The Squid Trials

I really want to like squid. I'll order calamari at restaurants where I know it to be an unlikely success. I'm not sure why I do it, considering that I often find myself with a plate of rubber, coated in bread crumbs and deep fried. Perhaps I do it for the adventure. Who knows, I could stumble upon that one sublime squid dish that would fit my ambivalent fascination with these spidery little creatures to my fantasies of slightly challenging culinary treats. An appetizer of grilled squid with spinach I recently enjoyed at a Pittsburgh restuarant came close.

Or perhaps I do it to confront sub-conscious anxieties. I'm a bit squeamish about sea creatures that seem, in any way, like jelly fish. Several years ago, I made an unfortunate dive into a wave harboring a few thin strands from the body of a Portugese Man of War, and, let me tell you, this creature has earned its name. I emerged from the water with a leg that looked like it had been pitted with tiny shrapnel. I would like to say that I proved a strong and stoic warrior against this jelly-bodied enemy, but I wailed and sniveled all the way to the emergency room until a kind nurse injected a stiff cocktail of steroids and pain killers into my veins.

Now, I know, squid are not Men of War. But you've seen 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You've read those news stories that crop up every now and then about sightings of giant squid in the far Pacific. The ocean depths are the only unexplored spaces on our planet. Monstrous creatures, mean and tentacle-clad, are likely waiting there for that one final showdown with humankind.

You see, these things are smart. My family knows someone who knows someone who works in an aquarium somewhere who discovered that a savvy octpous was behind a month-long mystery of disappearing fish. When morning staff started noticing that certain exotic fish went missing from their tanks overnight, security guards set up cameras to investigate. What did they catch on film? A hungry octopus, opening up the lid of its own tank, crawling a few feet over the tops of its neighboring tanks, opening up a tank housing tasty fish, grasping one of these fish with its tentacled arm, closing the lid of that tank, making its way back to its own tank, closing its lid, and enjoying an extravagant and well-earned midnight snack.

But is it true?, you might be asking. The thing is, I just don't know. I've looked into the eyes of an aquarium-housed octopus before, and I swear the thing looked back at me with the sort of understanding stare that only intelligent monkeys and gorillas can summon. But, on the other hand, I once saw a man on a deep sea boat struggle to reel up what he was sure was a 20 pound snapper. He got instead a fat octopus that, as soon as it broke the surface of the water, seemed to dissolve into an amorphous blob, a heap of goo once deprived of its deep sea water pressure. How is an octopus, savvy as he may be, supposed to make his way across the tops of aquarium tanks in search of exotic food? Again, I'm not sure. But the story has stuck with me, and I think of it when I put in an order for yet another rubbery plate of restaurant calamari.

So perhaps I'm taking some sort of misplaced revenge for a lost battle with a Man of War when I order calamari. Or maybe I'm working through the troubling thought that intelligent life, and I mean intelligent beyond the level of a cow or a duck, is being served on pre-heated plates throughout the country. Perhaps I'll never know. The thing I eventually hope to discover is a recipe that renders these creatures not only edible (provided one has all one's teeth and a strong jaw), but good.

Last week, I tried my own version of breaded and fried calamari. I marninated the little rings in milk, made a strong anchovy-laced tomato dipping sauce to accompany them, poured a good half gallon of peanut oil into my cast iron skillet, and filled my kitchen with smoke. The result: one of the most rubbery plates of calamari I've ever masticated my way through. Without a proper deepfryer, I think that breaded calamari may best be left to sub-par restaurants.

I've heard it said in a few foodish circles that squid should be cooked for either one minute or one hour. I aimed for the one minute rule for my most recent squid endeavor, and with better results than last week's. This recipe calls for less than 3 minutes cooking time, and, frankly, I think that less could have been more. The flavors of this dish are excellent, in a punch-you-in-the-face sort of way, but the squid still bordered on rubbery. If I make it again, and I just might if I find myself in the company of a hungry group of fish-sauce-friendly individuals, I'll try to whip the whole thing together in a minute flat. This, of course, will require total concentration, complete preparation, and a group of mouths already at the table waiting for hot squid. Should these efforts render a more tender squid, this dish will immediatley become a keeper.

As just about all good Thai dishes do, this one brings together the sweet, salty, and spicy. Oh yes, and the fishy. After two Thai dinners in a row, I had to promise my dining companion a fish sauce respite. After all, there are lots of good Spanish and Indian recipes in Mr. Bittman's book. I recommend this squid dish with white rice. The sauce should not be wasted, and without something to soak it up, that is what will inevitably happen.

Stir-Fried Squid with Basil and Garlic
from Mark Bittman's The Best Recipes in the World
Serves 4. Takes almost no time.

1 1/2 pounds cleaned squid, rinsed well
2 tablespoons peanut oil
1 tablespoon minced garlic
2 small fresh Thai chilis, stemmed and seeded if you wish (I wished not), and chopped
1/4 teaspoon ground coriander
1 tablespoon sugar
2 tablespoons nam pla (fish sauce)
1/4 cup basil leaves, roughly chopped
1/4 cup mint, roughly chopped

1. Dry the squid with paper towels. Cut the squid bodies into rings about 1 inch wide.
If the squid are large, cut the group of tentacles in half. If not, leave them intact. If the extra long tentacle has not been removed already, do so.

2. Prepare all of the other ingredients and have them ready. This recipe comes together fast, and, as I have already mentioned, you don't want to cook your squid a second too long.

3. Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add oil, and when it starts to shimmer, add garlic, chilis, and coriander. Avoid breathing deeply over your skillet at this point to prevent fits of coughing brought on by these pungent flavors. Cook, stirring alomst constantly for 15 seconds. Raise the heat to high, toss in the squid, and cook, stirring, for 1-2 minutes. Lower the heat to medium as soon as your squid loses that raw look.

4. Stir in sugar, nam pla, basil and mint. Stir for just a few seconds to blend the herbs. Take a taste. Add salt, pepper, chilis, or nam pla as you see fit.