THE 1906 edition of Petit Larousse, the concise version of the French food bible, contains a recipe for sauce de claporte, which, the author assures us, is an excellent accompaniment to fried flatfish. It is said that the French language can make any foodstuff appear appetising and this is a case in point. Claporte is the French word for woodlouse. Although this may seem an extreme example of French culinary thriftiness, it does make vague gastronomic sense. The woodlouse is not an insect, after all, but a land-based crustacean, a relative of the langoustine and the lobster.
Despite the best efforts of the French and of Victorian eccentric Vincent Holt (the author of 1885 cookery book Why Not Eat Insects?, who thought woodlice tasted like ‘superior shrimps’ and recommended serving them in an omelette, possibly as a starter before a main course of curried cockchafers), eating woodlice has never caught on. Not even in the animal kingdom. Hedgehogs turn their noses up at woodlice and birds spit them out. This is because, unlike the crayfish and the crab, the woodlouse secretes ammonia through its shell, which gives it the scent of a public convenience.
Yet, despite this unfortunate habit, there is something endearing about the woodlouse. It is small and vulnerable, quiet and unassuming (novelist Victor Hugo likened the critters to socially awkward hermits). As it scurries from its hidey-holes beneath stones and rotting wood, jointed antennae blindly tapping the air, it appears nervous and as incapable of travelling in a straight line as a donkey that has feasted on fermented apples. Even its appearance in our homes is harmless —it carries no diseases and does not burrow into healthy wood. Indeed, it may even give us an early warning of encroaching damp or signal the need to have our gutters cleared.
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