Like a fine wine, Palamós red shrimp have a denomination of origin.
I’m afraid I have to start with a big mea culpa. I was mocking the shrimp of Palamós, Spain, and saying that although people were willing to shell out a chunk of their salaries for them (they often sell for €150 a kilo, or about $71 a pound), they were no more than just spiny brinies. Well, it turns out that they are the most famous red shrimp in the world.
Palamós red shrimp have a denomination of origin–like fine wines or hatch chiles. While in that Catalonian city an hour-and-a-half northeast of Barcelona, a guard in the parking lot where my husband and I left our car confided that we were visiting Palamós on an important day because the traditional fish auction was taking place.
“It’s ancient and goes back to the 13th century,” he announced proudly.
“Can we go there?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, it’s closed to the public,” the guard answered.
I am originally from New York, which conferred on me an audiological oddity: When someone says “no” I hear “yes.”
We strode to the port and kept asking people who we thought might be fishermen where the auction was. Every one of them said it was closed, that we could not get in, and that there was a viewers’ gallery, but it was locked. I decided to do some conversational foreplay before inquiring about the auction. I zeroed in on one man who had soulful eyes, kind of like those of a striped bass.
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“Hello,” I said. “Are you a fisherman?”
“Yes.”
“Has this been a good year for you?”
He sighed and said things were rough. The weather was cold, the sea was rough, and the prices were low. I told him I was sorry to hear that. I meant it. Then I asked about the fish auction. He said it wasn’t open to visitors. It was my turn to sigh. I told him we had flown all the way from the USA to go to a fish auction. He rolled his bass eyes and said, “Follow me.”
He didn’t take us up to the viewing gallery, but instead, he took us right into the action. He whispered that we must stay pressed against the wall like wallpaper and not engage with the auction. We thanked him profusely but silently, since wallpaper doesn’t speak.
We were in a very large room with a pit below. In front of us and on the other side of the pit were seated restaurant owners and fishmongers. They each had a phone, a notebook, and remote signaling device.
Down in the pit, a conveyor belt carried crate after crate filled with fish. Each crate had a single kind of fish, from white fish to octopus, sardines, rap or angler, about twenty other varieties, and then big, famous red shrimp. Each crate was video recorded, and the photo flashed on a large screen with the name of the boat, the kind of fish, and a starting price. Each crate has a starting price. It could be €150 or €15. And the bidding began on the remotes. It happened very fast, and for each crate, the lowest bid price won. Then, the purchased crate moved on. A piece of paper was dropped onto it with its certificate of sustainability and quality control, and then it was placed on the next crate. Bidding happened while buying agents consulted on their phones with focused energy as though they were purchasing Renoirs.
And it all happened with dizzying speed. The buyers came from all over, and all seemed happy with their catch. They had bought low and could sell high.
1. Blue trays of red shrimp being conveyed to the Palamós fish auction.2. Bidders compete at the Palamós fish auction.Paul Ross
It took us a long time to figure the system out. It’s like a game of chicken. Let’s say you are a buyer and want sardines. A blue crate whizzes by; you know and trust the captain of the named boat, and you want to pay €2 per kilo. The bidding starts at €15. You wait until it goes down to €2 and activate the remote bid. It’s yours. Unless someone bid €3 or €4 and got it before you. Then you lose. So, you are gambling that yours will be the winning bid. If you are not, you don’t get the fish. If you get it, the bidder next to you may be disappointed because she was holding out for a price of €1.
Unlike the shouting and veins popping out on the necks of the floor brokers at the New York Stock Exchange, the fish market atmosphere is quiet and tense, as everyone has to concentrate. The only physical display of emotion or discomfort I saw was the young bidder sitting in front of me. He stood up and shoved his hand into his pants. I saw the shaking that rocked his back. I hope I never eat the fish he bought.
When all the crates had been sold, the bidders disbanded for a while, and my husband was allowed to take a few photos. Then, the wallpaper slid out of the room. We walked to the nearby docks. Fish were being loaded off the boats by burly fishermen. I struck up a conversation with one of them. He said there are 24 boats and four of them are night boats. His is one of them. They are very influenced by the moon.
”I’ll bet you want a full moon,” I said, feeling smart.
“Oh no,” he replied. “When the moon is full, the light is too diffuse, and the fish are spread out. It’s all a question of how the light of the moon presses on the water.” He said they fish from 500 to 800 meters deep (1,500 to 2,400 feet). He’s no shallow guy.
The next thing I knew, we were at the center of a group of fishermen. Our new acquaintance Luis said he retired after 40 years but has never been busier. He gives talks to people about the red shrimp of Palamós and fishing. I could not refrain from asking if he liked fish, and he said he loved it. In contrast, folks we met who worked in Hershey, Pennsylvania, said they could hardly look at chocolate. But these fishermen happily eat their work.
1. Luis, a former fisherman, provides an insider’s view of Palamós’ traditional fish auction.Paul Ross 2. Rap (aka Angler fish and “What is that!?”), Palamós fish auction. 3. Fish monger at the fresh fish market adjacent to the Palamós auction.
We became buddies with Luis, and he said he’d take us somewhere off-limits. He brought us back into the auction building and introduced us to the biologist who vets the fish. For 12 years, she has inspected red shrimp, octopus, and all the finned ones. She does so in very stylish glasses. She said they fish where there is little pollution. “Tuna, for example, has mercury,” she explained, “but our fish have little heavy metal or contaminants.”
Then Luis led us into a large adjacent room. The conveyor belt had carried the blue bins and purchased fish into this room, and workers expeditiously packed and piled the fish for each buyer. The fish had been on ice ever since it was off-loaded from the boats and immediately sent by conveyor belt for bidding.
Luis excitedly told us that the angler fish, called rap here, has a little antenna. When it wiggles in the deep waters, its top looks like a worm. Little innocent fish are attracted by it. They swim close, and the rap opens its big mouth and sucks them in like a carnivorous vacuum cleaner. He illustrated this by lifting the antenna for us.
Then Luis parted a large plastic barrier curtain, and we were in a fish market that was open to the public. They came to buy the world’s best red shrimp and a wide array of colorful fish. The large shrimp sold out in minutes. We had never visited a complex and varied fish market with such fresh seafood.
Next to the auction building was a lineup of vans imprinted with the names of some of the most well-known restaurants in Catalonia. As crates of fish were being loaded into each of them, I was agog that within hours, diners hundreds of miles away would be savoring “sustainable prawns from Palamós.”
Mea culpa again for referring to them—according to a huge sign in the auction house—as merely the world’s best red shrimp.
