Scampi

When I was sixteen I went to Aruba with my no longer babysitter but not yet quite a friend. She was twenty-four. We were supposed to be accompanied by my aunt but at the last minute a situation at work forced her to stay behind. We were deemed old enough and responsible enough to handle ourselves on vacation… We heard about this bar on the far side of the island that was supposed to have a great scene and equally great food and so one night we journeyed out there. It was a total Caribbean dive with fishnets and tackle adorning the walls. Yet it was also somehow cool with vibrant music and interesting people all around. We ordered the recommended shrimp scampi and cold beers. Then we settled in to watch the scene. When the shrimp arrived at the table it was momentous. The casseroles were sizzling. The shrimp were huge, cooked whole in their shells, split down their backs to clean them but also to allow the incredible garlicky, peppery butter to permeate the meat. They were simply amazing, incredibly hot, messy, faintly smoky and spicy, meaty and delicious. Eating them required the use of fingers and napkins and bread. It was a visceral experience. Perfect in many ways, it is a memory that has been blurred by time and yet those shrimp have followed me through the years, emerging every so often to tease me back onto the chase.
They were of course, never to be duplicated. Although when I returned home to New York City I ordered shrimp scampi several times hoping to find them again. The shrimp were never as big, usually shelled and somehow very polite on their china plates. The requisite butter and garlic existed but the intensity had faded. The worst of them were greasy and lacking in any actual shrimp flavor from the limp frozen specimens disguised in their sauce. Out at the clam shacks and seafood places on Long Island shrimp were second fiddle to lobsters and clams. They were usually good but fashioned into cocktails or fried into golden platters with potatoes. Different states had different specialties but never the dish that I sought. Eventually the memory faded, supplanted by new tastes and flavors as I explored the world of food.
Here in Colorado we are landlocked. Our seafood is flown in from all points and one day we got a shipment of shrimp from Florida. They were huge fat things that quietly tugged at my memory and set my creative juices flowing. They were split down the middle and cleaned. Then seared over an extremely hot grill but not cooked through. A sauce was made with a few drops of Fire&Smoke (our hotter sauce), crushed garlic, white wine, winter savory and butter. The grilled shrimp were added to the hot pan full of sauce to finish cooking and absorb the flavors. I had to peel the ones for the dining room, but we saved a few shelled ones in the kitchen for ourselves. The ones for the table were drained and served with braised marinated leeks, smoked applesauce and shiitake mushrooms. The ones for the kitchen were drowned in the remainder of the sauce and served with fingers, napkins and bread. They were almost perfect.