Scalloping Gourmets

. . . Then this one day we went out on a scallop boat called the Cat-O’-Nine off the coast of Nelson. This was in New Zealand. The sky over Tasman Bay was cloudless but it was cold enough that everyone was wearing rain gear and polar-fleece jackets, except the skipper, who wore shorts and a sweatshirt. After awhile, one of the fisherman lowered a scallop dredge off the stern and 30 minutes later, when he hauled it up, it was chock-a-block with the detritus from the sea floor including a mound of scallops. Hundreds of them. Thirty or 40 each and there were eight of us on the boat.

Before sorting through the pile and chucking the undersized shells and the ocean’s odds and ends, like starfish and sea snails, back into the sea, Brian, a leather-faced crew member, used a short bladed knife to unhinge the jaws of a shell and, after quickly slicing out the pearl-colored meat with its orange sack, offered it up to anyone willing to swallow a still-dripping scallop raw.

Four of us said, “Sure, what the heck.” Annie, Leigh, Grant and me. I went first. The raw scallop was the size of a garlic bulb and tasted like sea water and sweet stone fruit. Like swallowing a salty peach. The other three followed while everyone else looked on half amused, half horrified. Brian said we were now members of the Seafood Unencumbered by Sauces, Herbs or Impious-Cooking Club.

“What the devil is that?” asked Annie in her Kiwi accent.

“It’s SUSHI,” Brian said, laughing. “Haven’t you ever heard of sushi?” Because we’d fallen for his little joke, he offered us another raw scallop. They go down easier the second time around.

That was a month ago. To celebrate our scallop-swallowing exploits, and to exchange tales and photos of our week in New Zealand, the four of us decide to get together after work one day at a little Japanese restaurant in Corona del Mar, Gen Kai, which we’d informally established as the new Southern California headquarters of the SUSHI Club. There are still only four members in our club and we have neither officers nor purpose other than to ingest small plates of raw shellfish and seafood.

Leigh, who is in her 20s and works for a public relations firm in Los Angeles, wants to order tempura. I love fried shrimp, she says. Annie, who is from Wellington and was the organizer of our little scallop fishing expedition, tilts her head down and gives Leigh the New Zealand stink-eye.

“It’s just not tickety-boo, is it,” she says. Everything with Annie is either tickety-boo, which is a good thing, or not tickety-boo, which is a bad thing.

“Oh, come on,” Leigh says.

“Fine,” Annie says. “But I’m not having any. It’s against club rules.”

“Annie, we have no rules,” Grant says.

“Exactly my point,” Annie replies.

We order large bottles of Kirin and bowls of soybeans to snack on while Annie tells a story about two aging New Zealand hippies, Trude and John Paice, who own a strange little B&B; near Auckland called Bethell’s Beach Cottages. Annie explains that John, who ambles barefoot through the weedy grounds scratching his stomach beneath a faded tie-dyed T-shirt, is a carpenter by trade, blacksmith by hobby and magpie by nature, which is evident by the two cottages the couple rents out. One is constructed from scrap lumber and fixtures carted off by John from his occasional stints as a carpenter and looks like an elaborate children’s fort. The other is a converted chicken coop--a “chuck house,” John calls it--and guests sleep where the hens used to lay their eggs. John calls the chicken coop the honeymoon cottage.

“But that’s not the funny thing,” Annie says as fragrant, steamy bowls of miso soup are put before us. “John is also a bit of a pyromaniac and likes to make fireworks and rockets, which are totally illegal in New Zealand.” Annie says that during a recent lunch, served on the deck of their home overlooking the black sands of Bethell’s Beach, John held up his hand, which was missing a finger, and said, in a very serious tone, “I have a problem with rockets. Most of them blow up on the launch pad. Would you like to see one?” And when everyone rushed to decline his invitation, his wife, Trude, said, “It’s quite all right. He’s actually very safety conscious.” To which John replied, “Well, safety is important.” And then displaying his mangled hand again, added, “But an option.”

The plates of raw seafood and crispy tempura are rushed to the table by several servers. We have gone overboard. There are chewy morsels of octopus and eel, fingers of yellowtail and whitefish, rolls of sea urchin and salmon. And, of course, raw scallops. All marvelously tickety-boo.

The evening wanes. The line of people waiting for a seat at the sushi bar has evaporated and we are the last ones left in the dining room. The best delicacies--the orange slivers of salmon draped like a coat over sticky rice and the sweet-tasting scallops--are gone, but there are still several sushi tidbits left. We are having trouble finding room for even one more bite.

Then Sandy, a friend of Grant’s, bursts into the restaurant, having seen us through the front window as he was walking by. Introductions are made. Sandy pulls up a chair. We’re all talking but I notice Sandy eyeing one of the leftovers. Without saying anything, I reach for the plate and hold it out to him. He nods and grabs it with two fingers and we all watch the quizzical look on his face as he chews and tries to identify exactly what it is he has just put in his mouth.

“It’s eel,” Annie says. “What do you think?”

Sandy is still chewing, but he gives us that look that says, not bad.

Annie laughs. “I move that Sandy be made a member of our club,” she says.

“I second it,” I say. Everyone is in favor. Sandy wants to know what the club is. Annie tells him the name. “What the heck is that?” he says. We all laugh. “It’s SUSHI,” Annie says, pleased with herself. “Haven’t you ever heard of sushi?”

To celebrate, I offer Sandy a raw surf clam. He downs it with equanimity.

“We’ve got our first new member,” Grant says, patting Sandy on the back.

“Tickety-boo,” Annie says. “Meeting adjourned.”

Gen Kai, 3344 W. Coast Highway, Corona del Mar (949) 675-0771. Also at 15435 Jeffrey Road, #119, Irvine, (949) 786-3420.

Mea Culpa: Anyone who has dined at the Arches in Newport Beach knows that the dapper gentleman manning the front desk most nights is Gibby, not Jimmy, as we referred to him in our column last week.

Gib Fernandez, who has worked for owner Dan Marcheano for almost 18 years, didn’t mind our miscue. “Everyone is calling me Jimmy now,” he says. “I kind of like it.” Sorry, Gib.

David Lansing’s column is published on Fridays in Orange County Calendar. His e-mail address is occalendar@latimes.com.