How That Calamari Got To Your Plate (Part I)

They're late this year.

Usually the humongous schools of Loligo pealei, longfin squid, move inshore to feed for about four weeks between mid-April and mid-May, when the water is turning over. A second run takes place in mid-fall. But it seems that the one thing squid do with uncanny consistency is act erratically. So here we are in late May, and they've only just now waltzed in for the semi-annual coastline carnage.

The process of making calamari is a pretty involved one, if you do it the right way. That means freezing your nose off and losing several hours of sleep in pursuit of the raw material, and then cooking it fresh. The following is a brief illustrated guide to the fascinating diversion known locally, for lack of a more poetic term, as "squidding."

The Newport skyline

Calamari 101

Our tasty friend Loligo pealei is a ravenous pelagic carnivore. Its voracious appetite for smaller things gives us a handy advantage in finding schools. The principle is older than time: bait and wait.

The bait chapter reads thus: At sundown, halogen spotlights are pointed straight at the water, either from a boat or a pier. The light attracts microscopic organisms, which attract bigger bait, and so on in a whimsical game of fish-eat-fish until the primary squid fodder, in this case a massive ball of sand eels (Ammodytes americanus) moves in.

The bait has arrived.

At this point the rigs go in. A squidding jig looks at first glance like any old bass plug, but further inspection reveals at the tail end, in place of the usual treble hook, a ring of thirty or so barbless, needle-like claws. Two or three jigs, spaced on a leader about a foot apart with a sinker on the end, make up a rig. Here ends the long list of special equipment; the rig is attached to a regular old surfcasting rod, enough line is paid out to touch bottom, the bail is closed, and one can then commence to jigging.

Jigging, Art and Science: The Complete Guide

1. Lift the rod tip.

2. Drop the rod tip.

3. Repeat.

When (and if) a school moves in, things happen fast. The squid lay in wait below the school of baitfish, occasionally blasting straight through the writhing mass and into the thermosphere, but more often electing to forego the acrobatics and simply lurk until an unfortunate sand eel ventures too deep. Some think the vertical motion of the jigs perfectly simulates a one of these misplaced morsels; others are convinced the squid are simply reacting to an innate desire to grab and eat anything that moves; and still others contend that they're just pissed off at the incessant shiny, flashy, noisy things. The reason for any given lure's effectiveness is guaranteed to be a hot-button topic among fishermen worldwide. Whatever the case, when a squid decides to strike, it wraps its ten arms around the body of the jig, and finds itself unexpectedly caught on the needles. There is no fight to speak of most of the time; you pull in the line as fast as you can to avoid losing your wiggling quarry, usually getting squirted with large amounts of water and ink in the process, then grab the jig by the eye, turn it over, and Mr. Tentacles lets go and slides unceremoniously into the bucket.

Fwooosh-plop.

And once they start grabbing, they really start. It really is feast-or-famine fishing, except that the act described is more properly classified as molluscing. So it's better to go in groups; extra hands and heads are good for both the brief frenzies of activity and the long hours of ennui.

Light pollution from Thames St. and the bridge

And during these lengthy interludes one finds myriad ways of entertaining oneself, such as counting stars, pacing the deck, untangling rigs, picking one's nose, naming baitfish, singing squid songs, and impersonating squid (badly).

Phase 2: Cleaning Your Catch

(Very graphic manual dissection of squiggly beasties follows. Definitely not for those with a less-than-iron constitution)

Step 1: Grasp the now-very-dead bugger firmly by the mantle in the left hand.

Step 2: Insert the forefinger and thumb of the right hand into the jets, the open spaces between the body and the mantle. Separate the cartilage from the inner wall of the mantle. Hold the body firmly and pull.

Just slides right out.

Step 3: If you did it right, all the guts come out in one piece. There's not much holding your average squid together. Clean out any other bits that may be floating around inside the mantle.

A mess of insides.

Step 3a: Analyze the stomach contents (optional). This isn't really based at all in necessity, just morbid fascination. It's interesting, and sometimes even helpful, to see what the squid have been eating; in this case, sand eels.

Step 4: Remove the keratin. Squid have two hard parts: the beak and the transparent stiffening member that runs the length of the mantle. Again, it's just held together by cartilage. Git yer fingers in there, run them down the length of the mantle to separate, and extract.

Just pull that sucker right on outta there.

Looks like a glass stilletto.

Step 5: Skin the mantle. Pretty self-evident; just pull the skin off and toss it.

Step 6: Separate the tentacles. Also pretty simple; with a fillet knife, slice through the body just below the eye, being sure to remove the beak assembly, which comes out as a package, and discard along with the entrails.

Step 7: Rinse everything well in the sink, shake dry and toss in a ziploc bag. Wash your hands, which by now should be completely blackened by ink.