Cracked Conch Cracks My Heart Wide Open

Lime. Salt. Blue water close and reaching to the horizon. Let's face it, the first time I had cracked conch, I was set up to love it. But over the years, I've had it many more times, and it's become one of those "vacation" meals, you know, the one that you're like, "Aah, NOW there it is. I'm really here" kind of taste bud experience?

Well, it was already dark on a Sunday evening, and I was here in the land of Lowcountry marsh, not on vacation on a dock, my eyes not filling with the Caribbean blue that I crave just before I go to sleep. Still, I was in for a treat, I knew. There are some meals that you know you are not going to be able to recreate. Fine. But to eat a meal that you know is only a mirage as you're still chewing is a kind of desperate joy.

The conch was from the Bahamian out island of Andros. It was clean and milky white, not gray like the stuff you can get here. It was imported on a personal flight, a checked baggage of deliciousness that was worth any customs hassle.

We were about to have cracked conch from a home kitchen. First, we had to flatten it "like it's done something to your Mama." Pound it thin, sprinkle salt and pepper directly on the meat, dredge it in an egg wash first, then flour laced with Adobo.

And at every step, squeeze a lime on it. Before the dredging. After the dredging. After frying (which you do until it reaches golden brown deliciousness.) And serve it with a slice.

Now, at this point, I always liked a little heat, but I didn't realize that I was working with a new level. What new level? This:

Matouk's Calypso Sauce is the new level

Good stuff. One drop, awesome. Bring it. Two drops, of course. I'm a professional. Three drops, oh, I've gone too far. Is it hot in here or is it just me?

But the cracked conch was ... heartbreaking. With every bite, I knew I couldn't cook this again, make this happen again. This was it.