Conch Strength By Jen Karetnick Unlike the prisoners of pirates, once captured, conch will quite willingly walk the plank. In fact, it is their preferred method of escape – even if they do have only one foot. So perhaps it is more accurate to say that conch hope to hop the plank. Regardless, they are quite tenacious creatures. I witnessed their drive to survive while on a Belizean fishing boat called Talisman with Los Angeles chef Larry Nicola of Nic’s Restaurant & Martini Lounge, his sous chef, Jason Nunley, and assorted native cooks. Chef Nicola, or “Nic” as he prefers to be called, signed on in 2003 to launch the Restaurant at Luba Hati, a now-gone resort in Placencia Beach. He and his crew were the first in the area to update traditional recipes and ingredients and serve such “New Belizean” food as grilled lobster campenchana (a cousin to ceviche) or blackened snapper over an okra-plantain hash drizzled with parsley-habanero sauce. Among the perks for Nic, aside from imbibing such enticing coconut rum drinks called “Panty Rippers,” was the chef-exchange program he had instigated that allowed him to train the Belizeans in Los Angeles while Chef Nunley ran the kitchen at Luba Hati. At the time Nic was also, in accordance with Captain Frank “Frankie” Gagliano, coordinating culinary “cruises” on board the Talisman. Naturally he had to test the feasibility of such a plan by enjoying an occasional afternoon aboard himself. Thus the pearly, majestic queen conch, of which Nic and Nunley managed to procure quite a few. Though conch are endangered in some parts of the world like the Florida Keys, Belizeans are allowed to harvest them as long as they are of sufficient size and not in spawning season (July through September). Over the course of the afternoon, we might have piled fifteen or so in a bucket. Having turned my attention to a Belikan, the premium beer of Belize, I wasn’t sure at first what was making the scrabbling sound, followed by a distinct plop. A heron, inquiring about the catch of the day? Fellow snorkeler Tom from Chicago, burning his winter-white skin in the azure water, grabbing for the ladder of the Talisman? Then I witnessed one of the heavy shells, cream-and-pink as a bride, rock itself off the top of the heap as if pushed, scamper to the rail as fast as a relative to a snail can scamper, and heave itself overboard. In fact, it had been propelled – by its own muscular, callused foot, which is the conch’s main means of motion. Two more conchs, sensing our distraction, made the same charge; one succeeded. Unfortunately for the determined gastropods, once back in familiar territory they were just as easy to re-catch as they had been to snag the first time around. After all, it’s not as if they bite, sting or spray ink. Indeed they’re far savvier at flight than they are at resistance. That time we’d decided to shell them right away, preventing any further insurrections. Plus Nic had wanted Nunley to learn from the Belizeans how to retrieve a belly from the bowels of the spiked shell without ripping it to pieces, an art few American chefs have had the opportunity to master. Following the expert lead of the Belizeans, Nunley punched a hole through the spot of the shell that translates, roughly, to the back of a human’s neck. On his first go-round, it was a clean kill. Additional advantages to trimming the conch bellies on board included tossing the shells overboard, where they make homes for hermit crabs with Atlas complexes, and eating the “strength.” A clear gelatin tube that has some rather unclear reproductive function, the strength is, according to Belizeans, an aphrodisiac – but they only like to tell you that, especially if you’re a woman, after you’ve eaten it. In appearance, it looks like a baby eel. Having seen an example of the conch’s tremendous will, I didn’t see how it could hurt to try the salty, supposed delicacy (even if I was traveling solo); absorbing its “strength” could be the culinary equivalent of taking the animal as a personal totem. Nic and Nunley in particular seemed entranced by them – but what males wouldn’t be? – and Frankie was struck with the idea of making them into a dish. “Perhaps like spaghetti with a sauce,” he mused aloud. Chicagoan Tom, however, wasn’t keen on the idea of downing the wiggly tube. Perhaps that’s because we all confronted him with a sample as soon as he lifted himself back onto boat with “Try this!” – words that would make any one man against a unified, gastronomic front somewhat suspicious. He liked much better the curried “Trinidad chicken” and sweet potato salad that Frankie whipped up in the galley, and if Tom’s girlfriend Amy minded the loss of such an opportunity later that night, we will never know. When it comes to relying on conch for tropical bliss, a quick exit might just be the best policy. Love it? Hate it? Jen cares! (Sort of.) Let her know at Kavetchnik@aol.com. This article was previously published in The Drexel Online Journal, which is now defunct. © 2007 by Jen Karetnick. Please ask for permission before copying or distributing in any form.