"Thirteen at a table is unlucky only when the hostess has only twelve chops." - Groucho Marx

The quaint seaside town of Port Blossom was embroiled in a surprisingly heated debate this week, all stemming from a meticulously curated, highly-anticipated annual clambake. The root of the discord? A seating chart, and a profound, if slightly obscure, invocation of Groucho Marx.

It began innocently enough. Mayor Mildred McMillan, a woman known for her rigid adherence to tradition and her legendary blueberry pies, was finalizing arrangements for the town’s Founders’ Day clambake. This year, however, a logistical nightmare presented itself: thirteen members of the esteemed Harrington family, descendants of Port Blossom’s founder, Captain Silas Harrington, had RSVP’d. Traditionally, the Harrington family is seated at a single, prominent table. Usually twelve is the number, mirroring their carefully maintained family portrait displayed in the town hall.

“We’d never had this happen before,” explained Beatrice Albright, the head of the Founders’ Day committee, looking frazzled. “Harrington matriarch, Agnes, specifically requested the ‘Captain’s Table,’ as she calls it. We explained the situation, of course, but she was adamant. ‘Thirteen Harringtons belong at the Captain’s Table,’ she said. It was… unsettling.”

The trouble really began when local historian, Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose knowledge of Port Blossom stretched back to its pre-harbor days, casually dropped a quote during a committee meeting. “You know,” he offered, adjusting his spectacles, “Groucho Marx once said, ‘Thirteen at a table is unlucky only when the hostess has only twelve chops.’"

The room fell silent.

Initially, it was met with polite confusion. Then, old Man Hemlock, a retired fisherman who claimed to have once shared a pipe with Captain Harrington himself, let out a booming laugh. “He’s right, you know! It’s about provision! The lack! Not the number!”

And so, the argument unfolded. Was Groucho’s quip a profound commentary on societal anxieties surrounding scarcity and hosting etiquette? Or was it, as Mayor McMillan insisted, “just plain silliness!”?

The ‘chops’ in question, it was quickly established, were not literal pork chops. In the context of a clambake, ‘chops’ referred to the steamer clams, the centerpiece of the meal. The committee wrestled with the implications. Could they simply…add another clam to each plate? Agnes Harrington quickly vetoed this idea, declaring it would “disrupt the aesthetic balance” of the presentation.

The debate escalated. The Port Blossom Gazette ran a poll, asking residents if adding a thirteenth setting at the Captain’s Table would bring misfortune. Results were almost evenly split. Online, a #ClamConundrum hashtag trended locally. Facebook groups were formed, dedicated to both pro- and anti-thirteenth seating arrangements. One particularly fervent group, “Save the Table! Thirteenth Harrington or Bust!” started a petition advocating for a specially designed, thirteen-sided table.

“It’s ridiculous,” sputtered Doris Plimpton, owner of the town’s only bakery. “All this fuss over a number and a comedian’s offhand remark. Just put up another table, for goodness sake!”

However, others felt the issue ran far deeper. “This isn’t about clams, or tables, or even Groucho Marx,” intoned Reverend Peabody during Sunday service. “This is about respect for tradition, and honoring our ancestors. Captain Harrington wouldn’t want us catering to superstition!”

In a dramatic turn of events, the solution came not from the town council, but from young Timothy Harrington, the youngest member of the family, and a known connoisseur of both clam bakes and classic comedy. He suggested, with a shrug, that they simply furnish the table with thirteen impeccably sculpted butter sculptures, each resembling a miniature Captain Harrington.

“If the problem is a lack of ‘chops,’ metaphorical or otherwise,” he explained, “surely an abundance of Captains will suffice?”

The proposal was met with stunned silence, followed by raucous applause. Mayor McMillan, visibly relieved, quickly approved the plan. Beatrice Albright, already directing the carving of the butter statues, breathed a sigh of relief.

The Founders’ Day clambake went off without a hitch, and the thirteen Harrington family members dined happily at the Captain’s Table, surrounded by their buttery doppelgangers. The incident, while initially causing chaos, has now become a beloved anecdote in Port Blossom’s history, a testament to the enduring power of a well-placed quote and a town’s willingness to embrace the absurd. And, perhaps, a reminder that sometimes, all it takes to avert disaster is a little bit of Groucho.