Mussels

I CAME face to face with live mussels for the first time last summer when we were living at Buzzards Bay. A favorable concatenation of memories prompted me to fill a child’s large sand pail with the shellfish: the distant memory of an epicurean dish I had eaten many years before in France, and the immediate remembrance that it was time for lunch, that our larder was empty, and that I had been lollygagging along the beach instead of going to town for provisions.

The members of my household were cold in the face of my triumph. “How are you going to cook them?" my husband asked, holding an especially large black specimen between the extreme tips of his thumb and index finger, at arm’s length,

I took it from his hand, added it to the collection in the pail, and bustled off to the kitchen with a confident “Ha!”

The word “Marinière” bubbled up from the depths of my memory, and I searched through the two cookbooks on the kitchen shelf: not a word about “Marinière,” or indeed about mussels or even moules. I looked reproachfully at my prey and went to work on the shells with a vegetable brush.

Two indistinct whistles reached my ears, both so faint and high-pitched that they seemed like supersonic jeers. “I will not be jeered at by my lunch,” I muttered, and faced the first problem before me: opening the mussels. I attacked them delicately with oyster knife, paring knife, carving knife, and screwdriver. Result: cutlery and hardware damaged, mussels intact. I renewed the attack with a hammer, winning a purely technical victory.

Strategy seemed to be in order. I discarded the mussels that had been under the hammer and flung the others into a pot with a little water, thoughtfully adding some butter, garlic, while wine, and a short prayer, on the theory that none of them was likely to hurt a dish. In no time the steam escaping from the pot began to take on the characteristics of an aroma.

“Are we supposed to eat this part ?" someone said a few moments later, holding up a long, delicate, lustrous, and silky bunch of filaments.

I took a stealthy nibble and covered my reaction with a trill of laughter. “That is the handle,” I said. “It is simply used to hold the mussel.”

The dish was a vast success; even my husband, who is not a man for panegyrics, pronounced it no worse than steamed clams. It was a week before I learned from a French friend that I had approximated the Marinière treatment — except that the bunch of filaments, which is known as the beard, should have been removed early in the proceedings.

Spurred on by this happy chance and the inexhaustible supply on our shore. I experimented further, turning up in due course a number of recipes that produced avid approval and a few that had to be passed off as “caviar to the general.” I append the former in the hope that Americans, like the French, will come to honor this bivalve with haute cuisine.

“MUSSELS MARINIÈRE (MORE OR LESS)”

Scrub two quarts of mussels with a stiff brush and remove their beards with a sharp knife. Put the mussels in a large pot with a cup of water, a generous tablespoon of butter, two cloves of garlic, and a jigger or two of white wine, Cover tightly and steam over a quick flame until the shells open — about seven or eight minutes.

“MUSSELINE DE SOIE”

Proceed as in the above recipe, omitting the wine and butter. Remove the shells and put the mussel meat through a grinder. Add a tablespoon of lemon juice, a tablespoon of chopped chives, a pinch of basil, and blend into a three-ounce package of cream cheese with a fork. If you like things reasonably bland, stop there: otherwise add a pinch of dry mustard, a teaspoon of onion juice, and a dash of Woreestershire sauce. This is a fine filling for puff shells, and is almost as good spread on crackers.

“MUSSELINE DE SOIE GRAS”

Spread “Musseline de Soie” on squares of toast, top with bacon, and broil until the bacon is crisp.

“MUSSELCHOISE”

Proceed as in the first recipe. Discard the shells and strain the mussel liquid. Blend this liquid with an equal amount of sour cream. Add the juice of one lemon and two teaspoons of finely grated lemon peel. Then add the mussels to this liquid and sprinkle with thyme and chopped chives. Serve ice-cold,

“MOULES À LA REINE”

Proceed as in the first recipe. Then melt two tablespoons of butter in a saucepan, adding an equal amount of flour. Cook and stir until smooth. Add one cup of mussel liquid and one cup of sweet cream. When the mixture is smooth, add it slowly to two beaten egg yolks and cook a minute longer, stirring constantly. Now add the mussels plus ¼ cup of chopped almonds, ¼ cup of currants, ¼ cup of sherry, and a pinch of marjoram. Garnish with chopped chives or parsley and serve hot on toast.

Mussels also lend themselves admirably to baking, especially in a sauce of canned mushroom soup, chopped stuffed olives, and capers. They are delicious fried or made into chowder, following the clam recipes for these dishes. Used in lieu of oysters they make a wonderful bisque as well.

So the next time a mussel shell bites into your bare foot on a beach, it may be consoling to remember how many ways you have of biting back.