Cheeky London Seafood Trip

I had a week-long business trip to London recently.  I love London and love to travel, but doing so for work is a bit conflicting.  Beholden to meetings, conferences, presentations, and networking, there's little opportunity for the actual joys of travel.  No time for museums, tours, landmarks, shopping, etc.  However, my favorite part of traveling is always the local dining scene.  And luckily, the one common denominator between business and personal travel is that you've still got to eat.  So, with a bit of strategic planning, I double booked a corporate and culinary trip.  Seamless access to London's public transit, after all, is called an Oyster Card.  How could I resist?

Various "Puddings"

Now, British food doesn't have the best reputation.  Bland, boiled meats and overcooked vegetables immediately come to mind.  Various mashes and mushes.  Almost everything is either fried or pied.  And what exactly is pudding in the UK, by the way?  Figgy pudding.  Yorkshire pudding.  Black pudding.  Hasty Pudding.  It's seemingly anything but what we, in the States, know as pudding.  That's custard.  I like the definition Ben Ebbrell shared on the A Hot Dog is a Sandwich podcast.  In short, pudding is vibes.  Anything that's warm, comforting, familiar, maybe even endearing or celebratory.  That's pudding. #NoCosbyJokes

Contrary to the hackneyed clichés, London is one of the best food cities in the world.  Having visited quite a few times, I think there are a couple of reasons behind this.  One, British food isn't actually that bad.  Beef wellington, the full English breakfast, a classic Sunday roast, and shepherd's pie are globally recognized and celebrated.  Chefs like Marco Pierre White, Heston Blumenthal, and Fergus Henderson have been showcasing British dishes and ingredients for over three decades, receiving some of the highest culinary accolades possible.  British food can be quite good, when done right.

Second, and seemingly in contradiction to the first point, the British-food-is-bad stereotype does have some merit.  I've found British people are comfortable acknowledging that.  There are many bland pasties, watery porridges, and low-quality pies to be had.  However, with that, there isn't a robust superiority complex around British food that you see in other European countries.  British people are much more welcoming of foreign cuisines.  Pair that with London being one of the most diverse cities in the world and you've got a recipe for a true culinary capital.  Thai, Italian, Lebanese, Jamaican, Senegalese, Brazilian, Japanese.  All have incredible gastronomic representations in the city.  Hell, many even say that chicken tikka masala is the national dish of the United Kingdom.

Lastly, as you likely know, the United Kingdom is an island nation.  However, it paradoxically does not have as rich a seafood culture as other similarly situated coastal countries.  Sure, we all know fish & chips.  Maybe you're familiar with fish pie or even kippers.  But beyond that, there isn't much globally recognized.  I truly don't mean to offend, and there is a lot of great seafood in the UK.  Things are definitely changing, too, it just doesn't compare to the likes of Portugal, Japan, or Peru, though.  I'm going to save the whole deep dive on this for another, broader trip, doing the country proper justice.  Trust me, nothing would please me more than drafting 4,000 words on the English Reformation's or Industrial Revolution's impact on UK seafood consumption while digging into stargazy pie and Whistable oysters.  But, I'll spare you...for now.  This post is already long enough.  If you're interested, though, here are a few quick resources. 

So, with all this in mind, limited time due to work commitments, and a sea-to-table focus, I set out on my cheeky London seafood trip.  Oh, and traveling for work isn't all bad.  I always had that company AmEx on hand 😜. 

The Fryer's Delight

First up had to be fish & chips.  Easily recognized as the quintessential British dish, fish & chips actually originated elsewhere.  The practice of frying fish came from the Jewish diaspora fleeing the Inquisition in 16th century Spain and Portugal, and chips (fried potatoes) were an import from 17th century Belgium.  The two came together and took off in the 19th century, leading to over 10,000 fish & chip shops in the UK today.  That's seven chippies for every one McDonald's operating in the Isles, and roughly 500 of those are in Greater London alone.

This was daunting, to say the least.  How could I possibly choose just one?  The answer actually ended up being simple: beef fat.  In the 19th and early 20th century, the most common frying medium in the UK was beef tallow (known as beef drippings).  It was a cheap, readily available byproduct from cattle farms.  Refined oils were imported and expensive.  However, during WWII, animal fats started to be rationed for military use.  At the same time, early globalization made processed oils like palm and soy cheaper and more widely available to supplement the rationing.  Then, with emerging health concerns around cholesterol and animal fats in the 1960s and 1970s, processed vegetable oils quickly became the fish & chip frying standard, as it is today.  The irony is that beef tallow is making a comeback globally since seed oils are now the villains en vogue.  Fearmongering seems to be the only consistent trend across ever-changing dietary guidance.  Again, stay hydrated, eat more fiber, and all things in moderation.  You'll be fine. 

Either way, this made my London chippy choice quite easy.  I wanted the OG beef fat fish & chips, and only a handful of London establishments still fry in tallow.  There were a few cutty spots that caught my research eye, but they were all too far from Central London with my limited time.  That left me with one choice: The Fryer's Delight in Holborn.   

The Fryer's Delight opened in the 1960s, and it seems nothing has changed since.  Laminate booth seating, checkered-tile flooring, wood-paneled walls.  The curt, almost short-tempered service matched the decor.  It's like stepping into a Guy Ritchie film where some bad boy yardies or street geezers could pop-in at any moment.  And while largely a tourist destination nowadays, the ownership recognizes this charm and promotes it.  Nothing quite like an animated London gangster using Cockney slang to pitch your product.  I ordered the haddock and chips with a side of curry sauce.  I wish we'd normalize the side of "curry sauce" in the States a bit more.  It's delightful with all things fried.  Either way, the fish & chips were piping hot, crispy, and had a subtle yet notable beefy flavor.  As with many British classics, they did require ample amounts of salt and vinegar, or a dip in the curry sauce, to really enhance the flavor.  I think that's just standard operating protocol in the UK - seasoning is at your discretion.  All in all, solid fish & chips and a fun experience I'd recommend.   

M. Manze: Noted Eel & Pie House 

While much less known than fish & chips, there's another British classic that could arguably be the UK's national dish, or at least London's - pie & mash.  In the 19th century, London saw rapid industrialization.  Urban populations boomed and factory workers needed quick, filling, and affordable meals, a similar situation to the rise of Italian subs on America's East coast.  In London, that was beef pies and eels with mashed potatoes.  Cheap beef trimmings were widely available, same as beef tallow.  Eels were also cheap and widely available, being one of the few remaining species that could survive in an increasingly polluted River Thames.  I love that parallel of resilience: a tough, adaptable fish feeding tough, adaptable people.  Anyways, pie those proteins up, add some rib-sticking mashed potatoes, and you've got a hefty, economical meal.

Just like British chippies, pie houses are an institution unto themselves.  Full of tightly packed wooden booths and marble tabletops, many of the remaining pie shops are multigenerational spaces harkening back to a working-class Edwardian London.  Their popularity has declined as of late, so much that there are contemporary movements to try and save the pie & mash shops.  They're truly a snapshot of time, culture, and identity, so I had to try at least one.  Unfortunately, I did see the remnants of recently closed ones in my research.  There are still a few OGs hanging around, though. 

For my pie & mash experience, how could I not go to the oldest continually operating one in town?  Just south of the Thames and Tower Bridge, the M.Manze location has been a pie shop since 1892 and under the same business name since 1902.  It has all the aforementioned charm, and seems to be successfully threading the needle of tourist destination while locally approved.  There was a lengthy line out the door when I arrived on a late Sunday afternoon, along with a raucous birthday party inside.   

 Honestly, the whole scene was a bit intimidating.  Fast paced queues, shorthand slang, staff hastily slapping mash onto plates and practically throwing them to guests.  There's even a chalkboard at the shop's entrance guiding first-timers on etiquette.  "Use a spoon and fork (no knives)."  "Turn over the pie before eating."  But for a clear novice like myself, the staff couldn't have been kinder.  One pie, one mash, stewed eels, and lots of parsley sauce, a.k.a. liquor.  A byproduct of stewing or jellying eels is a flavorful, naturally thickened stock.  Historically, this was repurposed with some parsley and seasoning into a sauce to go with the pie & mash.  Waste not, want not, right?  Nowadays, most liquors are made with vegetable stock.  M.Manze keeps their liquor recipe under lock and key.  Not even the service staff know all the ingredients.  However, there was a notable fish stock undertone to it. 

As for the pie, mash, & stewed eels, true to British style, they all required ample amounts of salt and chili vinegar.  The chalkboard guide even said to use "lots of vinegar."  The liquor added a bit of flavor, but overall it was rather bland and single note.  The texture on the eels was spot on, at least.  And while I can't say the meal was great, the whole experience certainly was.  Few things are as fiercely tied to identity as food, and I certainly felt that "East End born, East End bred" energy at M.Manze.  A kind but scrutinizing local even handed me a bottle of chili vinegar as I sat down at my table, ensuring I followed proper protocol.  Check one out if you're in London, especially since they're a dying breed. 

J Sheekey 

In stark contrast to the chippy and pie shop atmospheres, London's got quite a few fine-dining seafood restaurants with rich histories.  Located throughout Central London's posh West End, Scott's, Wiltons, and Bentley's are all white table cloth establishments that have been catering to the ritzy retail and theater crowds of the neighborhood for at least a century, if not longer.  Wiltons' origins go all the way back to oyster vending in the 1740s.  I'd been to Scott's and Bentley's before, and they do evoke those "Rule Britannia," old chap, Alfred's-pulling-the-car-around vibes.  With mostly dishes like sole meunière, lobster thermidor, and mixed seafood platters, I hadn't targeted these restaurants on my cheeky seafood trip.  However, there's a British classic that piqued my interest, and one of these places reportedly has the best in the city.

Located in Covent Garden only steps away from London's Theatreland, J Sheekey started out as an oyster vendor back in 1896.  Once a brick and mortar in the early 20th century, it quickly became a popular seafood destination frequented by famous actors and socialites.  Full of rich mahogony and gilded-frame artwork, the restaurant screams blue blood old money.  With that, I of course had to get a few oysters.  They were solid.  It's always nice to taste native European oysters.  However, it was the humblest of dishes that brought me there: fish pie.  

I won't lie - conceptually, I've never really been drawn to fish pie.  I appreciate the medieval history and origins as a peasant dish.  However, a mix of seafood scraps in a cream sauce with mashed potatoes never sounded appetizing to me.  It's basically just shepherd's pie with fish instead of meat.  But I was all in on the British classics, so I had to try it.  It didn't hurt that Notorious Foodie posted his version of fish pie the exact week I was in London, too.  As for J Sheekey's version, I was genuinely stunned.  Lusciously smooth mashed potatoes topped with a crispy parmesan and breadcrumb crust, all of which gave way for a deep, savory fish chowder.  It had just the right amount of citrus and alliums to balance the creamy sauce, fatty salmon, and smoked haddock.  I'm surprised it's not called a fish pudding, because this dish is the embodiment of warmth, comfort, tradition, and celebration all in one.  Next time you're in London, definitely pop on your Hackett tweed with some Edward Green Oxfords and grab a fish pie at J Sheekey.   
     

Ragam - Fitzrovia

I know nothing about Indian cuisine.  Actually, that's not true.  I know just enough to be embarrassed by my classic white boy order of shrimp tikka masala and garlic naan whenever my family and I go to an Indian restaurant.  There are two other things I know.  First, Indian food is incredibly diverse and varies immensely by region.  It makes sense.  We're just a population of 300 million in the States and can't agree on what BBQ is.  How does that play out when it's over 1.4 billion?  And much like Mexican and Chinese, Indian cuisine tends to all get lumped together in the States.  That pan-Indian, especially in the suburbs, is most often Punjabi-heavy with butter chickens and saag paneers.  You'll see some Gujarati dhoklas or Udupi dosas here and there, but Indian food in the US is mostly in the Northern style. 

The second thing I know, and this will likely offend in more ways than one, is that Indian food in the UK is better than the US.  Sorry, it's just what I've observed over several trips to London and dining out in the States.  Given the long and complicated history between Britain and India, this too makes a lot of sense.  No other culture has adopted Indian cuisine as its own quite as much as the British.  Perhaps appropriated is more accurate, as some even say London has better Indian food than Delhi.  I certainly can't speak to that.  However, with all this in mind, I knew I was going to get some quality Keralan seafood on my trip to London.  Udaya Kerala Restaurant in East Ham and Radha Krishna Bhavan in Tooting topped the charts in my research.  However, with my time constraints challenge, an hour long tube ride each way simply wasn't in the cards. 
 

Luckily, Radha Krishna Bhavan's got a sister establishment, Ragam Fitzrovia, that was only minutes away by foot from my hotel in Marylebone.  Right around the corner from the University of Westminster, it sits in a neighborhood with trendy boba cafes and art galleries.  However, Ragam has been a South Indian stalwart in the community for over 30 years, and the interior reflects that.  Modest and functional but with a slightly coastal feel in the form of tropical colors and rattan walls.  The menu covers the gamut, catering to the non-Indian patrons, but does have a Keralan focus.  Their paratha even says "our version of naan" on the menu. 

True to my white boy form, I had to order the grilled king prawns and paratha.  Both were delightful, especially the paratha.  It's similar to naan as it's a flatbread, but is actually a dough laminated with ghee and griddled.  This gives it a flaky, crispy exterior with a soft, chewy interior.  My focus, though, was the Malabar fish curry, a dish endemic to Kerala.  Thinner than Northern Indian curries, it's made with a base of coconut milk, smoked tamarind, ginger, garlic, green chilies, and plenty of Subcontinent spices.  It's a fragrant, tangy, spicy, and slightly sweet flavor all in one.  Ragam uses kingfish, a member of the mackerel family, as the primary protein.  Only a firm and oily fish could stand up to such complex flavors, and Ragam nailed that.  The rich, steaky kingfish had the perfect bite, especially when scooped up with the paratha and ample curry.  My only regret was that I didn't try more fish curries around town.

All in all, my cheeky London seafood trip was incredible.  Lots of rich history, culture, and tradition while tasting some classic dishes and dispelling stereotypes about London cuisine.  And, I need to be transparent here - I managed to pack in quite a bit more while in Central London.  Pan-seared red gurnard at Roe, street scallops at the Marylebone Farmers Market, steak & oyster pie at The Guinea Grill.  I mean, how could your boy pass up an anchovy eclair from Lilibet's.  Plenty more I could have highlighted.  Don't worry, though, a proper UK seafood dive is on the horizon.

Cheers,

The SF Oyster Nerd  

   

Low Tide with The Sea Forager

I talk a decent amount of shit.  There's a fine line between healthy skepticism and straight up hating, and I frequently walk it.  Some of my more recent posts have encouraged civil discourse and respectful discussions rather than passing judgment and these "I'm right - you're wrong" proclamations.  I do believe and stand by that.  We'd all be better off with candid yet considerate conversation.  But still, I talk shit, throw shade, sip water (any Beanie Sigel fans?).  My friend even recently told me I "bleed cynicism."  We're all hypocrites from time to time, or at least I certainly am.

It is pretty easy to sit back and be a critic.  There are a number of sayings out there in one form or another.  "Any fool can criticize, and most fools do" or "be a creator, not critic."  And "Those who can, do.  Those who can't, criticize....or teach gym."  Something like that.  Sorry, Mrs. Horsey.  High school gym class was the absolute best.  Just jokes.  But it's good to always be aware of this.  I too often find myself critiquing meals, movies, football matches, and so on.  And nobody wants to be that guy, right?  The Skip Baylesses and Colin Cowherds of the world are about as helpful as social distancing in a submarine.  I try to counterbalance my petty caviling by getting out of my comfort zone and doing things that are new, unfamiliar, or even that I'm genuinely bad at.  A nice hearty dose of humility does everyone some good.  

So, back in the fall of 2019, pre-apocalypse 2020, some friends and I decided we'd try "sea foraging," something none of us were particularly familiar or comfortable with.  There were decades of culinary, restaurant, and even fishing experience between us, but nobody could poke-pole for a sculpin or confidently pick out the edible seaweeds of the coastline.  I'd always thought I had a decent grasp on many things seafood.  I've shucked hundreds of thousands of oysters and clams, butchered more varieties of fish than I can remember, and even regularly messed around with exotics like percebes or making my own bottarga.  But ask me to go and pull a razor clam from the sand a short 25 minute drive from my house, I'd embarrassingly have little to no success.

Half Moon Bay at low tide 

While we were definitely out of our comfort zone in attempting this, we weren't stupid enough (at least anymore) to dive into it blindly.  Picking up stuff off the beach and eating it, after all, isn't like casually trying your hand at water colors or giving tennis a go.  Wrong kelp, wrong time, wrong clam, wrong tide - any one can quickly equal a trip to right the emergency room.  We were fortunate enough to enlist a pro's help.

Enter Kirk Lombard, a.k.a. the Sea Forager.  He's a Bay Area icon who I've been following for a bit now.  His biography on the website summarizes it better than I can, but he's basically all things NorCal fisheries.  Education, sustainability, research, commerce, preservation, recreation, and more.  If it's akin to the ocean, it's akin to Kirk.  He's got an informative and wit-filled book, provides guided classes, and even offers a weekly sea-to-table delivery service for at home cooks.  So, on a brisk but sunny day in November, we all met up in Half Moon Bay during a mega low tide in search of all the forageable, scrumptious sea creatures it had to offer.   

Fried whole smelt, or "fries with eyes," at
Hog Island in San Francisco's Ferry Building

As herring season was near, we started off with a tutorial in cast netting.  Not that herring were in Half Moon Bay, but the goal was to teach us as many sea foraging techniques as we could cram into one day.  Pretty straight forward in theory, but rather difficult to execute.  It's simply a circular net with weights on the edge that's attached to a handline.  You throw it out into the water, the weights drop, and with a quick pull of the line, anything beneath the net is caught.  The hard part is actually getting the net to spread out on the throw.  Takes a lot of practice, but it's great for catching large hauls (I've been told) of surf smelt.  It's also impressive as a fishing method that dates back millennia and is still employed daily from San Francisco to Shanghai and everywhere in between. Careful, though, as regulations vary by area and season.  Cast netting is something I'm nowhere even close to proficient at, but I'm keen to be as freshly caught fries with eyes are damn delicious.

After about twenty minutes of what can be best described as cast net fails by all of us, save Kirk, we were on to the main task at hand: clammin' - horseneck clammin' specifically.  I wasn't very familiar with horseneck clams until I heard we'd be targeting them.  They're a gaper clam and basically like a mini geoduck (pronounced gooey-duck).  If you've had mirugai sushi, that's geoduck.  It's also the comedically massive and phallic clam that's always elicited wry smiles and audible chuckles at every restaurant I've ever worked.  Yes, people do call it the penis clam and every other clever variation you can think of.  Clamming in general is just too easy for sexual innuendo and double entendre. I'll do my best to refrain. 

  

Half Moon Bay Horseneck Clam

   Horseneck clam harvesting on the Pacific coast goes back centuries with archaeological excavations unearthing shells at several coastal sites.  Native Americans would use both the meat as food and the shells for tools or jewelry.  How they did this without modern day means is beyond me as digging for these clams is a fairly tall order.  It starts pretty leisurely with a simple stroll down the beach at low tide.  You're looking for small, but not too small (quarter-sized or so) holes in the sand.  After spotting one, stomp a few times in close proximity.  If a spout of water squirts out, it just may be a clam.  This spout is from the clam being startled, sharply retracting it's siphon, and expelling the water it held.  It can be tricky as many of the holes are misleading and often just ghost shrimp, crabs, or other aquatic critters.  You want to be as close to positive as possible it's a clam, too, cause the tall order I mentioned starts here.

Digging up our first clam

Unlike the casual clamming of the East coast I was familiar with, digging for horseneck clams is an arduous endeavor as they can be buried deep, up to three or four feet sometimes.  Just to procure a single clam requires jamming a 3' x 18" PVC tube several feet into the ground, shoveling out heaps of wet, heavy sand, and siphoning out seawater that's constantly rushing in to fill the hole.  Then, you've got to get face down in the muck, probing around with a small trowel to locate the clam.  And once you've found it, you have to gingerly extract it with a gentle touch as to not crush the shell or tear the siphon.  As I said, a tall order.  Oh, and I forgot to mention, on that leisurely stroll down the beach, you're lugging around all this equipment the whole time. 

However, I must admit the labor is worth it.  Surfacing with that first gaper clam after a thirty minute physically draining battle was quite the reward.  "No pain, no gain."  Well, Kirk's pain and our gain.  I won't lie.  He did most of the work while the rest of us, let's say, supervised.  We ended up with two medium sized clams and discovered all sorts of interesting sea life along the way, ranging from adorable to appalling.  Innkeeper worms, sea lettuce, purple urchin, Turkish washcloth.  The most thrilling and incredibly rare find, though, was the Lewis's moon snail.

Half Moon Bay Moon Snail 

 You could immediately tell we'd found something special with Kirk's giddy, kid-on-Christmas-morning reaction.  First, they're massive.  About the size of a large dinner plate with a bulky weight to match.   Second, the expression "happy as a clam" wouldn't exist if moon snail predatory behavior were more commonly known.  The full phrase is "happy as a clam at high tide," presuming a clam would be happy as people can only dig them at low tide.  Safe equals happy.  However, moon snails go around chomping down clams all day every day.  As Kirk says, "they're the lions of mudflats" and "if clams dream, moon snails are their stuff of nightmares."  They are edible, but apparently require a jackhammer to tenderize and make palatable.  The size is also misleading as it's mostly water weight and they don't yield much meat.  Lastly, as they prey on other mollusks, they're more susceptible to dangerous toxins through biogmagnification.  Given the rarity, esteem, and culinary considerations, we decided to place this guy back in the sand, much to the dismay of many a clam I'm sure. 

For the last leg of our tour, we headed outside the Half Moon Bay jetty onto the rocks of Maverick's Beach.  With the mega low tide, there were scores of people scooping up bag limits (and probably beyond) of whatever they could find, mainly mussels.  Kirk had a few choice words on preservation, sustainability, and responsible harvests, given what we were witnessing.  It's certainly an important topic and warrants further discussion, but that's a whole separate post.  The main point: please forage responsibly, keeping in mind we want these valuable sea resources to stay around for generations to come.  That being said, grab all the purple sea urchin you can.  Climate change, warmer waters, disappearing predators and other factors have created a breeding boom for these urchin and they're laying waste to many California coastal ecosystems.  Perhaps a marketing catchphrase for purple sea urchin hunting is needed, like "stay calm and eat uni" or "munch an urchin just for the halibut."  

Poke-poling for pricklebacks

Anyway, we were there to focus on a method and a fish: poke-poling and monkeyface eel.  Poke-poling is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.   Just like cast netting is casting a net, poke-poling is poking a pole, more specifically into tidal pools.  It consists of a long rod (sturdy fishing rod, bamboo, or even a broomstick would do), a flexible but strong wire tied to it (coat hanger seems to be standard), and a few inches of fishing line with a hook at the end.  Squid, surf clam, mussels, or any other manner of bait is placed on the hook and poked around into the holes and crevices in the rocks, basically anywhere that looks like an eel would comfortably call home.  The fish bites, the hook is set, and out comes the catch.  It's a great way to nab monkeyface eels and even a clunker cabezon occasionally.   

The monkeyface eel, or monkeyface prickleback, can be found all over coastal California and Oregon in abundance.  There's no size limit on a keeper, and they have same bag limit as rockfish at ten a day.  That's a lot of monkeyface meat in twenty four hours.  But as they're not exactly blessed with the best looks or reputation, they haven't been the focus of many commercial fisheries and are sparsely prized by local anglers.  As of late, however, more and more restaurants in the Bay Area have begun to recognize their value as a sustainable seafood.  The most curious thing is that monkeyface eels are omnivorous, eating mostly crustaceans and plankton while young and switching to primarily seaweeds and algae as adults, as if to grow some sort of ethical culinary conscience.  Lucky for us, though, the adults still can't resist a bit of squid being dangled right in front of them.  

Larger of the two Monkeyface Eels we kept

We each tried, but Kirk did most of the poke-poling and ended up bagging two respectably sized eels while losing a few and releasing some of the smaller ones.  They're slippery little buggers, don't always take the full bait, and can seemingly loose the hook with ease.  You basically have to pop them out of their holes and grab them by hand before they flop back into the water.  Or, if you're wise, just have a small mesh landing net on hand.  The amazement of onlooking mussel harvesters was probably the funniest bit of the whole poke-poling tutorial.  That, or getting to say "poke-poling" over and over again.  Seeing Kirk pull out eel after eel like reverse whack-a-mole drew quite the crowd.  The crowd's amazement then soon shifted to mild alarm as they realized such gnarly creatures had been lurking mere inches from their bare toes as they navigated the tide pools.  Some in the crowd even recognized Kirk, as we overheard "dude, that's the Sea Forager" a few times.  Must be cool to be a poke-poling celebrity. 

With a day's worth of invaluable mudflat lessons done and a modest but healthy haul of pricklebacks and clams in hand, we said our thanks to Kirk for the great experience and headed back to my buddy's house to cook our spoils.  But how was the big question.

Trudging back through the low tide beds of seaweed

Preparing a horseneck clam isn't like your standard littleneck or manila.  You can't just drop them in a pot and cook (that would be one awfully big steamer).  They require some butchering and cleaning.  This video by another Bay Area foraging legend, Hank Shaw, is one of the best instructional demonstrations I've seen.  First, just like oyster liquor, all that valuable juice that pours out of the clam while shucking is cooking liquid gold.  Be sure to save as much as you can.  Next, in breaking down the clam, most of the meat is in the siphon, which needs to be blanched, skinned, split, and rinsed of sand and particulate.  It can either be tenderized and used in chowders, stews, sauces, etc. or thinly sliced and eaten raw.  The body of the clam has to be thoroughly cleaned of its guts, basically any of the goopy dark stuff.  After this, you're left with a tasty foot, belly, and adductors.  These parts can be chowdered, but are best prepared seasoned and fried.  Also, aquacultured geoduck can fetch upwards of $30 dollars a pound commercially, often double or even triple that in parts of Asia.  To me, these gaper clams were just smaller versions of geoduck, so keep that in mind while savoring every last bit. 

Half Moon Bay Sea Lettuce

The monkeyface eel was just as, well, interesting.  I'll try to phrase this as delicately as possible.  After the eels had been dispatched, their resilient nervous systems pressed on.  While rinsing them off in the sink to prep, one even to managed wriggle its way down into the sink's drain, requiring pliers to remove.  No joke.  Like I said, they're slippery little guys.  And not to be crass, but all food comes from living things that shuffle their mortal coils to become nourishment for us.  I don't want to delve into the whole sentience and physical pain debate of our dietary choices, but I do believe the closer we are to our food, in all aspects, the better.  Distancing ourselves is what created the factory-farmed horrors of plastic-wrapped boneless, skinless chicken breasts and ecosystem devastating salmon steaks.  "Out of sight out of mind" shouldn't apply to our food.  If you want to eat the sausage, you should be comfortable seeing how it's made.  Humane is respecting all living things while understanding some must pass on for us to eat, from peas to pigs and everything in between.  

Stepping off my soap box and getting back to the point, we now had four nice monkeyface eel loins and two cleaned and prepped horseneck clams.  I'll be honest, having spent hours trudging around the beach, digging for clams, lugging equipment, and scaling tidal rocks, we were flat out exhausted.  And hungry.  Sea foraging works up an appetite.  There was no way in hell we were expending more time and energy to make a hearty seafood stew or fancy sauces to go with pan roasted fish.  We wanted instant gratification, so out came the deep fryer.  The clam bellies and eel fillets were lightly seasoned and in they went.  No pomp.  No circumstance.  No ceremony.  Just salt, citrus, and hot oil.  We breaded some too, just for contrast.  Surprisingly, the naked fry versions won out.  Either way, clam bellies are always delicious deep fried.  The eel was also great and reminded me a lot of catfish, both in taste and texture.  I've heard it criticized for being too muddy or astringent tasting.  I found it rather pleasant and could see it cooked or prepared in any number of ways, just like any other firm, white fish.  The skin crisped up nicely too when fried and would make some delectable chips.  As for the clam siphon, sashimi style was definitely the way to go.  Thinly sliced on the bias and dipped in a soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, and jalapeno mixture made for quite the treat.  It was very toothsome, but incredibly sweet, briny and almost nutty in flavor.  Clamming and poke-poling might just become a regular hobby of mine as the bounty was so delightful. 

          

Filleting the Monkeyface Eel

Deep fried Monkeyface Eel

Our entire sea foraging day was incredible.  There were so many nuances and intricacies of the mudflats I'd never imagined, and still so much to learn.  From cast net fails and poke-poling misses to the deep fried delicacies, it was truly a new and somewhat intimidating, but eye-opening and amazing experience.  Hopefully you too, despite all the recent craziness, have the chance to try out something a bit different, new, or even scary.  Or at least, in the words of Kendrick Lamar, you can sit down, be humble....and eat some monkeyface eel. 

Special thanks to my buddies Dana for the photography and Rizzi for the cooking.

Cheers,

The SF Oyster Nerd