Jim Was In

I used to avoid crab. Although I am not a shirker, I used to find picking crab an irksome task. Worse, it gave me a rash. I was – indeed am – convinced that contact with crab shells used to react with my skin, and my hands, especially the palms, would come out in a nasty red rash. Curiously that no longer seems to happen: I have just picked the meat out of the bruiser you see opposite with absolutely no ill effect. Rather the opposite, as I have been chomping on the meat with some pleasure.

I might have avoided serving crab for an ulterior motive. I love crab and always have. Even for a chef, familiarity breeds contempt. For a long time I suspect I did not touch crab because I did not want to spoil it for myself. Shockingly selfish, you will say, and I must plead guilty. It must have been guilt – and perhaps opening a bar with a bent towards crustacea – that made me weaken my resolve. I now serve a lot of crab and, strangely, familiarity has not bred contempt because I am still very partial to crab.