Eats+Drinks
Release the Kraken Eight arms and nine brains make for one delicious bite. H E AT H ER AN N E LEE
I
’m not entirely sure when the octopus swam its way into the culinary spotlight, but I’m not mad about it. During a recent milestone birthday weekend, where I ate my way through Central Florida, I had not two, not three, but four delightfully different octopus encounters. The best was served at brunch, just two miles from home. Identified taxonomically as mollusks of the Octopoda order, octopus is represented by more than 300 species. With eight paired arms (though two function more as legs), the cephalopod has a beak for biting and eating, and an elaborate defense system that involves squirted ink, jack-be-nimble mobility, and a dazzling ability to camouflage. Some live in reefs; some dwell on the ocean floor; and one
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The Local
even made friends with a depressed filmmaker in South Africa. (My Octopus Teacher… go watch it.) Other random facts: they have three hearts, no internal skeleton, and a long-term memory. It’s one of my favorite things to eat, and if it’s also one of yours, read on. Not easy to prepare, the nine-brained, blue-blooded denizen of the deep must be tenderized first. Legendarily, although I have not witnessed this in person, the Greek tradition involves hitting the eightarmed beast against a rock. A more civilized, modern approach employs a gentle sous-vide bath. Either one, or a myriad of other techniques, when done properly, yields an unbelievably supple texture that puts lobster to shame. (Fight me, I dare you.) For Chef Ryan Freelove
WI N TE R G AR DE N
of Market to Table, this is only the start. His painstakingly tender Spanish Octopus is then layered over a grill, imbuing the meat with just the perfect amount of smoke while the tentacles take on an appealing charred appearance and flavor. While most others adore the fat, meaty bits, it’s the charred ends and crispy suckers that deliver the most concentrated bite for me. Heavenly as that may be, where the dish leaps to life is with the elegantly-plated accoutrements. The chimichurri, on its own, tasted refreshing and grassy, with just a lingering spiciness and pungency from the garlic. The pickled fresno brought a briney foil to the slightly chilled new potato salad. Each perfectly crafted forkful —warm, smoky, tender-crisp octopus over
chilled potato, generously anointed with a holy oil of chimichurri and pickled fresno. I may no longer be Catholic, but I know when a genuflection is appropriate.
