Blue Crab - Not exactly a Florida exclusive, but these crabs, are one of the staples of the state’s Southwestern corner, the area where the Everglades trails off into a pebbled stretch of saltwater swamp known as the Ten Thousand Islands. Eaten in crab cake form at Joanie’s (photo above), a notable destination if there ever was one, where the cakes are served pounded flat and with minimal breading, shaped more like a burger patty than the spheroid Maryland version (which, come to think of it, are also burger shaped).
Conch Fritters - Another classic use for conch, padded out with milk and cornmeal, breaded and fried, a bit closer to a traditional hush puppy than the Cracked Conch eaten further up in Fort Myers last year.
Fishes - A trio of odd, meaty fishes, all of them locally abundant and rarely shipped elsewhere, define the local seafood here, showing up in a variety of styles both Southern-influenced and nondescriptly American (blackened, grilled, and breaded, most commonly). The Hogfish, named after its elongated snout, was my favorite of the three, not just for its taste but also the fact that it often seems to resemble a friendly cartoon version of itself. While I’ve eaten both Grouper and Dolphin-Fish before, I’ve never seen them in as overflowing abundance as I did in the Keys, where they had the added benefit of being fairly affordable, a boon considering the place otherwise isn’t very cheap. The latter is known in these parts simply as “Dolphin,” which leads to the mistaken conclusion by many that they’re dining on man’s best aquatic friend. The fact that this doesn’t stop them seems to me a bit suspect, although I guess the loose laws of the sea may also apply to the guilt-free consumption of otherwise beloved mascots (tuna can assurances notwithstanding).
Native to the island, and originally sold throughout the country, Key Limes thrived until a hurricane wiped out the entire seasonal crop, at which point they were quickly replaced on the market by a substitute. Despite being mostly produced in Mexico (they’re also known as Mexican lime), these imposter Key Limes successfully supplanted the original version long before most of us were even born. This transition is further complicated by the fact that both the original Key Lime and the Mexican Lime are descendants of a variant first developed in Asia, as a result of cross-breeding the Papeda and the Citron. The more common Persian Lime, meanwhile, is an even-younger child of the breeding process, in which Key Lime was combined with a Lemon, presumably to create a fruit capable of producing more juice. Yet another reminder of the dizzyingly complex world of citrus (and edible botany in general).
It follows then that it’s now nearly impossible to determine who, if anyone, is still using these obscure native limes, and while Road Food pointed me to one place, I was dissuaded by its white tablecloth status and limited operating hours and ended up foraging elsewhere. The ultimate destination was Kermit’s, a pie-specializing dessert and coffee shop with an enviable URL, whose pies are available around the island and beyond. Digging in, I noticed a taste that was conspicuously different from that of standard limes, one which reminded me of Filipino Calamansi juice. After discovering that calamansi is a close relative of the calamondin, a kumquat/mandarin hybrid that’s heavily grown down in the Keys, I’ve started to wonder if that was the source of the taste, and if the actual difference between the classic Key Lime and the newfangled version is anything more than local lore. Whatever the case, it was a fine slice of pie, suitably harbor-side, where my traveling companion spotted a breaching dolphin (I was too immersed in the pie), a creature that thankfully went unmolested (and uneaten) by the several ear-shattering booze cruises skulking around the otherwise peaceful bay.
Stone Crab - Like the Clue Crab, this hearty crustacean is a local staple, although Stone Crabs seem more exclusively associated with Southern Florida, to the extent that the animal is itself named after the state. The version I sampled, at City Seafood in Everglades City, was delicious, served cold with a basic honey mustard sauce and nothing else. Their thick shells can, however, be a bit hard to crack (I earned a battle scar on my finger breaking down the jaggedly sectioned claws). This would also be the place to mention the Golden Crab, a local fisherman’s favorite that’s appeared sporadically on the market in the last decade or so, and which had again gone underground during the time of my visit. As with fruit, it’s interesting to consider how much the particulars of the seafood we consume depend on the fitfully changing market of fisherman’s hauls, not to mention larger environmental and weather conditions.
I would also like to note that prior to lunch, I visited the historic Rod and Gun Club, located nearby in downtown Everglades City, a sleepy burg whose central sector reminded me of a Wild West main drag at the moment the gunslingers roll into town. Used as a production base for the 1958 film Wind Across the Everglades (worth a watch, even if locals apparently found its depiction of native swamp culture ridiculous), and visited by countless presidents, celebrities and luminaries in its hundred-some-odd year existence, the place is a living, breathing piece of history. I enjoyed a cold beer in the back barroom, where, in one of those fabulous Never in New York moments, our diminutive Cuban-American bartender sat down at our table and proceeded to offer a bit of languid jawing about the weather (“too hot”) and her brief experience visiting family up in New York (“too cold”) before retreating out to the back patio to smoke a cigarette.