Why the Costa Brava in Spain is famous for its red prawns

This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).

Standing on the edge of the marina in the port of Palamós, about an hour’s drive north of Barcelona, I shiver in the dark, 6am chill. A 16th-century church bell tower looms high above the Old Town behind me and only the metallic whine of the chains linking the boats to the dock interrupts the early morning silence.

I’ve come to join Xavi Miró and his crew aboard the Estrella del Sur III for a day of ‘pescaturisme’ (fishing tourism), accompanying them as they trawl the sea off the Catalan coast for gambas rojas (the red prawns for which Palamós is known). Like champagne and parmigiano reggiano cheese, the prawns have a protected designation of origin classification and have to be caught within a specific radius of the Palamós coast.

An hour’s drive from Barcelona, the coastal town of Palamós is renowned for its prized gamblas rojas.

Photograph by Stefano Politi Markovina, Awl Images

With its deep coral shell and succulent, intensely flavoursome flesh, this shellfish is prized throughout Spain, appearing on the menus of local restaurants as well as at Michelin-starred spots like Girona’s feted El Celler de Can Roca and the Basque Country’s renowned Asador Etxebarri (currently fourth in the World’s 50 Best Restaurants ranking).

As the sun rises, we speed off through the waves, the salty sea air surging through my lungs while the lights of the Costa Brava’s low-rise resorts, strung along the rugged, pine-clad coast, twinkle like stars in the dawn light. By 8.30am, we’re 40 miles out to sea and, alongside my fellow fishing tourists (father-and-son locals Ricard and Pol), I watch from the sunlit deck as the crew cast out the long net behind the boat like an elaborate wedding dress train, before it sinks towards the seabed.

Then it’s a waiting game and, with the notorious Tramontana wind making the sea livelier than I might have wished, I take refuge in the captain’s cabin. Staring intently at his weather-battered wooden dashboard, Xavi divides his attention between the wooden helm, which looks like something Long John Silver might have used, and a bank of high-tech screens. One shows our navigational position, while another illustrates the different layers and undulations of the seabed — the prawns’ natural habitat — in waveforms of yellow, red and green.

Amid fascinating facts about the prawns’ physiognomy and life cycle, Xavi also tells me how Palamós’s fishing community has pioneered a sustainability scheme in which nobody fishes during January and December, to allow the fish time to flourish and reproduce. “It’s not just about fishing as much as you can,” he says. “It’s about fishing well.”

Before I know it, six hours have flown by — and, all of a sudden, a sense of urgency takes over. Xavi dons his boots and sets the boat to automatic pilot, then it’s all hands on deck as he and his crew start reeling the net in. Silvery fish slither atop a vast mound of pert, reddish prawns wedged in the green net, but there’s something else, too. A junior shark is hauled in with the rest of the catch and it takes four men to gently, expertly lift it out and return it to the sea.

The fishermen then set to work, kneeling on deck as they briskly sort the prawns by size. The other miscellaneous fish — a slippery squid here, a couple of speckled dogfish there and a lone eel — are kept to one side, to be auctioned separately later.

After trawling the sea for gambas rojas, Xavi Miró and his crew sort the prawns according to their size.

Photograph by Eddi Fiegel

Once the main work is done, Ricard, Pol and I sit down to a hearty fish stew, made with the previous day’s tuna catch, while the crew prepare the prawns for auction, hosing them down liberally with clean, salted water. By the time we reach dry land, the prawns are packed on trays of ice and look pristine. A quality control officer meticulously examines each one by hand before giving them a barcode detailing their origin.

The trays then edge their way up to the auction room on a conveyer belt and, moments later, we watch in anticipation as licensed fish wholesalers place their bids. The prawns sell for €55 (£47) a kilo, but, as Xavi explains, that figure can rise to around €200 (£170) in December, when seafood — prawns in particular — forms part of the traditional Spanish Christmas Eve dinner. Finally, each tray is packed away, ready to be sold on to restaurants and fishmongers.

I wander across to the harbourside Museu de la Pesca fishing museum next door, included as part of the ‘pescaturisme’ experience. Here, among a display of original boats and fishing tools dating back to the 4th century, I learn about the history of the trade, including the vital role played by women in mending nets.

Above the museum, I find Espai del Peix, a stylish, glass-fronted venue where you can watch classic Catalan fish dishes being made, then tuck into the results. Two burly fishermen, Pitu and Salvador, are preparing a traditional fideuà (like paella but with angel-hair noodles instead of rice). I watch as they stir the silky noodles into a paella pan of rich, sulphury, saffron-laced fish stock, before finally adding the sweet, supple prawns.

Whether served boiled or grilled, in paella or fideuà, Palamós prawns never fail to live up to their reputation. As I tuck in, swirling in a generous dollop of gutsy, garlicky aioli, Pitu recites a local saying: “When you eat your fideuà, wherever it may be, always remember to think of the fishermen.” I most certainly will.

Published in Issue 24 (summer 2024) of Food by National Geographic Traveller (UK).

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