Crab

Let me tell you about crab, and let me be honest with you first: a crab is no mollusc, whatever anyone whispers in the fish market. It is a crustacean, armored, jointed, built like a knight in shell. The meat sits locked inside claws and body cavities, and when you taste it fresh, it is sweet in a clean, delicate way, almost like a whisper of the sea.

Choose crab by nose first. Fresh crab smells of the sea, clean and faintly sweet, nothing ammonia-like, nothing sour. Pick it up, press it a little: good meat feels moist and springy, pulling apart into loose strands under your fingers, never dry, never pressed flat into a stiff little brick.

Some people say crab is just like shrimp or any seafood, interchangeable, toss it anywhere. No! Crab meat is delicate, and it needs a gentler hand than you think. Treat it roughly — boil it too long, stir it hard into a hot sauce, mash it into a paste — and you lose exactly what you paid for: the strands turn dry and stubborn, tight little threads that fight your fork instead of giving way. Warm it gently, barely, just until it turns warm and fragrant in your hand. Let it keep its shape. That is the whole secret.