My steamed crab crouched on the table in front of me in a blaze of sunset-orange, its claws bearded with moss-like fur, its legs fringed with spiky yellow hair. It looked as though it might scuttle away at any moment. I prepared for the attack. Eating hairy crabs is a messy business. You cannot avoid a tussle with shell and flesh: crunch, suck, crack, lick, probe, slurp. The restaurant had provided an array of stainless-steel tools, along with dry napkins, wet napkins, plastic gloves and toothpicks. So I crushed the legs with the crushers and poked out their tender meat, excavated the frondy white flesh of the claws. Then I dipped the meat into a saucer of ginger-infused vinegar before popping it into my mouth.

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