It's crayfish season. Crayfish, crayfish, crayfish. Sucking the flesh from those spiny red legs. Tearing the meat from the tail and sliding it strip by strip into my mouth.
I love crayfish. I can't dive, but my friends can. And do. Why, this very weekend I lazed on the beach while the aquatic-types did their wetsuit-clad thing (no cray pots for them - this in hands on!). From the shore, watching their black neoprene bums bobbing I fantasised about wearing some Esther Williams style swimsuit and diving to the ocean floor, wrestling a cray from his rocky lair and springing to the surface, hair gleaming. At the end of this particular fantasy I walk triumphantly to the shore like Ursula Andress, knife strapped to my thigh. Instead, I satisfy myself with the knowledge that, although I may look more like Shelly Winters in the Poseidon Adventure than Ursula Andress and couldn't catch a cray to save myself, I can eat more crayfish than anyone else I know. In some circles that is akin to drinking a Russian under the table, vodka for vodka. Mmmm ... vodka and crayfish. Oooh, what a combination.
Aahh, crayfish season. How I love thee. And have you seen the great fat scallops this season? What's not to love about this place?
p.s. Yes I know. Crayfish is not a restaurant. Get over it.