Garnalenkroketten (Shrimp Croquettes)

Along the Zeeland coast, where the North Sea gives up its small, sweet brown shrimp, the croquette reaches its most refined form. The garnalenkroket takes the same set-and-fry method as its beefy cousin but fills the crisp shell with something far more delicate: a pale, fragrant ragout of peeled Hollandse garnalen, bound loosely enough that it almost pours when hot. It is the croquette you order in a good café by the water, with a wedge of lemon and a tangle of deep-fried parsley on the side.

The shrimp of the Delta

Zeeland is a province of islands, tides and salt marsh, and its kitchen leans hard on shellfish: mussels, oysters, and above all the tiny grey shrimp that are laboriously hand-peeled and eaten by the bowl. Turning them into a croquette is a natural act of thrift and elegance at once: the sweet meat goes into the ragout, and the shells, which most cooks discard, are simmered into a stock that carries the true flavour of the sea. The shrimp croquette became a fixture of the mid-century café menu, the seafood answer to the beef kroket of the snackbar.

Restraint at every step

This is the croquette that most rewards a light hand. The ragout should taste of shellfish, lemon and little else. Season timidly, because the shrimp bring their own salt. Fry to pale gold and no further. Brown the shell and you scorch the sweetness right out of the filling.

A garnalenkroket is measured by its stock: coax every drop of flavour from the shells, and the rest looks after itself.

Serve them the coastal way, hot from the oil with lemon and a scatter of fried parsley, and a cold glass of something dry and Zeeuws. This is the borrel at its most quietly luxurious.