I just ate the best mussels of my life. Tiny, plump, juicy, redolent of the sea with an overlay of bay leaf, pepper, and a little touch of hard cider, they stopped conversation, and a sacred hush floated over the table.
Later in the week at the market I told the fishmonger, Xavier, how extraordinary they were, and he concurred. “Oh, la la, chèrie,” he said, as his wife who works with him looked on with amusement (he calls most of his female clients either “chèrie” or “ma princesse”), “Ils n’ont jamais ete si bonnes (they’ve never been so good).”
I think he’s right. I always love mussels but this season I crave them because they are so tender and sweet. I tried to find out why, but as with so many things in life, there may not be a reason beyond the buckets, rivers, torrents of rain that have fallen in this wild and woolly period of the end of August and September. Seriously. Perhaps the clouds are sweeter than usual, or maybe they know we all need big cheer, and this is their contribution.
Of course, I’ve long thought the mussels we get here are the best in the world. I don’t want to insult anyone, but seriously, how can they not be? The little wonders grow in the bay of Mont St. Michel, blessed by the tides, the spirit of pilgrims, the holy monastery overlooking them. Their goodness is ordained.
And widely recognized, for they have an official name, “Moules de Bouchot de la Baie du Mont-Saint-Michel,” and an AOP, Appelation d’Origine Protégé,” a pedigree that guarantees their origin, the way they are seeded, grown, and harvested. It’s a fascinating process. Teeny mussels from the Atlantic are put in long, net cylinders that are wrapped around “bouchots” or stakes in the substrate of the bay. There, they send out their spiderman threads and attach to the bouchot, to each other, to the net, to whatever they can (they are the most insecure of shellfish), and they grow. A year after they are “seeded” on the bouchots, an amphibious contraption visits the bouchot, the nets which is now thick with mussels, are unwound from the bouchots and basically wrung from the nets. They are rinsed, sorted, and put into large bags which go immediately to market.
Mussels don’t keep once they’re harvested, so the journey from bay to market is short. When you buy them, their elegant, shiny blue-black shells must be closed tight and unbroken. Unlike those raised in baskets or in the wild, those raised on “bouchots” don’t have white barnacles on the shell and need very little cleaning, because their byssus, or beards, are slight. All they need is a quick rinse before going into the fridge or the pot.
No matter where you get mussels, they don’t keep long and they must be kept cold. Put them in a sieve over a bowl and cover them with a damp towel, because they love moisture. Ideally, cook them the day you buy them. If a shell is open, knock it on the counter to see if it closes. If it doesn’t, tip it, as you must with any whose shells are broken.
Autumn is the best time to eat mussels because they are firm, not flaccid like the mussels of summer.
Because Xavier-the-fishmonger is a good businessman and a hale and hearty fellow, he always weighs heavy, then asks, “C’est assez?/It’s enough?” I always say “Fewer, please,” and he removes two or three, weighs them again, then throws in more as “bon poids,” good weight. This is complicated French commerce, and the result is leftover mussels, almost always. What to do with them?
I’ve got recipes for yummy mussel salads, where you dress them in a rich and peppery vinaigrette, and serve them atop lettuce, or steamed spinach, or a baked potato. But what I really love to do with leftover mussels is make a mussel omelet. But not usually right after I’ve had my fill of steamed mussels, so I freeze the leftovers in their shell.
Remove the mussels from the fridge, then from their shells, about 45 minutes before you make the omelet, so they can come to room temperature, because you don’t want to cook them anymore or they’ll get tough. You just want to warm them in their tender egg blanket.
Mince garlic and flat-leaf parsley together. Whisk up eggs, season them with salt and lots of pepper (mussels and black or red chili pepper = marriage made in heaven), and heat up equal amounts of butter and olive oil in a skillet. When it shimmers and froths, add the eggs, sprinkle over the garlic and parsley, and begin to make the omelet. When it is nearly set the way you like it (I like my omelet slightly runny, or “baveuse”, because the eggs are most tender this way, but do as you must), strew in the mussels and shake your pan, give them a little shower of pepper, then fold the omelet out onto a plate or platter. Voila, heaven on a plate!
MUSSEL OMELET
Tip: mussels freeze beautifully in their shells, for up to two weeks.
4 large eggs
Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 clove garlic, green germ removed
½ cup flat-leaf parsley leaves
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
About 1 cup cooked mussel meats, at room temperature
1. Whisk the eggs with a generous sprinkling of salt and pepper in a medium-sized bowl. Mince the parsley and the garlic together.
2. Heat the butter and the oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. When the butter froths and the oil shimmers, pour in the eggs then immediately sprinkle them with the garlic and parsley mixture. Pull back the egg from the edges of the pan towards the center, tipping the pan so the loose egg goes back to its edges, until the omelet is nearly cooked (to your liking). Strew in the mussels and shake the pan a bit to even them out over the egg.
3. Fold the omelet out onto a platter or a plate, garnish with parsley sprigs and serve.
4 first-course servings
