For people living in the coastal areas of southern Zhejiang Province, the nondescript spicy taste of la luo (Thais clavigera Kuster, or spicy whelk) resembles just the taste of life. Homey and commonplace, this delicacy bestowed by the ocean is a delight for all the senses.

La Luo, as the name in Chinese suggests, has a spicy taste. This ordinary-looking sea snail is easy to catch, thusly commonplace on the seafood menu of people living in the coastal areas in Zhejiang Province. Its quaintly bittersweet and spicy taste is loved by some, and shunned by others. For its hard-core fans, the nondescript flavor leaves a lasting, pleasant aftertaste that is second to none. One man’s meat is another’s poison.

The delicacy has quite a few nicknames in Zhejiang. One of them takes from its bumpy-looking shell that looks like that of litchi. This little sea creature, thriving in rock crevices on the beach, is by no means a joy to behold. However, its strangely spicy taste that comes from its tail end, appealed to seasoned foodies in as early as the Tang (618-907) times, or even earlier. The Song Dynasty (960-1279) food critic Luo Dajing ranked this ugly-looking sea snail species among the top four seafood specialties from the coastal areas of Zhejiang. Legend also has it that Emperor Xiaozong of the Song Dynasty was a big fan of .

The “pungency” that tastes indescribably good is perceived as “bitter” by people living in Xiamen and nearby areas in Fujian Province. In fact, a literary explanation of such “bitterness” dates back to the times of , China’s very first collection of poems that date back to 1,100-600BC, edited by Confucius more than 2,500 years ago.

Zhejiang Province’s Wenzhou and Zhoushan Archipelago are considered by gourmets as the best places to enjoy first-class . The sea snails from the exposed shores of Dongtou and Cangnan are greenish and brownish in color, whilst the coasts of Zhoushan produce a whitish color. The smaller ones are easy to find when exposed on the reefs whenever tides recede. Bigger ones are survivors, hiding away in the depths of cracks underwater. Size, however, does not matter. The spiciness does.

In the old times when the seafaring people had to make each penny go a long way, snails collected from rocky beaches served as a primary source of dietary supply. The tradition of taking the meat out for salt curing is still practiced today. Seasoned with a little rice wine and processed for about 10 days in a sealed container, the meat tastes crisp and refreshingly spicy. The flavor crafted purely by time was mentioned by Su Dongpo in one of his poems, in which he compared the daintiness with the country’s best litchi.

The cooking method of  varies depending on individual preference, but one can’t go wrong with simple seasonings such as ginger slices and vinegar. Those preferring spicier and stronger flavors can try cracking the shell and stir-frying the whole thing with ginger, garlic, rice wine, and soy sauce.

The simplest way is enough to ensure the most authentic flavor of this inexpensive delicacy from the ocean. “Keep it simple and natural” and “minimalism” in the use of seasonings is the key to authenticity. Put rinsed snails into boiling water, throw in ginger slices and a teaspoonful of rice wine, and scoop the snails out after about three minutes. In the eye of the pickiest gourmets, the thrill brought by the queer spiciness is the taste of the soul of the ocean and the joy brought only by the finest bestowment from the nature.

For people living in the coastal areas in Zhejiang,  is a must-have for the indulgence of beer-and-seafood nightlife at one of seaside food booths. The combination of the bitterness of beer and the spiciness of the snails feels just like the bittersweet of life.

Wined and dined to satiety, the neo-Confucian scholar Zhang Jiucheng of the Song Dynasty spoke of the “high-class” taste of the delicacy in glowing terms in one of his poems.