So the palm trees don’t last the winter. It’s still the closest thing we have to a Southern biker beach bar, with sugary sand, picnic tables, and a friendly, shabby weathered-wood ambiance you’d find on the Gulf Coast or along the Outer Banks. Except that it’s perched on Bear Creek in Dundalk—as bucolic a view as you’re going to get around here. Like any self-respecting crab house, the sides are hardly worth the effort, but everyone gets ‘em because they never think they’ll fill up on crabs. Not here. Last batch we bought was hearty and filling, and though we get a pang in our wallet when we order a dozen steamed crabs anywhere these days, these crabs seemed to keep coming. But it could have been the beer, all that sunshine, or the delusion we were on vacation. Whatever it was, Mariner’s sat right with us. Even the kids slipped into vacation mode—once they finished picking at their crab legs, it was hard pulling them away from sand-castle construction. Sand castles. In Dundalk.

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