Grilled Shrimp Flambé au Pastis with Fennel and Potato Purée

This is the kind of plate you'd get at a good restaurant on the coast somewhere between Marseille and Cassis — shell-on shrimp, seared hard and fast, hit with a slug of pastis and set alight so the alcohol burns off and leaves behind nothing but concentrated anise and charred shell flavour, all of it landing on a silky purée that runs fennel and potato together into something that tastes like the south of France in a spoonful. It's dramatic without being fussy, and the whole thing comes together in about an hour.

How to cook

Start with the purée, because it's happy to sit warm while you deal with the shrimp. Peel the potatoes (400g) and cut them into even chunks. Trim the fennel bulbs (500g) — cut off the stalks, remove the tough outer layer if it's fibrous, and chop roughly. Save the feathery fronds for finishing. Put the potato and fennel together in a large saucepan, cover with cold salted water, and bring to a boil. Drop the heat to a steady simmer and cook for 20-25 minutes. The fennel takes longer than the potato to soften completely, so test the fennel with a knife — when it offers no resistance at all, everything is ready.

Drain thoroughly and tip the vegetables into a colander. Let them sit for a full 2 minutes to steam dry — excess water is the enemy of a good purée, and if you skip this step, the result will be thin and loose no matter how much butter you add. Pass them through a ricer or food mill back into the warm pan. A ricer gives you the smoothest result; a food mill is a close second. Don't use a food processor or blender — the mechanical action breaks the starch in the potato and turns the purée gluey and wallpaper- paste thick.

Stir in the butter (60g) first, letting it melt into the hot purée, then the warmed milk (150ml) in a steady stream, stirring constantly. Add the nutmeg (1/4 teaspoon), olive oil (2 tablespoons), and pastis (1 tablespoon). The pastis in the purée is a quiet move — it's not enough to taste like a drink, just enough to create a subtle anise undertone that connects the purée to the shrimp. Season generously with salt and white pepper. Taste it. The fennel should come through clearly, the potato should give it body, and the anise should be a whisper, not a shout. Keep it warm with a lid on and stir before serving.

Now the shrimp. Leave the shells on — this is important. The shells protect the flesh from the fierce heat, char beautifully, and give the pan juices a depth of flavour that peeled shrimp simply can't deliver. Devein through the shell by cutting along the back with sharp scissors and pulling out the vein with the tip of a knife. Toss the shrimp (16-20) in a bowl with the olive oil (3 tablespoons), grated garlic (2 cloves), piment d'Espelette (1/2 teaspoon), and a generous pinch of salt and pepper. Let them sit at room temperature for 10 minutes — just long enough for the garlic and spice to perfume the oil without cooking.

Get your pan absolutely screaming hot. A grill pan, cast-iron skillet, or an outdoor grill all work — the key is aggressive, direct heat. You want char, not steam. If the pan isn't hot enough, the shrimp will release water and poach in their own liquid, and you'll end up with grey, rubbery shrimp instead of pink, charred, snappy ones. Lay the shrimp in shell-side down and don't touch them for 2 full minutes. The shells will blacken, the flesh will turn pink from the bottom up, and the smell will be extraordinary. Flip and cook for 1 minute more — the flesh should be firm but still have some spring when you press it. Overcooked shrimp are a tragedy, and they go from perfect to rubbery in about 30 seconds, so err on the side of pulling them early.

Now the flambé. This is the moment that makes this dish — and it's easier than it looks, as long as you respect the fire. Have the pastis (60ml) measured and ready. Pull the pan slightly off the heat, pour the pastis over the shrimp, and immediately ignite it with a long match or a long- handled lighter. Tilt the pan slightly to encourage the flame if it's slow to catch. The flames will rise for 15-20 seconds and die down on their own as the alcohol burns off. Don't panic, don't blow on it, and keep your face back. What the flambé does is burn away the raw, boozy edge of the pastis and leave behind a concentrated, sweet, almost caramel- like anise flavour that clings to the shrimp shells and the pan. It's not just theatre — it genuinely tastes different from simply reducing the pastis.

Once the flames subside, add the butter (30g) and lemon juice (1 tablespoon) to the pan. Swirl everything together — the butter will emulsify with the pastis reduction and the shrimp juices to create a glossy, intensely flavoured sauce. Spoon it back over the shrimp in the pan a few times to coat them. Taste the sauce. It should be buttery, sharp from the lemon, deeply savoury from the charred shells, and sweet-anise from the pastis. Adjust the lemon or salt if needed.

Bonus points

• Shrimp butter from the shells: Save shrimp shells from another occasion (or peel a few here), roast them at 200°C for 10 minutes, then simmer in 150g of butter for 20 minutes. Strain and use this coral-coloured butter in the purée instead of plain butter. The flavour is extraordinary — it makes the purée taste of the sea.
• Char the fennel separately: Cut one fennel bulb into thick wedges, brush with olive oil, and grill alongside the shrimp until deeply charred on both sides. Serve the wedges alongside the purée for a smoky, textural contrast.
• Pernod cream drizzle: Reduce 100ml of double cream with 1 tablespoon of pastis and a pinch of saffron until thick enough to drizzle. Spoon it across the plate for richness and colour.
• Fennel pollen: If you can find it, a pinch of fennel pollen dusted over the finished plate amplifies the anise thread with a floral, honeyed intensity that's hard to describe but impossible to forget. A little goes a very long way.
• Head-on shrimp: If you can source head-on shrimp, use them — the head fat bastes the flesh as it cooks and adds a briny sweetness that headless shrimp can't match. Press the heads gently into the pan to release their juices.
• Brown butter purée: Take the butter for the purée to a noisette stage — cook it until the milk solids are nutty and golden — before stirring it in. The toasted, hazelnut-like flavour adds warmth to the fennel and rounds out the anise.
• Bread for the sauce: Serve thick slices of grilled sourdough alongside. The sauce that pools on the plate is too good to leave behind, and mopping it up with bread is the correct move.

Serving

Spoon a generous mound of the warm purée just off-centre on each warmed plate — use the back of the spoon to create a shallow well. Arrange 4-5 shrimp on and around the purée, shells up, so the charred colour is on display. Pour the pan juices over and around, making sure each plate gets its share. Finish with a scattering of chopped parsley, a few wispy fennel fronds, and a pinch of flaky sea salt.

For a more casual approach, pile the purée into a wide serving bowl, lay all the shrimp on top, pour over the sauce, and let people help themselves. This is a dish that works at a dinner party but also feels right on a Saturday night with a cold bottle of rosé and good bread.

For wine, stay in Provence — a dry, pale rosé from Bandol or Cassis is the effortless pairing, crisp and mineral with enough body to match the richness. If you prefer white, a Cassis blanc or a Vermentino from the coast handles the anise beautifully. For something with more weight, a white Châteauneuf-du-Pape (Roussanne-based) has the texture and the warmth to stand up to the pastis and the butter. Avoid anything too oaky or too aromatic — this plate wants clean, saline, sun-baked wines.