When I think of fish and shellfish, I think of the black risotto of baby cuttlefish at Harry’s Bar in Venice; the tiny tidepool crabs deep-fried and mounted on a platter, eaten whole at an unpretentious dockside restaurant south of Genoa; of Brittany mussels steamed with shallots, white wine, and cream. These vie with other memories: sitting at table on Hog Island in Maine, the cold fog rolling in, a huge fire going, as I tear apart big lobsters and dunk the chunks of clawmeat in hot butter; pink swordfish right off the boats in Montauk, grilled over charcoal that night; a big bowl of Oregon razor clams in steaming, buttery broth; Long Island littleneck clams right out of the water, eaten by the dozens with a squeeze of lemon; the Acme oyster bar in New Orleans between hangovers, paced by understanding shuckers so the numbers of oysters eaten rise alarmingly; herrings from the Irish Sea, fat with roe, so fresh they look like silver jewelry, marinated, grilled, or fried in cornmeal; Manx kippers; soft-shelled crabs; squid; fish stews; bouillabaisse, and the great fish soups.
