Wow. I made it through the holidays without too much gastrointesinal damage. I deem such a lack of a negative a great success! I have some fun Christmas-y things to tell you about, but for now let me recommend mussels. Steamed mussels. We had them last night for dinner before headed to a New Year’s/birthday party. You’ve had steamed mussels, I’m sure. Unfortunately, way too many of you have only had them swimming in an undercooked soup of white wine. There is a better way.
The first time I had steamed mussels is one of my first food memories. You know the kind. The kind people wax poetic about in “memoir” and personal essays. The kind that try to describe the ripe sun-warm tomato bitten into fresh off the vine in grandpa’s garden, that kind of thing. Well, no one in my family really gardened, so I’m left out of that party. What I do have, however, is a road trip to Washington State – the Olympic Peninsula to be exact – when I was 7? 8? My mom drove out with me and my younger brother playing Neil Diamond in the cassette recorder all the way and getting pulled over for some *crazy* level of speeding in Wyoming? Montana? My brother cried in the back seat asking if she was going to jail. My dad met us in Spokane, where lived (and still live) my aunt and uncle. I helped pick strawberries in the yard and presented them, complete with cream, to great praise. We drove west, eventually visiting my dad’s high school friend who lived with his French wife near Sequim, Washington. (You know the song “Please Come to Boston?” My brother and I can still crack each other up by earnestly singing “please come to sequim” – I know, I know, I’m getting off track, stay with me!) The grown-ups went crabbing and left us kids to pick mussels off rocks at the beach. In my memory the adults came up empty, so that night they grilled salmon, basting it with beer, and steamed the mussels my brother and I had harvested in white wine. I am sure some of these details are wrong, or at least skewed a bit. But what I do remember terribly clearly is that I was blown away. The mussels were so meaty and briney and savory and good. Their shells were so pretty – dark purple and black with that slight mother-of-pearl sheen to the inside. The wild mussels were small yet plump and seemed both alien and precious.
And then there was the broth. Sweet, briney from the mussels’ own juices, with a brisk acidity from the wine, and plenty of earthy soften sharpness from the well-cooked onions and garlic. White wine was used, yes, but most of its was cooked off first, saving the mussels from drowning. The mussels gave off enough of their own liquid to make plenty of aromatic soup to soak up with chunks of bread.
So those were my ideal. In France I’d often encounter them cooked just that way, but not always. And in the States more often than not I find the broth undercooked, overwined, and one dimensional.
When I was a poor student in Paris – and that’s the only way I’ve ever lived there (perhaps I should try it another way, huh?) – steamed mussels were a regular treat. Cheap, easy, delicious, and perfect for the kind of small, casual dinner parties I’d have (as well as do-able in the small, casual kitchens I usually had access to, even the ones without an oven, just a stove-top). I believe I figured out a decent method and added my “secret” ingredient – chiles or red pepper flakes. I wrote it up over at Local Foods.
p.s. Speaking of Local Foods, I’m starting a grand project in 2009: a state a week. If you have any great info about local food in your area – farmers markets, u-picks, spots for regional specialties, food festivals, anything and everything – please let me know at molly@thedinnerfiles.com.
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