Walter and his elusive brethren, the pacific razor clam, once again lured our family out to the wind-whipped Washington coast for a nighttime dig in the dead of winter. The siren song of a fresh, hot bowl of razor clam chowder had even the littlest members of our family suited up and ready for a freezing, wet battle on the beach.
An hour and a half's driving, a spendy-ish hotel stay, a decent case of clam-gunner's bursitis and a touch of windburn (for good measure) yielded us naught but a lone clam. Such are the risks taken by a modern-day forager. A whole lot of planning, driving and specialized gear guarantee you exactly nothing. We weren't the only folks striking out though, and something about failure on a large scale lessens the sting of being outwitted by a 4 inch bivalve.
And so, our proposed dinner of razor clam chowder was instead, demoted to potato soup. Walter alone was sauteed and eaten by Billy, our resident shellfish stalker.
He was reportedly "clamtastic".
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