Crab

I remember a time when gazpacho became very trendy and was on every menu. I decided to come up with a different version—even with a different color. It was José Andrés of Jaleo in Washington, D.C., who made the best Spanish gazpacho I ever tasted, so I borrowed his technique of frying the bread in olive oil. The toasted flavor and richness of the fried bread helps mellow the acidity and round out the flavors of the other ingredients. The shellfish garnish is not necessary but makes the dish a little more elegant and sumptuous.

All along the Gulf Coast, crab is plentiful and almost cheap during the summer. It has a luxurious flavor, but it’s still light, and in this ceviche-like salad the lime and basil enhance the warm-weather flavors. The salty capers are a good foil for the sweetness of the crab and carrots. Serve this refreshing combination on lettuce leaves, as described below, or in a parfait or martini glass, garnished with a wedge of lime and some tortilla chips.

You can’t come to the French Quarter without being seduced by a rich, bubbling crabmeat gratin. This is my take on the traditional New Orleans dish—it’s luxurious and surprisingly simple to prepare. For the most elegant presentation, serve this in individual gratin dishes as a lunch or a first course for a special meal. This gratin gets added flavor and crunch from the topping, a Spicer staple.

Eating this crab is somewhat akin to eating a pile of barbecued ribs. Coated with a garlicky-sweet-spicy sauce, the crab requires a little work to get at all the delicious bits (and perhaps a cold beer to wash things down), but your effort pays off. Vietnamese cooks traditionally cut up live crabs before stir-frying them. That is a run-of-the-mill task for fearless types like my mom. Most cooks, however, wince at the thought of chopping up a live crustacean, especially one with large claws. To avoid getting pinched, I briefly boil the crab, which also sets the meat and tomalley, making the crab easy to take apart. Since freshness is crucial, use whatever kind of live crab is available in your area, the feistier the better for optimal flavor. Asian markets are typically reliable sources. In Northern California, I’m blessed with the large Dungeness crab. Outfit the table with metal nutcrackers, communal bowls for holding shells, and a finger bowl for each person.

When it is dungeness crab season (November through May on the West Coast), one of my favorite ways to capture the essence of Cancer magister is to make these golden noodles. Cellophane noodles absorb whatever flavors they are combined with, in this case the sweet brininess of crabmeat and tomalley. This dish is best when it is made with a live crab that you cook yourself. If you are too squeamish to cook crab at home, buy a precooked crab the day it is cooked. But don’t have the crab cracked, as you want all the delicious juices to stay inside. See page 322 for directions on cooking and cleaning the crab and picking the crabmeat.

Loaded with asparagus and crab, this soup is elegant looking and delicately flavored. Vietnamese consider it special-occasion fare because it features asparagus, a pricey ingredient introduced by the French as an imported canned good. In Vietnamese, asparagus is mang tay, literally “French bamboo,” an apt name as both asparagus and bamboo shoots grow quickly. Resourceful Viet cooks often maximize the asparagus flavor by adding the spears and their canning liquid to the soup. But the taste is nonetheless rather flat, and canned asparagus is mushy. To achieve a strong asparagus flavor, I use fresh asparagus to prepare the soup. Asparagus declines in sweetness as soon as it is harvested, so choose only the freshest. Spring is asparagus season, and at farmers’ markets the spears are sold within twenty-four hours of being cut. To keep them fresh, stand them in a tall container filled with about an inch of water. (If the ends look dry, trim them first.) Refrigerate the container; there is no need to cover it with plastic.

An elegant preparation of northern Vietnam, this soup is special-occasion fare. Rather than simmering the rice until it disintegrates into a silky creaminess, the grains are cooked until their ends “bloom” into flowerlike petals, an effect achieved by parboiling the rice and then simmering it for a shorter time than for standard cháo. Tapioca pearls thicken the soup and lend an interesting shimmer, and the halved shrimp turn into pink corkscrews as they cook, adding a final flourish to the presentation.

This heady combination of seafood and tomato comes from the north, where it is traditionally made from small rice-field crabs called cua đong. To extract enough flavor, cooks use many crabs, removing their back shells and pounding their bodies. The crushed crab is combined with water, carefully filtered, and finally mixed with fermented shrimp sauce (mam tom) to create a broth base. When heated, the crab solids rise to the top, forming a rich, seafood-laden floater that is the signature of the soup. Sections of the floater are carefully spooned atop round rice noodles (bun) before the broth is ladled into each bowl. A garnish plate of raw vegetables, limes, and fresh herbs accompanies the soup. When I was a child, our family re-created this soup by using the tiny rock crabs foraged among the rocks at the local harbor. Nowadays, I make this more convenient and equally tasty version. Unlike many Vietnamese Americans (including my mom), I don’t use canned bún riêu cua soup base. Rather, I start with a live Dungeness crab and mix its meat and tomalley with ground shrimp and egg for the floater. Since Dungeness crab season (November through May) doesn’t coincide with tomato season, I use premium canned tomatoes instead of fresh ones. If you are substituting other types of crab, you will need enough to yield 6 ounces of meat.

A hybrid dish (cua means “crab” in Vietnamese, and farci means “stuffed” in French), this deviled crab is enriched by butter and employs fish sauce to amplify the brininess of the crustacean. Many cooks stuff the crab shells with the raw filling and then fry them. Because it is hard to tell when the filling is cooked, I was taught to sauté it first, which also yields a more flavorful result. I also forgo frying and instead bake the filling in ramekins, topping them with bread crumbs for a crispy finish. What makes this deviled crab special is fresh crabmeat and tomalley (liver) and fat, which you can only get if you start with a whole crab. (If you don’t like the tomalley and fat, omit them for a less rich dish.) Find the freshest, feistiest crab you can, even if it is not a Dungeness, my local species. Live crabs are available at Asian and other markets, but already cooked crabs will work, too—as long as you have a trustworthy fishmonger. Ask when the crab was cooked. And if it has an ammonia-like smell, it is over the hill, so pass it up. You will need about 1/2 pound of crabmeat.

The dominant component of any good crab cake should always be crab—not breading. An extra finely milled flour such as Wondra is the perfect binder; it helps hold the cake together without adding its own texture or flavor to the mix—this is all gorgeous crab. The spicy-sweet tang of roasted piquillo peppers gives these crab cakes a kick of rich flavor. This gorgeous purple slaw, with ribbons of bright green basil running throughout, is slightly sweet and totally fresh. More than a garnish, it delivers crunch and taste that complete the dish.

Soft shell crab season is short and sweet. When it’s here, you want to make the most of it. Highlighting the flavor of the crab is what matters, and I employ a secret weapon to help me do just that. Wondra flour is a superfinely milled (“instant”) flour that creates a very thin, almost stealthlike coating around the crabs. What you taste is crisp soft shell crab unadulterated by any thick batter. Simply hit some nutty browned butter with tart lemon juice and anise-flavored dill (an herb that I think is too often forgotten) for an easy and delicious sauce. Soft shell crabs make their appearance in summer, so it’s only fitting to pair them with some of summer’s best: fresh lima beans, beefsteak tomatoes (I like local Jersey tomatoes, myself), and of course, corn. This succotash recipe should be considered a guide; try it with whichever fresh vegetables catch your eye at the market.

Miami! That’s where a bite of this lush crab cocktail takes me. The tropical touch of coconut milk and ripe mango enhances the natural sweetness of lump crabmeat. A good dose of lime juice and a healthy dash of habanero hot sauce keep the dish fresh, not cloying. Salty plantain chips—found at most grocery stores or Latin markets—further boost the Latin vibe.

This salad is a refreshing choice for an elegant lunch on a summer day. Succulent crab, creamy cubes of avocado, salty olives, and sweet grape tomatoes are folded into a mixture of cool mayonnaise and bright red wine vinegar. Cayenne pepper and Spanish paprika add a touch of heat and depth to the mix. Mesclun greens tossed in a sunny Meyer lemon dressing make the crab salad’s bed. Sweet blue crabs are found in the waters of the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico. Their silky texture and rich taste make them my crab of choice—no matter from where a dish’s inspiration may come.

In my book, lump crabmeat spells luxury, and I can’t think of a better way to pamper my guests than starting off with a sumptuous serving. Offering my friends a mound of crab in crab or scallop shells makes me feel as if I’m bringing the sea to the table. Scallop shells are usually easier to find than crab shells, although I’ve seen both at kitchen supply stores. If you can’t find shells, use small ramekins. For a speedy main course, double the recipe and bake the crab in larger ramekins. Serve with a green salad and loaves of crusty bread.

As a kid, I loved the crab claw cocktail at Don’s Seafood and Steakhouse in Beaumont, Texas. My take on this childhood favorite seems so right for a Gulf Coast party: It’s easy to make ahead, is light and refreshing, and highlights the glorious blue crab that inhabits the Gulf Coast. Finding fresh crab claws can be tough if you are not at the beach during crab season, but they’re available canned, and they taste almost as good as fresh. Make sure you are getting the meat with the little claw attached, so they can be plucked out of the marinade and eaten. Here in Texas they’re called crab meat fingers.

The origin of the name campechana is a mystery, but just about every Texan I know loves this cool, tomatoey seafood cocktail stocked with plump chunks of ripe avocado and served with a pile of crisp tortilla chips. (I hear it is big in some parts of California, too.) I got stuck on campechana at a place run by legendary Houston restaurateur Jim Goode. He parlayed a small Texas barbecue joint into a homegrown restaurant dynasty that includes a Tex-Mex eatery and two Gulf Coast seafood spots. Campechana is incredibly versatile. As an appetizer, serve in long-stemmed glasses set on plates and surrounded with tortilla chips for dipping. Serve as a main course in a huge bowl, surrounded by chips. Offer individual bowls and let guests ladle up servings themselves. For outdoor or beachside festivities, transport in a large plastic container set in a cooler and serve in clear acrylic stemmed glasses or in disposable plastic glasses. Don’t forget plenty of chips.

This dish is delicious served alongside a nice fresh fish or stuffed inside a fish fillet.