Spiked food

Urchin hunting in the Cyclades

I’d never even seen a spiky sea urchin before, much less eaten one.

How would something that looks pretty keen not to be eaten taste? More importantly, which bit do you eat?  These thoughts occupied me as I watched them slowly moving around inside a plastic bag, pulsing their spikes as if they were fidgeting to get comfortable.

This clutch of urchins had been prised off the seabed by our host Andreas, whilst snorkelling off the north coast of the Greek island of Milos. He’d steered us in his kaiki, a traditional Greek fishing boat he’d named Perseas, clad only in a pair of shorts and a deep tan. Here is a man who enjoys his work, we thought.

Volcanic cookery

We’d passed by the geological wonders of a smaller neighbouring island, Kimolos. Our journey took us past weird sights: volcanically formed rock cliffs streaked through with rusted iron reds and sulphuric yellows. Mining companies make serious money extracting the minerals from Milos, and the thermal heat from this former volcano still warms some parts of the sea on the south coast. There’s even a restaurant at the resort of Paleohori that cooks its food by burying it in the sand.

Milos is part of the Cyclades group of islands and lies 100 miles away from the massive port of Piraeus in Athens. There’s a small beach, lots of feral cats and a tiny high street. There’s not been much action here since the Venus de Milo was discovered on the island in 1820, swiped by the French and then stuck in the Louvre.

We’d come here with Andreas on the promise of eating fresh sea urchins: an ancient delicacy in this part of the world. Urchins are prickly animals. Small bundles of sharp spines that sit on the seabed, they’re closely related to starfish. Fossils date back 450m years, and even Aristotle had something to say on them in his History of Animals. Edible kinds live in the North Atlantic too, but are rarely scoffed – usually, they’re shipped to Japan, although in Maine they’re still known as ‘Whore’s Eggs’.

Beachside dining

Our stop for lunch was at the kind of Mediterranean beach that you have to pepper with terms like ‘idyllic.’ They’re clichés for a reason. Totally isolated the cove was hidden by the cliffs until we were about 100 metres away. The only other life we saw during our stop was a couple of goats, who plodded past us away up into the hills. Once Perseas had been anchored in the bay, Andreas made for the beach in a dinghy to get the barbecue going. While the marinated pork steaks were sizzling, he donned his snorkelling mask, crossed himself three times for good hunting luck and went under the water, plastic carrier bag and serious-looking knife in hand.

Coming back ashore, he’d also found some moss which is used to surround the urchins and keep them wet and alive until the moment of preparation, keeping them as fresh as possible. Once we’d dusted off the meat and washed it down with some wine, Andreas set to work opening them up. Though some people use gloves to hold them whilst doing this, and travel guides warn of the dangers of stepping on them and getting the spines stuck in your feet, Andreas seemed unfazed by gripping them as he stuck the knife in. “This is my hand for this,” he explained, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Eating the urchin

Once the urchin was open and the seawater tipped out, its orange insides were given a quick squirt of lemon and scraped away from the shell with bread. It’s similar in flavour to a sophisticated, salty fish paste. It tastes good, if you can forget that what you’re eating are their ovaries.

With our full bellies and the gentle bobbing of the boat as we headed back to Pollonia, it was easy to give in to the temptation of a snooze as the light on the day faded. We’d feasted on one of the sea’s most unusual denizens and lived to tell the tale. Would we ever come back for more? Hard to say. But I expect that Andreas and his special urchin hand certainly will.

Want to sail to Milos for some urchins? The one-day boat trip was 45 Euros per person, and you can book here