The New Year finds a new project in the bowels of Café Nordo. 2010 promises more challenges and hopefully, greater achievements, in the odd fusion of theatrics and food, gastronomy and social commentary, that is the realm of Chef Nordo Lefeisczky.
At Pike Place Market we take the first steps of yet another journey into the absurd world of absurd foods. Plunging into the depths of the sea and seafood we find ourselves standing before hills of ice with fish and crabs of all sizes layered between. We are full and not much looks good. The evening began with a local microbrew, a dozen oysters, an ahi poke, and mussels. These were provided by a local restaurant and were not cooked by us. “Let’s go to a restaurant on the docks and learn about seafood there,” we had said.
So, we decided on something rare and out of our comfort of cooking- the squid. Cheap, slimy, a creature of the depths with a good maritime history, we jumped in with both feet. An abundant little creature, it lives in the NW though not in enough numbers to make an industry. We catch a squid with a jig, and so we go jigging for squid. Those are the terms.
An abundance of squid live off the coast of California. The squid we eat, the smaller ones, feed near the surface as the cold ocean depths rise brining plankton. A good industry has taken hold there and can bring in as many as 70 tons a year, but with ocean temperatures changing (squid like water in the 50’s) the herds have migrated south and the industry had some abysmal years in the 90’s. Recently, California witnessed an invasion of the larger Humboldt squid, who generally prefer deeper, colder waters, and some confrontations with divers have been reported. It’s popularity has risen across the country but mostly as deep fried calamari and sushi and only secondly as an entrée.
A Squid Fact: The pinker the squid and the less distinct the black spots the older the squid is. A fresh squid is more translucent. An old squid tends toward purple with mottled black spots. Ours are old. We didn’t know.
Back at the lab, we open the book and read the instructions.
Grab the body in one hand, grab the head in the other, and pull the squid apart taking the intestines w/ it. Easy. It slips off like a glove. And there is the beak nestled in among the tentacles that must be squeezed off and discarded. It seems to be attached to a long milky white tube. Called a quill, it resembles a segmented and transparent reed that could only live in the ocean.
Hey there’s an ink sac in here. Yep, a pearly, grey spot w/ blue streaks that should be gingerly extracted and placed in a bowl. Our first mess- ink everywhere. It says carefully cut it away, and well we may not have been careful enough. The cutting board is stained black. With enough of these we could turn any course into a black void of deliciousness; that is the goal anyways. The Italians use this to flavor and color pasta. (other squid oil uses of web.) When done correctly this is known as milking the squid.
Remove the tentacles from the head just below the large scary eyes. Don’t cut into the eyes. They squish in an unsightly way. Squid have the largest eyes in the oceans, and so there’s a lot to squish.
We first try the tentacles in a glass jar and pour boiling water over them. They wilt and curl upon themselves, but don’t dance and flail as hoped. The steam smells of the sea. We split the tentacles. Chewy. Squidy. Watery.
We remove the fins and peel off the brownish pink skin to reveal what we know as a calamari tube ready to be cut and breaded if that was our goal. Our first squid has been cleaned. What have we learned today? Squid cleaning.
And now, we have squid on the brain.
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