Kitty Coles eats with her hands…
There are two types of people, one who takes a mussel from the bowl, prises it open, then slurps the mussel from its shell, scooping up juices on the way, like the shell is a spoon. The other uses one empty mussel shell like tweezers, neatly picking out another mussel and eating it. I am the former, the messy one with the splattered shirt, wishing I was the neater one. I have always had intentions to be the put-together, well-dressed, clean diner I admire, but I always drip oil and juices down my top and wipe my hands on my trousers (instead of wearing an apron). My family are the same, hand-eaters and jean-wipers.
In the western world, we have all been taught that eating with your hands is impolite but I think times have changed (or maybe it’s just me!). There’s something about certain foods that makes it imperative to put down your cutlery and eat with your hands – and I don’t mean burgers, pizza, chips and sandwiches. When I think about eating with my hands, I think about a whole crab with lemon mayonnaise, a bowl of mussels, clams, garlic oilcovered prawns, or bread or chips dunked into the last of the sauce. Yes, a prawn is much easier eaten if peeled before it reaches your plate but I’d much rather do it myself. There’s something about breaking or cracking something open with your hands that makes it taste more delicious.
When I think about eating with my hands, I think about a whole crab with lemon mayonaise, a bowl of mussels, clams, or bread or chips dunked into the last of the sauce.
One of my favourite places to eat in Mallorca, where my dad grew up and my parents live, is at a market in Palma. It’s a small corner bar with only eight or nine bar stools. You walk around the market and buy any vegetables, fish or meat you want, then simply hand the bag to the man who cooks it on his plancha. We always buy prawns, clams and a whole fish, and depending on the season, some artichokes which the man slices thinly before frying in olive oil. I love watching him cook the clams by enclosing them in a foil envelope with salt, olive oil and a splash of white wine, then placing them on the plancha to steam. I can see the envelope expand as the clams open inside like popcorn. (I make a mental note to do this when I’m next hosting a barbecue.) When the clams are cooked, he carefully opens the steamy parcel and empties the contents into a bowl with all the juices. At the peak of summer, a tomato is essential – I slice and salt it myself at the bar, then dress with the herb oil provided. There are pots of cutlery on the bar but no one ever seems to use them. I have admittedly eaten better seafood (special mentions to Fish Shop, Dublin, and Beach House, Tramore) but there’s something about the mess and chaos of this place that adds to the flavour – even the glasses smudged with greasy fingerprints and the shells strewn all over the steel countertop add to the allure.
I had a friend visit me here in Dublin and naturally I wanted to show off what London doesn’t have. I took her to Howth one evening, bought a bag of freshly caught Dublin Bay prawns from one of the fishmongers on the pier, then headed down the coast with my camp stove. I am a madwoman when it comes to cooking on the beach – I love it. My dad has been doing it forever and I caught the bug from him. All I need is my pan, gas, oil, salt, garlic, a lemon and a rake of napkins. Within ten minutes, my friend and I were picking the prawns straight from the pan, no plates, no cutlery, perched on the rocks, with Howth Head to ourselves. I of course pretended that this was a weekly affair, and the weather is always this perfect.
Maybe I’m just feeling particularly hungry after writing this, but spaghetti alle vongole has to be the number one slurping dish for summer. It consists of very few things: spaghetti, fresh clams, garlic, parsley, white wine and chilli flakes, and follows the Italian mantra of cooking a few excellent ingredients with respect (which means doing as little as possible, a motto I also live by). Spaghetti alle vongole is just this. It may seem strange that a lot of people’s death row meal is essentially a very plain pasta with hard shells that you have to fish out, but that’s just it, the romance and simplicity of the dish transports you to the sea no matter where you are. The plate of discarded clams and splattered, oily tablecloth, to me (and clearly a lot of others), is perfect.
I hope I’ve left you hungry, with a yearning to go to the fishmonger this weekend and grill locally caught fish, with a foil envelope of clams to pour over. This Saturday or Sunday, embrace reaching and cracking with greasy hands, a messy table. Call it food therapy, if you will – it’s good for the soul. @kittycoles