Lobster deserves its own love sonnet, a poetic ode to the crusty delicacy wrapped in red. Munch can still remember falling in love: summer of 2003. Munch flew into Boston, drove an hour north into Maine and, after winding into a salty seaport town, met up with a college buddy whose parents owned both a lobster wholesaling business and an abutting shanty restaurant. The woman behind the counter -- friend-of-Munch's mom -- reached her hands into a treasure chest of fresh lobster meat and loaded our plates with lobster rolls.

A fixation followed -- a pricey one, sure, and at times, a heartbreaking one. Rarely could imitations compare. Munch tried lobster at a Massachusetts fast-food joint and a high-end Rhode Island beach club. In Pittsburgh -- where, sadly, good lobster can be found about as easily as good pro baseball -- Munch scoured the restaurant scene for the beloved crustacean, especially in its finger-food sandwich form. A Google search for lobster rolls in town yielded, mostly, a field of Web sites that juxtaposed mentions of the city and the food only by coincidence. (Google, to its credit, did find, oh, about 1,000 such coincidences.)

But then, Munch stumbled into a more helpful coincidence. After trying -- and thoroughly enjoying -- the butter-heavy lobster roll at Roland's in the Strip, Munch heard from a relative about one other place in town that took a stab at the dish, one that, if done right, could easily meet the Last Meal/Death Row standard.

"Eleven," the relative told Munch. "But they only serve it for lunch."

So Munch, like that, reserved a table. Lobster sandwich aside, Eleven already owned a reputation as one of Pittsburgh's classiest restaurants. In fact, adding a lobster roll to Eleven's dinner menu -- a ritzy lineup of seafood and steak, most above $30 -- would almost insult the technical difficulty of the other entrees.

Still, a sandwich inherently delivers its own challenge: How does one create excellence from such an ordinary formula? Munch desperately wished to find out.

Eleven whispers grandiosity from the moment one enters. The restaurant's high ceilings and soft colors allow it the sanctified ambience of a cathedral. And that's before you glance, eyes bulging, at the lunch-time plates others are digging into ... an Eleven burger ($11), stuffed with a thick block of angus beef... a pulled pork sandwich ($9), nestled next to onion rings... an appetizer crab cake order ($12), presented on a white plate like a corsage on a prom dress.

Munch, of course, looked at the menu only as a courtesy. There it was, described in olde-style lettering -- "Lobster Salad Sandwich | $16" -- which, per description, was topped with bacon, served on a brioche roll and served alongside avocado fries. Hmm, Munch didn't remember that part from the wholesale Maine shack.

Within 15 minutes of ordering, the waitress appeared from the kitchen. By Munch's facial expression -- sorry, the paper bag was in the laundry -- she must have thought she carried a winning lottery ticket. The sandwich was filled high, placed in the corner of a square plate. The pieces of lobster meat were succulent and fresh, served in smaller pieces than the Roland's version but helped by a nicer blend of diced celery and onion.

The taste buds ran into overdrive with happiness. The two strips of bacon atop the sandwich provided a little zing, but did not dominate the taste. Munch, too, appreciated the sandwich's sturdy architecture. Often, such mayonnaise-based salad sandwiches tend to become sloppy, with run-off dripping onto the plate. Not this time.

This was the kind of sandwich Jacqueline Onassis would have served at a backyard cookout. Munch left satisfied, knowing that Pittsburgh could claim at least one place that served a fine lobster roll. Unlike the one in Maine, Eleven's didn't come in a hot dog bun, it didn't come with a heavy-sitting smear of butter and it didn't come with a stack of paper napkins. Hey, who said Pittsburgh lacked style?

Eleven is at 1150 Smallman St., Strip District. Call 412-201-5656.