Back in the summers of the sixties, my family lived in an old gambling casino in Montauk, Long Island.
Although I have never lived out of sight of an ocean except in England (where the water seems only an hour away from anywhere), I have never been so deluged with fish and shellfish as there. Like the perfection of pink swordfish right off the boats in at the town dock and then grilled over charcoal and fresh rosemary branches that night.
But there are many memories:
The black risotto of baby cuttlefish at Harry’s Bar in Venice.
After paying that bill, all I had left was memories.
More of them are:
The tiny tidepool of crabs deep-fried and mounted on a platter, eaten whole at an unpretentious dockside restaurant south of Genoa.
Brittany mussels steamed with shallots, white wine, and cream.
So mei 蘇眉, a fish (Humphead or Napoleon wrasse) which I served simply poached at a press lunch at Hong Kong’s Regent Hotel (I was about to re-open The Peak Café there). It costs about $400 a pound and worth every dollar. Its taste and texture are like a cross between turbot and foie gras.
Sitting at table on Hog Island in Maine, the cold fog rolling in, a huge fire going, as I tear apart big lobsters and dunk the chunks of claw meat in hot butter.
A big bowl of Oregon razor clams in steaming, buttery broth.
Long Island littleneck clams right out of the water, eaten by the dozens with a squeeze of lemon.
Felix’s oyster bar in New Orleans between hangovers, paced by understanding shuckers so the numbers of oysters eaten doesn’t rise too alarmingly.
Fresh herrings from the Irish Sea, fat with roe, so fresh they look like silver jewelry, marinated, grilled, or fried in cornmeal.
Manx (Irish Channel) kippers loaded with English butter and broiled until the perfumes make one crazy to launch into their fat bodies.
Soft-shelled crab Po’ Boys in the French Quarter on toasted and buttered bread and drowning in home-made remoulade sauce.
Bouillabaisse and the great fish soups.
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