I had been having dreams of vast shoals of squid, iridescent bulgy-eyed creatures gliding through the deep blue sea. Then they are herded by fishing-boats, lovingly caught by skilled men, the dream ending with the piles of squid, creamy white and glistening, lying in plastic crates, ready for the next phase of their cyclic existence on this planet earth.
Then I would wake from the dream, sweating in a hungry restless state.
Yesterday the final phase of the void that dream held was realised. In the Portuguese village of Furadouro, 40km south of Porto, where the community appears to be one obsessed with the taste of the squid. For good reason.
We queued, 40 minutes, outside Tasco restaurant. Patient locals were waiting for a table to open up where their weekly need for lulas (squid) could be sated and life could return back to normal.
Once inside, Tasco was alive with Portuguese life and atmosphere: parents with infants being doted upon by grandparents. Well-dressed, good-looking middle-aged couples with good hair and classy sunglasses. Barrel-chested blokes, five, six in number, discussing football and comparing their latest tattoos. Amazing service staff, efficient and dutifully polite.
And the squid kept coming.
The creatures are whole, head and tentacles attached to the familiar 10cm-long conical body. Eyes are intact and stare from the platter in a silvery-blue state of mortality. The only accompaniment is a shallow pool of olive oil, parsley and chopped onion and a few boiled potatoes, yellow to the eye, creamy and delicious in the mouth.
As per the best of Portuguese cooking, the preparation of the squid is one of simplicity and experience and understanding of what is being cooked. In the case of the lulas, they are slit open to remove the cartilage and most of the gutty interior.
Then the creatures are taken to a hot fire – the kind on which a steak will be grilled in South Africa – and placed on a griddle an inch or two above the fiery coals. Just that. No salt or lemon juice. No marinades or incessant pampering. The taste of the ocean is the only accompaniment, and the only one needed.
Five minutes on the fire, constant turning. Off the coals, on the plate. Olive onion, parsley and garlic. That is it. And so it comes to the table.
The skin has a slight crackle to the bite. This gives way to succulent white squid flesh, pure and clean and tender as the night. The onion and parsley give the meat a verdant lift, one of greenness and country air, and earth.
But the overall experience is one of ocean running through the various textural nuances held-up in the squid. The curly tentacles, brittle and crunchy. The head, tasty as one sucks the gelatinous eyes. And that beautiful long body, eaten in one bite where the flame-grilled exterior, with that slight smokiness, is off-set by the luxuriously creaminess of the animal’s interior.
Over the course of the platter’s emptying, two bottles of Vinho Verde were consumed, the wine’s slight effervescence perky-ing up the white fruit and citrus flavour, sending the squid to the ocean of human appetite where it will assist to complete dreams, although for some of these, this can take a very long time.
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