Читать книгу One More Croissant for the Road - Felicity Cloake - Страница 25

For some reason, this is the kind of vocabulary that runs in one ear and out of the other like the tide – possibly because I’m not quite sure what the name for all those little shells is in English, let alone French. Here’s a crib sheet:

Coquillages – seafood

Moules – mussels

Huîtres – oysters (creuses are rock oysters, plates what we know as natives, the flatter, rounder shells that aficionados believe to boast a sweeter, more complex flavour than cheaper, pointier rocks)

Bulots – whelks

Bigorneaux – winkles

Coques – cockles (amande de mer is a common variety known in English as a dog cockle, though disappointingly it bears little resemblance to either a dog or an almond)

Crevettes – prawns (géante tigrée or gambas suggests the larger variety, crevette rose are average-sized North Atlantic prawns)

Crevette gris – shrimps

Langoustine – Dublin Bay prawn (like a little lobster)

Palourdes – clams

Couteaux – razor clams

Homard – lobster

Crabe tourteau – brown crab (sometimes just listed as tourteau)

Araignée de mer – spider crab

Crabe mou – soft-shell crab

Their custodians loiter in front, waiting for customers. I experience the same mild panic as when confronted by a weighty wine list in a smart restaurant – how on earth is one supposed to choose between baskets of bivalves? I do a slow circuit of the stalls, trying hard, like everyone else, to look like I know what I’m doing, and end up back at Aux Délices de Cancale, run by two brothers, Fabien et Gildas Barbé, attracted not by the subtle curve of the shells on display, or the quality of their barnacle build-up, but by the fact that they have the largest oysters I have ever seen, propped out front to draw in the kind of shallow people impressed by size. People like me, in fact.

I go for half a dozen ordinary number 4s (they’re graded by size, from fat 00s to tiny 6s, and in general, I think smaller shellfish have a better flavour) and one complete beast of a pied de cheval, or horse’s hoof. Come on, it had to be done!

People gather round murmuring in wonderment as the stallholder, who has opened the others as easily as a can of Coke, braces Monsieur Big against the back wall and sets about him with a chisel. ‘How old is he?’ I ask as he hammers away with gritted teeth. ‘Oh, about 15.’ Fifteen! I think. That’s the same age as my oldest nephew! When this animal was born (spawned?) I still naively thought I was going to have a proper job by 30.

Holding his prize carefully lest it spill out, Gildas, victorious over the shellfish at last, explains that the creature weighs about 180g, well over twice as much as the others, and will need to be tackled with a special knife, which he will lend me for the purpose. The assembled crowd goggles as I escort my victim over to the sea wall, where Matt is already sitting with his slightly more modest order. He raises one eyebrow, which in Matt terms is pretty serious stuff, and don’t I know it. I like oysters you can eat in one gulp, that are easy to chew and slip down as smoothly as an ice-cold martini, not ones with the strength to fight back in your digestive system. Nevertheless, I’ve paid to have this chap’s shell wrenched off, and he deserves to be done justice, if you count being eaten alive as justice, though now definitely isn’t the time to go into that particular argument.

I unfold the sturdy knife Gildas has provided and nervously begin to divide the creature into vaguely edible portions, silently begging for forgiveness as I perform this gruesome but necessary live butchery, and then, conscious of the expectant gaze of not just Matt, but several other diners, tip the first chunk into my mouth and begin to chew. It’s better than I expect, more scallopy, but with a definite meaty texture, and a surprisingly harsh, almost tannic finish. Not unpleasant exactly, but for reasons as much psychological as gastronomic, I can’t say I enjoy the remaining four bits. After a bit of a breather (if only I’d known you could buy chilled wine to take away at the shop round the corner), I tackle his smaller, sweeter relatives, who prove far more to my taste, though frankly, once the last shell is tossed onto the beach below, joining the thousands already piled up there, I feel I wouldn’t be sorry not to see an oyster again for a good while.