Matiz Pulpo Wild-Caught Pulpo Spanish Octopus in Olive Oil 4.0 Oz

Very tasty BUT the amount you get,well thats kinda skimpy ohh well.It was still good.

Purchased this for the spread at Thanksgiving. Having had octopus in a variety of dishes prior, I was interested what this would offer. I'll try and review.Flavor: Being packed in oil finds the fishiness come out of the meat and into the oil. It wasn't a lot but was notable. IF you like a bit of fishy, these will be completely fine, if you dont, you'll appreciate it goes away if you blot the pieces to remove the oil- which makes them pretty standard fare for octopus. Its firm, with a little give just as you'd have at a sushi restaurant. Taste is mild and normal which is nice out of a can.Size: The tin is small, and you get ~10 chunks of octopus. Some are tentacle ends, and some are ringsFreshness: They came very fresh and standard packed. Even after Amazons world renowned deliveryIdeas: These would be great in salads, anything with pickled treats, traditional sauces, and even home made SushiCritiques: You dont get a lot (would be enough for 2 people if you made Sushi, or one salad)Overall no complaints! Great if you are looking for something fun to make a dish pop or for special occasions. Bit spendy if you wanted to make them a staple. I probably would buy these again if I need, but wouldn't go out of my way to source.

This is the best octopus outside of a sushi bar I have ever had. Tender, succulent, and buttery. Everything you could ever want octopus to taste like, and not even remotely overpowered by the subtle olive oil. Will definitely be buying again!

The product looses its appeal when canned. I love seafood of all types, and this was good, however after the canning process, it’s texture becomes a bit soft and creamy, rather then the snappiness and bounce of what a fresh pice of octopus usually has. It tasted fine, just not the texture I’d expect.

In the briny aristocracy of tinned sea creatures, the Matiz Pulpo Wild-Caught Spanish Octopus reigns as a Mediterranean grandee, ensconced in olive oil like a sybarite in scented repose. Wrested from some rocky Iberian littoral and sealed in its metallic sarcophagus, this cephalopod arrives bearing flecks of seasoning—zesty condiments that lend a theatrical flourish to its maritime pedigree. The chunks, neither stingy nor grotesque, strike a commendable balance of proportion, their flesh offering a morsel fit for adventurous mandibles. Yet the texture, while spared the petrochemical rubberiness of lesser tinned kin, carries the faint resistance of a creature once devoted to mangling crustaceans, approximating tenderness with half-hearted diligence. For all its aquatic virtues, the price exacted by these Spanish merchants ascends with a hubris that would make a Roman emperor blanch, clutching his purse at such splendid larceny—a tariff more suited to caviar than a denizen of Iberian piers.