How much pleasure is it decent for one man to get from a lemon?
I posed this somewhat rhetorical question – in these straitened times I reckon you should get as much pleasure as you can find – as I stood on the pavement the other morning and sank my fingernails deep into the ripe, firm flesh of an Amalfi lemon.
No, I thought, inhaling deeply, almost indecently, on its unearthly perfume, no amount of this pleasure can ever be indecent…
This particular food story started, as many of them do, with no end in mind. In fact, as I wandered along Bute Street in South Kensington that gloriously sunny morning, I had no intention of buying anything. I was simply returning home from the station, happy to take in the sights and sounds of one of London’s most decorative neighbourhoods.
And then, in an act I now know to be heaven sent, a large, non-descript white van pulled up in front of Moxons, the venerable South Kensington fishmongers, and, before I had a chance to say ‘ciao’, its back doors were flung open wide.
An Amalfi lemon, with its slightly nobbled (I know of no better word), pale yellow skin and rudely verdant leaves attached by a firm stem, speaks of another place, of romance, like no other fruit or vegetable I know. Sure, you can look at a radicchio trevisano with its inverted and elaborately carved flutes of purple and white, or an oversized, suggestively rounded cuore di bue tomato and imagine that both are from somewhere other than here, even if there remains a sneaking suspicion that they may have been grown in Holland by an overly tall man called Girt Van den Smut.
Not so with an Amalfi lemon. As I gazed upon the slightly chaotic stacks of almost comically flimsy boxes, the jolly yellow and green of the simple strip of packaging mimicking the glistening fruits inside, there was no doubt that what I was looking at was Italian. None. I could almost hear Dean Martin or Renato Carosone singing from my vantage point on the pavement.
‘Amalfi,’ Bruno the driver growled, sounding just like Jean Reno from Leon. (I have no idea whether his name really was Bruno, by the way. He just looked like a Bruno, although he could easily have been a Giorgio or a Luca. You know the type.) Sensing my interest to be spiritual rather than simply one of appetite, a gnarled hand proffered a glorious specimen in my direction. He smiled knowingly. I took it, dug my thumbnail into the inviting citrus flesh and inhaled. Deeply.
And then magic. All the noise and grime, all the cars, people and irritations of London life simply evaporated into a cloud of Neapolitan scent so headily perfumed, so fresh and so full of life, that in an instant I felt giddily happy and all my earthly worries simply fell away. I inhaled deeper and suddenly had the urge to jump on a plane and stand in the grove where this beautiful creation had come from. I wanted to meet the person who had farmed it and who had surely had only one thought on their mind as they had done so: to make you smile.
‘Bene,’ I said simply. Why I was speaking Italian (I have all of three words up my sleeve) to a complete stranger I have no idea. It just seemed to fit the moment and my mood.
Bruno didn’t seem to mind. In fact, by the way his broad, tanned smile returned my own, he was well used to it. He simply turned and grabbed several boxes, leaving me to fulminate on the enchanted, intoxicating scent and how to turn it into lunch.
‘Crab and avocado,’ I said before following him into the shop in order to put together one of the simplest, lightest and most refreshing meals I know.
6 lemons (I buy them in bulk), one dressed crab, an avocado, some mint and a single chili later, I headed home, content that, on this most unusually of continental days in London, I would be taking a small part of Italy back home for lunch.
Dressed avocado with spiced crab salad on the side.
|| Shopping ||
One whole dressed crab (buy fresh rather than pasteurised if you can; although it’ll go off quicker, taste wise they’re worlds apart).
- One Amalfi lemon
- One red chili
- One good handful of mint
- Olive oil
- A handful of fresh small tomatoes
The glory of this meal is that it takes no time toassemble and there’s no cooking involved. So from getting home to lifting your fork in anger you’re looking at no more than ten minutes.
First things first, get a large bottle of mineral water (or if you’re like me fill a pretty bottle with filtered tap) and take a generous slice of rind off the side of the lemon. Place in the water and leave to infuse.
|| Cooking (ish) ||
Put the crab (white and dark meat) in a bowl and stir it through lightly to break it up into even flakes. (If you have time, take a Quiet Meal moment to bury your head in the bowl and inhale deeply: that smell of fresh seafood, of the sea rather than fish, gets me every time.)
Then finely chop the chili (I use small Thai chilis but any red chili will do; they’re there for colour as much as warmth) and add to the crab along with a generous handful of mint. Then slice an Amalfi lemon in half and squeeze the juice from it into the bowl. Add a pinch of salt, a few gratings of the lemon’s zest and as much olive oil as you fancy. Finally roughly chop the tomatoes, add to the mix and stir it all gently.
Take the avocado, split it in two and remove the stone. Fill the cavity with a simple vinaigrette and place a large dollop of the crab on the side. Done.
All that remains is to light a candle, sit down opposite a loved one and give thanks for something as simple, as romantic and generously life affirming as a simple Amalfi lemon.
Buon appetito, as Bruno might say…
Suppliers
Moxons Fishmonger, Bute Street, South Kensington
Giacy Ltd
