E-Mail This Article to a Friend Something’s fishy A tour of the best of Boston seafood BY RUTH TOBIAS

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,/The muttering retreats/Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells ..." So proposes the eponymous narrator of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and the seedy wharf he’s picturing is likely Boston’s own (author T.S. Eliot was, after all, attending Harvard around the time of the poem’s composition). Of course, Prufrock isn’t exactly blessed with a sunny disposition; fortunately, however, his gloomy depiction of our seafood joints doesn’t reflect reality, at least not the current one. So whether you’re starving for steamers bathed in hot broth and lemon butter, lusting after lobster — tail, claw, tomalley, and all — or champing for chowder, we’ve got just the spot. Let us go, then, you and I!

Actually, Beantown does harbor its share of shanties — or congenial versions thereof. Ye Olde Union Oyster House can chalk a chunk of its charm up to its record-setting status as the nation’s oldest continuously operating restaurant (in biz since 1826). To visit the establishment, whose construction dates back 250 years, is to enter a rustic, warmly glowing space, all wood-paneled nooks and crannies strewn with patriots’ portraits and folk artifacts — and filled with some remarkable ghosts: Isaiah Thomas cranking out the country’s first newspaper; Daniel Webster downing dozens of oysters daily at the bar; JFK repairing to his dedicated upstairs booth. But for the full effect, you’ll want to grab your own barstool and chow down on some of the cornier classics — oyster stew by the crockful, for instance, or the ubiquitous broiled scrod (small cod or haddock), or "lazy man’s lobster" baked with buttery breadcrumbs and sherry. Add a side of baked beans, and you can already say you’ve had ye olde Boston experience.

Almost, that is. A sea breeze would make it complete, but for that, you’ve got to head to the Barking Crab. Talk about atmosphere — the red-and-yellow-striped open-sided tent is practically nothing but. Weathered planks constitute the flooring, picnic tables and barroom two-tops make for furniture, and Christmas-light-entangled lobster traps serve as lamps, so the tang of salt air is pretty much all that passes for decoration. At its best, the fare here is equally plain and simple; check the blackboard for specials that present the namesake crustacean in its most naked glory. Otherwise, the menu is heavy — and boy, do we mean heavy — on fried selections, from whole clams and clam strips to scallops and shrimp. You can even get the signature crab cakes boiled in oil if you so desire (as well as plain or slapped burger-like on a bun).

Part of the same family (if not the same species) of humble haunts as the Crab is the Salty Dog Seafood Grill. Physically it’s in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace, but atmospherically it’s not even in the same ballpark. Equal parts hole-in-the-wall, greasy spoon, and cozy nook, it consists of two cramped, low-ceilinged dining rooms and an equally undersize bar linked by a sweltering open kitchen. Yet somehow it’s refreshing, like being below deck; you half-expect the place to rock gently with the waves. Here, too, fried seafood prevails, though the kitchen is also partial to Cajun flavors — shrimp étouffée, oyster po’ boys, and, yes, even blackened catfish are unblinkingly served here. And so what if the menu is stuck in the ’80s? It only adds to the droll long-since-lost-at-sea vibe.

On the other hand, if you love basking in the seafood-shack aura but can’t quite stomach the all-too-genuine grub, you’re better off at Jasper White’s Summer Shack. Whether you trek out to the cavernous Cambridge flagship or mosey over to the Back Bay outlet, you can count on knowingly kitschy environs — think picnic-style seating and jokey signage — filled with rowdy Red Sox fans and families alike, all feasting on the fruits of White’s well-established expertise. Mind you, the food is still plenty down-home, but it’s touched by a seasoned chef’s attention to detail. Fried oysters aren’t merely dredged in flour, they’re crusted with homemade cornbread; the clambake gets a dunking in a vat designed and patented by White himself; the signature pan-roasted lobster is legendary. And for every dear New Englandism — griddled brown bread, cod cakes, corn pudding — there’s a carefully exotic twist: fresh grilled sardines with lemony Middle Eastern charmoula, say, or Brazilian moqueca, a coconut-y seafood stew. The motto here is "Food Is Love," and you’ll be hard-pressed to discount it as a mere figure of speech.

Speaking of ethnic twists, seafood eateries speckle the city’s tightest-knit enclaves. Take the Daily Catch in Little Italy, known to locals as the North End. The name, of course, says it all, but while the fish specials served here are indeed a sight for sore (read: landlocked) eyes — try pan-roasted swordfish with tomatoes, capers, lemon, and spinach on for size — it’s the squid that has been mesmerizing customers for more than 30 years. Inside the tiny storefront that admittedly ain’t much to look at (call it a site for poor eyes), you’ll find them elbow-to-elbow — heck, practically cheek-to-cheek — over calamari galore: stuffed Sicilian-style, marinated in vinaigrette, formed into polpette (meatballs), and, of course, fried. It’s tossed with linguine and good old-fashioned red sauce and served right in the frying pan; and it even winds up in the pasta itself — subtly yet distinctly flavored black-ink noodles with lots of olive oil and garlic (and yet more squid, ground this time, for further flavor). But go easy — you’ve got to waddle out the same way you squeezed in.

Next stop, Chinatown: Jumbo Seafood awaits. Nondescript, décor-wise — unless you count the large painting opposite the entrance, which rather begs for description, since "fluorescent Hong Kong skyline on black velvet" just doesn’t cut it — this Cantonese eatery elicits superlatives for its generally sparkling cuisine. Here, too, fried calamari is a favorite for its intense salt-and-pepper crust; shrimp likewise prepared provides similar joy, provided you’re prepared for it (the heads are still attached). Don’t fret over the live fish in the tanks, either; whether you order your specimen steamed and aromatic or crispy and pungent, your taste buds will convince you it didn’t die in vain. And even if you’re not yet ready for prime-time specialties like jellyfish or abalone, go ahead and take a chance on a curiosity or two (fried shrimp balls, perhaps? Sautéed frog’s legs?). Then sit back and ponder how often the absence of ambient frills suggests the presence of core culinary integrity.