Contrary to enduring myth, lobsters are not immortal. They do die naturally, though they have no biological clock. In this, they are different from most living creatures: rather than age in a conventional sense, lobsters eventually succumb to the repeated, ever-more-exhausting effort to moult – that is, to shed and rebuild their formidable exoskeleton. In between dropping the old shell and growing a new one, their soft flesh is easy prey.
Mortality and such vulnerabilities aside, research points to lobsters’ adaptability and resilience. The Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, a non-profit body in Massachusetts, has found that where other sea creatures – corals among them – might corrode and dissolve, lobsters develop thicker shells in response to anthropogenic ocean acidification. (This is the process whereby the build-up of CO2 from human activity poisons marine life.) One separate study in Denmark discovered that the submerged rigging of off-shore windfarms was a popular breeding ground for lobsters – an environmental double scorer.
Scientific and advocacy battles continue over whether lobsters feel pain. They’re essentially insects, one side of the argument goes: they have no brain, no cortex; their thrashings when boiled alive (as they have been traditionally) are mere reflexes, not manifestations of suffering. There is, of course, as much literature to suggest the contrary. At the time of writing, New Zealand, Norway and Switzerland, all trendsetters for animal welfare, had banned the practice of scalding lobsters to death. The city of Parma in Italy, the nation’s gastronomic heartland and home to the European Food Safety Authority (EFSA), has done so by municipal ordinance. Similar legislation is in the pipeline elsewhere.
Given all this and until we know better, we strongly recommend erring on the side of humanity: please stun or kill your lobster before cooking it, even if the law where you are doesn’t say you must. Some jurisdictions also make it illegal to freeze a live lobster – all the more reason to get yours as fresh as possible.
Lobster should be almost smell-free, with the kind of marine fragrance that would be called vivifiante in French – briskly rejuvenating, in the way of a sea breeze. Since you’re unlikely to be able to stun your lobster electrically, a quick kill is achieved by plunging a chef’s knife into the base of the head, close to where it meets the “tail” (body), then swiftly bringing the knife down, splitting the head in half. Once cooked (watch out for overcooking lobster: it makes it disappointingly elastic), cut off the head. Turn the tail over, flatten it gently and press on the sides to break the shell and release the flesh. Now twist the claws off the knuckles. To get at the meat inside, whack each side of the claw two or three times with the knife. Wriggle the shell away, pulling carefully on the smaller pincer: it should come off with the tendon, leaving you with a whole, tender, sweet, claw-shaped piece of meat. The mess of lobster shells, together with any gooey leftovers, can be refrigerated for a day; use it to make shellfish stock or a bisque. One word on langoustines (or scampi – Nephrops Norvegicus). These are sometimes presented as a smaller variety of lobster but are more accurately described as a type of crab. Their nutritional profile reads like a supplement label – vitamin B12, selenium, potassium, copper, iodine, and all with very little fat content. Split them down the back and roast them in a hot oven for a couple of minutes, or until the flesh turns from translucent to just white, and no longer. Or steam or grill them. Serve them with a splash of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt flakes, or maybe a couple of capers and a dash of mandarin juice. Langoustines, that said, will be special-occasion stuff for most of us: the meat-to-weight ratio is barely 20 percent, against 50 percent or so for lobster. Their flavour is highly enticing, but their price is, alas, unenticingly high.
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