Braised, Broiled, or Fried.
Why is it you can get a Gentile to eat squid if you call it “calamari”? I live in a hard-drinking sailor town where peoples of northern European stock hold sway, and their frequent devotions to nectars of the grain are as likely to be accompanied these days by fried calamari rings as by fried onion rings. It’s not as if the foreign name renders unrecognizable those tentacles winging the plate, and it’s a small step for imagination to reassemble the “rings” into a squid torso.
When it looks all pretty—glistening, rosy, speckled green—I add the reserved squid juice and also strain in the tomato juice from the plate (straining out the seeds), and once these cooking juices have
heated up to a lively simmer, then I turn the heat down to medium low, put the lid on ajar, and let all hum away for a half-hour, checking and tossing now and again.
Once the sauce thickens, glistens, and beckons, I taste the squid both for tastiness and tenderness. If it needs salt, I add salt; if it needs oil, I add oil; if it’s not tender, I cook it some more, No?
* Buy big beefy squid. Cut the torsos into fat rings. Beat the torso rings and tentacles with salt into a froth; rinse well and drain well.
* Place them loosely in a deep-fryer basket, with breathing room. Dip the basket into pre-heated oil. They should sizzle cheerfully (not simmer lazily, nor boil angrily). Adjust heat to keep them cheerful.
* Snatch up while still hot and crispy.
* When they look golden and gilded and yummy, taste for doneness. When done, remove them gingerly to a plate and salt for tastiness. Eat hot and crispy.