A Supper That Tastes of the Tide

There is a particular kind of British evening that seems made for a bowl of mussels: the light going early, a wind coming off the water, and the smell of the harbour still in your coat. Mussels are the most generous thing in the sea. They are inexpensive, quick to cook, and forgiving enough that a modest cook can produce something that tastes like a much grander occasion.

This is the version I make most often, and it has never let me down. Shallots softened in butter, a glass of dry white wine, a lid, three or four minutes of steam, then a little cream and a great deal of parsley. The whole thing takes less time than the rice you might serve beside it, and the broth left in the bottom of the bowl is the real prize.

Buying Mussels With Confidence

Start with about 2kg of live mussels to feed four people generously, or 1kg for two with bread and a salad. Buy them from a fishmonger or a proper wet fish counter where they are kept cold and damp, never sitting in a puddle of their own liquid.

Look for shells that are closed, or that close promptly when you tap them. A few gaping ones are normal — they are breathing — but if a shell stays open after a sharp tap, discard it. The mussels should smell clean and briny, of the sea and nothing else. Any that smell sour or ammoniacal should go straight back.

British rope-grown mussels are superb and increasingly available all year. The old rule about only eating shellfish in months containing the letter R still has some truth in it: wild mussels spawn in the warmer months and can be thin and watery. Farmed mussels are more consistent, but autumn and winter remain the finest time to eat them. Avoid any you have gathered yourself from a beach unless you have checked local authority notices about water quality and algal blooms. It is not worth the risk.

Cleaning and Debearding

This is the part most people rush, and it is the part that decides whether your broth tastes of the sea or of the grit in your sink.

• Tip the mussels into a large bowl of cold water and swirl them about. Repeat with fresh water two or three times until the water runs clean. Do not leave them soaking for hours — they will drown and lose their sweetness.
• Scrub each shell with a stiff brush or the back of a knife, scraping off barnacles, sand and any little tufts of seaweed.
• Pull off the beard — the wiry, fibrous strand that emerges from the seam of the shell. Grip it with a cloth or your thumb and tug it firmly towards the hinge, not straight out. Some mussels have almost none; leave it until just before cooking, as removing it too early shortens their shelf life.
• Discard any shell that is cracked, chipped or heavy with mud, and any that refuses to close.

Keep the cleaned mussels in a colander in the fridge, covered with a damp cloth, and cook them the same day.

The Broth, and What Goes In It

For 2kg of mussels you will need:

• 50g unsalted butter, plus a knob for finishing
• 3 banana shallots, finely chopped
• 2 cloves of garlic, sliced thinly
• 200ml dry white wine — something crisp and unoaked, and good enough that you would drink the rest of the bottle
• 100ml double cream
• A large handful of flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
• A few sprigs of thyme, a bay leaf, black pepper, and a squeeze of lemon

No salt until the end. Mussels bring their own.

Three Minutes of Steam

Use your largest pan — one with a tight-fitting lid — and resist the temptation to crowd it. If your pan is small, cook the mussels in two batches and combine them at the end.

Melt the butter over a medium heat and sweat the shallots with a pinch of salt for five or six minutes until soft and translucent, not coloured. Add the garlic, thyme and bay and cook for another minute, until it smells sweet. Pour in the wine and let it bubble and reduce by about half.

Tip in the mussels, give the pan one firm shake to settle them, clamp on the lid and turn the heat up. Steam for three to four minutes, shaking the pan once or twice. They are done the moment the shells have opened. Anything still shut after five minutes should be thrown away — it was dead before it went in.

Lift the mussels into warm bowls with a slotted spoon. Stir the cream into the pan juices, let it bubble for a minute or two, then taste and adjust with lemon, pepper and a little salt. Throw in the parsley and the last knob of butter, swirl, and pour over the mussels.

Serving, and the Last of the Broth

Serve with good bread — a sourdough or a crusty white loaf for mopping — or with chips and mayonnaise if you are feeling generous, or with a bowl of steamed new potatoes and a sharp green salad. A dry cider works as well as the wine.

One last piece of kitchen sense: eat mussels the day you buy them, keep cooked leftovers in the fridge for no more than a day, and reheat them gently rather than boiling them back to life. The broth, if any survives, makes a wonderful base for a fish stew the following evening. That, in the end, is what coastal cooking is about — nothing wasted, and the taste of the tide carried through to the next meal.