On a Tuesday in late May, the line at The Lobster Roll — the one with the big LUNCH sign you’ve passed eight hundred times — is already four people deep at 11:32 a.m.

The roll is fine. Maybe more than fine. A split-top, butter-toasted, mayo-dressed lobster sandwich, the meat tossed in just enough sauce to glue it to the bun. They’ve done it the same way since 1965.

But the point of the Lobster Roll isn’t the roll. The point is the parking lot — raked oyster shells, sea grass on the edges, the back deck visible from your front seat.

The point is the half hour before lunch, the half hour after. You drove out here. You ate the roll. You’re not in a rush.