑rising plates, I found myself packing snacks, refilling the gas tank, and mapping a route that wound all the way from my tiny Orlando apartment to a place only the bravest (and most famished) Floridians seem to know: Boston Lobster Feast.
The name alone sounds like a myth, like a pirate’s treasure chest hidden behind a neon “All‑You‑Can‑Eat” sign, and the rumors are that the lobster here is so good it makes you forget you ever tasted anything else…