What's Cooking With Dive? Οκταποδι Κρασατο

It's all Greek to me.
Οκταποδι Κρασατο - Octopodes Krasato, that is … one of my all-time favourite dishes.
Simple, fun and so intensely delicious it could blow your tastebuds clear into the middle of next week, this - like a long evening spent with good friends at a Greek seafront restaurant - is leisurely, beautiful and full of wonderful memories.

Enough of scene-setting. Pinnies on!

We're back with these sweet little guys today. Octopodes. Yummy, scrummy octopus babies to be precise.
Sorry to gross you out on your birthday, Lynn, but this one's going to be moist. A traditional Greek delight; a rich, herby, red-wine and tomato and olive and octopus stew that needs only the addition of some deliciously crusty fresh bakery bread to sop up the slop.
Eight-legged Heaven!

This requires a completely different approach to my last octopodal outing. This time we're gonna sweat those little suckers in their own tears until they squeal (yes, really … read on).
Heat a good-sized stew pot over a medium flame and toss in the cute little babies.
No oil! Not yet.

Stir 'em around for a bit (don't worry; they tend not to stick) and after a minute they'll start to cry.
Little, pinkish baby octopode tears will leak out of them.

Eventually, you'll get about this much. Keep the heat on medium and just stir from time to time until the liquid evaporates, keeping your very best olive oil handy for that moment when there's none left.
You'll know the moment is coming when the poor babies start to squeal at you; letting out air from their mysterious nether parts not unlike a screaming lobster.

When the moment arrives, whap in a good gloop of gloriously wonderful single-farmhouse vintage olive oil and stir things around until the li'l guys are well and truly oiled up.

Next up, toss in a couple of rough-chopped shallots and a fat clove of organic French purple garlic, squished and chopped finely.
Stir this lot around until the shallot starts to sweat down and become clear.

Oh, and you'll want a boffo-quality robust red wine … I'm using - as you see - a Rioja Gran Reserva because (a) it's perfect for the dish and (b) I'll have something mind-buggeringly delicious to drink with my meal.
It should be uncorked, aired and waiting ready beside your hob for the next bit.

Octopodes can be contrary little bastards. Let 'em play in a pan all by themselves and they'll happily not stick, but add oil, shallots and garlic and they get all stroppy and start tossing their toys out of the pram.
We're talking messy.
We're talking lots of cack up the sides of the pan and all over the base.

But …

Yay for one of my favourite moments in life: de-glazing!
Now is the moment to add your red wine. Little by little, all the while scrubbing furiously around the pan to get every last bit of that intensely-flavoured brown gack assimilated into the wine.
I've added almost a third of a bottle here, which leaves me plenty to drink after. Yum!

Right!
We've had the fun part; now comes the relaxation.
Add to the pot:
- rather a lot of ripped-to-shreds basil leaves and a generous helping of oregano.
- One tin of organic plum tomatoes, chopped up small.
- A fat squirt of sun-dried tomato purée.
- A handful of olives of whatever sort you fancy/have to hand.
- Half a glass of good-quality red wine vinegar.
- A bay leaf.
- A small amount of crushed black peppercorns.

Reduce the heat to your lowest simmer, pop on the lid - nice and tight - clean up your kitchen, then go and amuse yourself for an hour.

Check from time to time to see if it's thickening too early (you'll need to add more wine) and to test when the octopodes are done.
Between an hour and an hour-fifteen they should be tender enough to be easily pierced with a skewer, as soft and delicate as perfectly cooked pasta.
Remove the lid for the final few minutes. Add a small handful of flat-leaf parsley and increase the heat a little.
We want to reduce the sauce until it is the consistency of a slightly runny paste. Thick and rich, just like a banker, only not so nasty.
As it thickens and intensifies it should turn the colour of Homer's "wine-dark sea" … indeed this wonderful dish is probably at least as old as the Iliad and may well have stained the lips of the old man himself, all those thousands of years ago …

Now's the time to break out a side plate and fill it with delicious, crusty, fresh country bread, to pour out a generous glass of that beautiful wine and to inhale the aroma from the pan and give your tastebuds a whopping stiffy!

You've all eaten this in Greek restaurants (or at least you should have done if you've lived). You know how intensely delicious it is, and home-made it is even better!
Plus, with home-made you don't get the staff strumming their bouzoukis and trying to sing Nana Mouskouri songs at you afterwards.

Enjoy!