I am told that tonight is the Symi Shrimp Festival. Held annually up in the village square, there is usually traditional costume, music and dancing, plus free Symi shrimps provided by the municipality. I’m not sure of the start time.
For my part, I’m afraid I am not a great lover of these delicacies, which you can find on other islands under their own local names. What I should say, I suppose, is they are not fond of me, and that’s odd. When I was young and we lived by the sea in Littlestone, my brothers and I would go shrimping with our nets, bring home our catch, and our mother would cook them for us. We also had whelk sellers in those days and other seafood available from peripatetic vendors on the sea wall selling small cartons of shellfish eaten with a wooden fork. (Not to mention the toffee apples and Punch & Judy shows on the beach, deckchairs and a classic 1960s amusement arcade, and this was only Littlestone. For a reference, see my comedy novel, ‘Remotely’.)
However, we grow up and things change. When I first came to Symi in 1996, I went to a village taverna (now long gone), and one night, I thought I better try the shrimps everyone was raving about. So I did. They were okay, but I found this taverna’s version strong on rosemary, and the whole dish rather rich, and I only got through about half the plateful. That night, I woke up around 3.00 a.m. with the urgent need to be in the next room. So urgently, in fact, that I didn’t have time to turn on the lights. As I was in a studio with only one room and a bathroom, and I was in bed, you can guess which room. About half an hour later, I gave myself the all-clear to venture back to bed, which I did via the fridge because I had a dreadful thirst. There were two cans of Fanta lemon and two bottles of water in the fridge, so I dived in, only to see by the light, that I had taken on the look of something from the Quatermass Experiment. We’re talking blotches, and welts, and red patches, my head was dripping with sweat, and something was clearly wrong. Two Fanta lemons and a whole bottle of water later, and I crawled back to bed with visions of airlifts and saline drips.
Eight o’clock came, and I woke as a completely new person, purged, refreshed, and feeling very lucky to have survived. Hence, these days, I can not bear to go near even the smell of Symi shrimps. It’s not localised either. I once had oysters at Selfridges, and was ill for two weeks.
However, if you are coming to the festival, or simply eating this local delicacy while here on the island, you probably know you don’t have to peel the little blighters. I’ve seen people try and do this, and to tell the waiter to Foxtrot Oscar when he explains you eat them shell and all. They are not always that cheap, because there is only a limited supply harvested once a year in spring, I am told, so it’s up to you whether you buy a load from a taverna only to take them home and feed them to the stray cats. Something else I’ve seen done.
I will be venturing out today, though, for the first time in a few days, because I am feeling 90% back to no-cold status, and Neil and I are having lunch with Harry in Yialos. That’s after we’ve paid the tax bills, the accountant, one of the health insurances, and picked up a couple of packages. Needless to say, I shan’t be having Symi shrimps.
