Last updated: 1 July, 2024 @ 16:16
As you no doubt remember, a couple of years ago I embarked on a quest to discover a magical, wonderful – or even just half-decent – recipe which would make me fall in love with eating Whelks.
Along the way I’ve spoken with fishmongers, cooks and fishing industry experts, and experimented with a host of recipes, including Whelk croquettes (a terrible mistake), battered Whelk (a less of a mistake – but still a mistake), and sliced Whelks with chilli garlic butter (a step in the right direction).
However, there has recently been, what you could say, a Whelk-come development.
Whelk quest ends where?
The source of this breakthrough was not a bustling backstreet market in Bangkok or sizzling street food stall in Singapore.
No, the location of this unlikely development came in Cherbourg – a grey, unpretty, but intriguing port town on France’s Channel coast.
There were signs that a breakthrough in the quest to find a loveable Whelk dish would come that day.
I’ve been to Cherbourg countless times, and every single time it’s rained.
Not just a light shower here and there, but the type of rain seen on an Attenborough documentary filmed in the depths of a dense, sodden forest where every animal, insect and even plant, has the potential to kill you.
However, on this particular day Cherbourg looked youthful, refreshed by a hot summer sun.
The heat of the day inevitably encouraged the swift consumption of several cold Kronenbourg, served small and perfectly formed.
Faces radiant with excitement
As the afternoon lazily progressed I went in search of yet more Kronenbourg, ending up on the terrace of a little bar overlooking the town’s busy marina.
I watched as a father and his two young daughters set what looked to be crab traps, rushing to deploy them over the quayside before the return of high water on the incoming late afternoon tide.
They weren’t crabbing – an activity undertaken from piers and harbour walls all around the UK by children, encouraged by parents exhausted by half-term and desperate for any form of boredom-busting activity – however brief.
Back in Cherbourg, they were fishing for food or bait, the faces of the young girls radiant with the excitement of what treasures high tide may bring.
Whelk perfection, the quest was over
With my next Kronenbourg I was presented a menu – and that’s when everything changed.
Around 10 minutes later they appeared: Bulots à l’aïoli – Whelks with aioli.
Presented in a little white dish, alongside a small pot of gorgeously garlicky mayonnaise the shells of the 10 or so Whelks were immaculate, looking like polished pebbles found in a basket on the counter of a souvenir shop.
Removing the operculum, or shoe, of the Whelk’s foot, I teased the piece of meat from the shell, plunged it into the previously pristine mayo, brought it to my mouth – and ended my three-year Whelk odyssey.
It was stunning, the texture firm, but not rubbery or tough, the taste far, far removed from that of the ill-advised Whelk croquette.
Alongside the cold beer it was Whelk perfection, the quest was over.
The recipe
Returning home, admittedly slightly hungover, I searched the internet for a similar recipe.
This one by cookswithoutborders is the closest I’ve found.
I have two additional pieces of advice to offer off the back of my Cherbourg adventure.
The first is to definitely, 100%, serve the Whelks cold.
My second tip is when at your fishmongers look to buy smaller Whelks. The large ones are simply too large – for this type of dish at least.
Bonus tip: Grab yourself some cold Kronenbourg….
Santé!