Why I am wary of calamari

Spain (on the road between Granada and Barcelona)
and Greece (near Cape Sunion)
January 2001

The Alhambra, Granada

My family had been quietly chuckling to themselves about my poor choice of meal at a truckstop on the road between Granada and Barcelona. We had been travelling for hours along endless stretches of highway with rolling hills of olive trees extending in all directions. The towns we had tried to stop in were lined with menacing youths idly picking their teeth with flick knives so we had eventually opted for a small diner huddled in the shadow of a petrol station. It was one of those places where a thick coating of grease lines every surface so any contact with the plastic red and white checkered tablecloth made you want to wash immediately.

“I don’t think that’s chicken,” my mother said eyeing the offending object suspiciously.

“It looks like roadkill pigeon,” my sister sniggered, “Have fun.”

The Mezquita, Cordoba

It turned out however, that I was the one who had the last laugh as their plates of grilled calamari were plonked unceremoniously on the table. My father poked at it unenthusiastically, his fork not making even a slight dent in the rubbery flesh. They had given him a particularly large serving, as he was the head of the family. With a great deal of sawing and grunting he managed to cut off a piece of calamari. Putting it into his mouth he began to chew. And chew. He chewed for an excessively long time until finally with a noisy gulp he swallowed the piece of squid. We watched the lump moving down through his throat with avid fascination, as one watches a snake slowly devouring a mouse.

Olive grove, Granada

My sister meanwhile, had taken a forkful and was also chewing with evident distaste, her face scrunched into a grimace.

“How was it?”

“Like eating garlic wetsuit.”

While I picked at the strange skeletal structure of what was supposedly chicken the rest of my family cut off small strips of wetsuit and surreptitiously shoved them back inside the head of the squid. Since my parents are polite people they didn’t want the waiter to think they weren’t enjoying their meal, so a complicated pantomime evolved of smiling and making fake chewing motions and then desperately shoveling forkfuls of glistening grey chunks into their flaccid hiding place while the waiter’s back was turned. The pouchlike head became more and more distended, like an inflating balloon.

Palm and pomegranate, Cordoba

Finally, the squid head full to bursting, they gave up motioning for the bill.

“You no finish your meal,” the waiter accused looking puzzled as his gaze fell on the plump wetsuit remains.

“Si, we are very full,” my father replied, miming a large belly with his hands, the universal sign for I’ve had enough thanks.

We hurried out of there before the bulging heads exploded and disgorged the meaty contents of our secret shame.

But this was not the last calamari incident on our travels. Later, in Greece, after a day trip to Cape Sunion, driving back along the winding ocean roads we decided to pull over at a small seaside trattoria. Perusing the menu we discussed whether to risk eating calamari again.

Trattoria on the way to Cape Sunion

“Don’t worry, this time it’s battered so it won’t be horrible and wetsuity,” my father assured us.

The afternoon was sunny, a deliciously warm breeze stirring over the choppy waves of the bay. The low cry of a single seagull mingled pleasantly with the hissing sound as the water rushed up the pebble beach. We soon forgot our calamari order as plateloads of meze were brought to our table. One of them contained a strange looking array of assorted battered objects.

The temple at Cape Sunion

“What on Earth is that? Who ordered that?”

With a small degree of horror we realised that the chimerical items on our plate were actually battered calamari. Battered whole calamari. In all their tentacled glory.

“It probably tastes just like normal,” I chided grabbing something that sort of resembled a sting ray and popping it in my mouth.

Lit up ocean, Cape Sunion

“See fine,” I mumbled as I chewed when suddenly with a slopping sound and a strange bursting sensation I sent a jet of purple ink squirting out the side of my mouth, splattering in dark spots on the checkered tablecloth.

“Oh,” I groaned as my family broke into hysterical giggles.

We smiled politely, made intense chewing faces and when the waiters back was turned we smuggled the alienlike objects into our serviettes. Later we carried the bulging napkins down to the beach and the single seagull became a whole flock, tearing at battered tentacley bits, their bills stained black with ink.

I am still wary of eating calamari.

~

The black and white photos were taken by me during that family vacation around Europe. I lugged around a giant, clunky pentax that belonged to my granddad who died before I was born. It is still the most beautiful camera I have ever used.

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