oysters

Long ago, when Jordan and I first started dating, he insisted I have my first raw oyster. I had not been exposed to a lot of different foods in my childhood, and he absolutely delighted in watching me try new things. I don’t remember exactly where the first oyster happened – possibly at a sushi restaurant, or maybe at the fish market, or it could have been at the Sampson Street Oyster House in Philadelphia (where Jordan learned the ways of oysters on the half-shell from his grandfather) – but I do remember loving it. The salty creamy taste, they way each variety has a subtle flavor of its own that comes from its growing conditions. He loved them with horseradish (like his grandpa), but I’ve always loved them with just a light squeeze of lemon.

A few years later we’d go to Boston for a trip (I was looking at a grad school I would ultimately not attend), and there we spent probably 3 out of 5 nights at oyster bars figuring out wine pairings. I had turned 21 six months prior, and it turned out that I preferred the rieslings.

While at those oyster bars, the crew behind the counter explained how to open them – to find the flat side and face it up, fuss at the pivot point and clean out the calcium with the oyster knife until you can get it into a weak point and jab it firmly in between the shells. Then you twisted the knife, breaking the mollusk’s grip on the shell, and run the knife flat-side along the upper shell first to disconnect the muscles and discard it, and then run it gently along the concave side to release it fully. And voila, there is your oyster, delicately nestled in the juices in the concave side of the shell.

They all cautioned that it was a great way to stab your hand, and it was best to wrap the oyster in a towel to keep it stationary while you worked. Some even recommended using a chain-mail glove when you first try it, but others thought that was the coward’s way out.

A year or two after that, we picked up an oyster knife and visited the farmers market where our regular fish monger Mark had recently added in-shell oysters to the menu. Jordan cautiously pried open those first few, deeply concerned he might send the knife right into his palm. There was a lot of shell in there, but we were rewarded by sweet oyster meats, combined with a selection of fancy imported cheeses from Mary Mother of Cheeses and glasses of prosecco.

A week or two ago I found the oyster knife – tucked away in a basket of rarely used kitchen utensils deep in a pantry closet. After a recent failed attempt to enjoy a $1 oyster happy hour with friends (they ran out before we were seated), I had a hankering and I knew I had the requisite tooling when I saw Mintersweets sitting there in the fish counter at the market. $8 later I shucked and ate my half-dozen over the sink, an appetizer to reheated leftovers. I thought I’d shuck them all and then enjoy them one after the other, but I couldn’t wait. I ate the first one as soon as it was free of it’s shell, and the other 5 called to me in the same way. A quick squeeze of the lemon wedge and I was transported, back to those few nights in Boston, 21 and sitting at the bar, tasting white wines, and being schooled by 30 somethings on how to shuck an oyster. And also laughing at Jordan, who thought a hoodie was all he would need as cold-weather attire in Boston in November, but that’s a story for another time.