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TASTING AN OYSTER (AND TALES OF OYSTER VIRGINS!)
As with many of the finer things in life, such as music, painting, and wine, there is an approach to the experience of tasting an oyster and then looking back upon the experience that translates to “I don’t know much about X, but I know what I like.” That’s fine. Not cerebral but holistic and visceral. You will know if you like oysters or not once you taste a few. Such an approach and attitude are based upon your subjective response to the experience of eating or drinking or listening or viewing a work of art or nature (often the combination of the two). With each experience, though, you bring more to the next experience, and that often translates into evolving likes and dislikes. Want to learn about wine? Taste a lot of wines. Want to learn about oysters? Taste a variety.
Of course there is another approach to the experience of art and nature that attempts to formularize the approach and even the terms so that you can bring more to the experience and theoretically take more away from it. Or at least take different things away. So with wine, tasters commonly analyze the tasting experience by looking at the color of the wine, smelling its “nose,” and then tasting it and analyzing its flavors. We try to describe them with equivalencies (we learn words like tannic and dark fruit); then we note the finish or aftertaste, how long and pleasantly it stays with you. Much the same holds true for tasting an oyster.
The physical process of eating an oyster is simple: bring the shell up to and parallel with your mouth, and with a small oyster fork, slide the oyster into your mouth and then slurp in the juice from the shell. Or, just as commonly, you can simply tilt the shell and slurp the oyster and its juice into your mouth. Next, you chew it two or three times, so that the flavor explodes onto your palate, then swallow the entire oyster.
In an oyster bar or a restaurant and at home, your platter of oysters should be accompanied by a moist towel—now mostly a commercial packet containing a moist towelette—or even an old-fashioned finger bowl with water and lemon, so you can clean your fingers after (or before) touching the shells and oysters. Nice and necessary little hygienic touch.
Like tasting wine, there is a process for more formally approaching the experience of tasting an oyster. Here is how I see it as a variation of look, smell, taste, and follow-up.
Starting with the oyster already on its half shell, the look, the appearance, can tell you the size and type, but you will also note color, from translucent to pearl-like to green around the gills to blue-green. You will also note if the oyster is plump and smooth or perhaps flat. All of these are okay. They are identifiers and differentiators and help you pick what you like.
The smell, the odor, or the aroma (a word with better connotations than odor or smell) of an oyster is a treat. You are smelling the sea in its various flavors and intensities, depending on where the oyster comes from. The smell should be superfresh; its power can be mild to strong. When I am in Paris and I smell an oyster, I can be transported, Proust-like, to the seaside far away and back to a childhood or adult experience.
Salinity is a telling characteristic of an oyster, and it appears on the nose and on the palate. It can be mild or strong and in some cases powerfully iodized. All salts do not taste the same.
On the palate, some of the operative taste words are crisp, mild, briny, buttery, sweet, milky, nutty, earthy, grassy, fruity, citrusy, watermelony, melony, creamy, clammy, clean, and bright. But here words are insufficient to describe the myriad of subtle flavor overtones that come from each oyster’s habitat, its terroir, and there are so, so many. Also, note how the flavors change on the palate, perhaps from initial saltiness (but what kind of salty?) after the first bite to a sweetness (what kind of sweetness?). And, just as the second sip and impression of a wine is influenced by the first and can be different, the taste of a second oyster is subtly different from the first, and you can perhaps pick up new or differently modulated flavors.
The texture is telling as well: soft, crunchy, chewy, bitable, smooth, watery, firm, hard, airy, or creamy.
The finish or aftertaste brings a great deal of the satisfaction experienced from the taste of an oyster. And, again just like wine, the longer the finish, the better. The minerals and fats in the oyster reveal themselves in the finish, as do evolving and lasting flavors. The more complexity, as with wine, all the more telling and often more satisfying.
THE DANCE OF THE VIRGINS
Ah, that first bite. “He was a bold man that first ate an oyster,” Jonathan Swift is quoted as saying. Indeed.
It seems most people, like Régis and me, remember eating their first oyster as clearly as they remember the first time they… but not my husband, Edward. He grew up where there were clams and oysters to be picked, and he remembers eating clams on the half shell at clambakes and gatherings when he was very little and assumes some of those clams eventually were oysters. If someone would open the shells for him, he ate and drank what was inside. Some people never change.
I asked a number of Parisian and other friends about their first oysters. Here are their recollections:
Annick, a Parisian with roots in Brittany: My first time was when I was ten. A rich client of my father, a sugar entrepreneur who had married a modest Brittany woman born in Carantec, would come each year for a short stay. Eventually he settled there for retirement. He was dingue (crazy) about oysters and would send us a bourriche or invite us to his home to eat oysters. And my father, who, alas, was not the type to love anything, not even the sea(!), loved oysters. Astonishing. He was a man all introverted who did not express himself much (shy, tormented, the opposite of a bon vivant, the exact opposite of my mother… ), yet could not find words strong enough to declare his love for oysters. I remember being horrified as a small child hearing him say at the table: “I’d eat them on a dead man’s head!”… Horrible. I was outraged… and disgusted!
I had to try them. My dad declared he did not know how to open them, which is indeed more than simple, so it fell to my mother to open the carton’s worth of oysters. I found the texture disgusting. If my parents liked the stuff, perfect. They could keep them!
I can’t tell you how my disgust grew when I realized the beasts were… alive.
My hope each time we would visit our friends was that they’d serve a platter with bigorneaux (periwinkles), shrimp, and crayfish. Total happiness. Little fleshy beasts, firm and cooked!
I finally grew up. And I came to know oysters little by little with friends. I even had a Gallic boyfriend, funny, gourmand, generous, who loved to cook and share joyously with friends. He would open dozens of oysters with such happiness and speed, a glass of white wine next to him, and suddenly I associated oysters with a happy feast. We would go and get the oysters from chez Morvan in Carantec, and we would come back driving like mad and make a beautiful platter. I’d buy lots of lemons, which are still my favorite accompaniment. But since then I’ve learned that freshly ground pepper also enhances the taste of oysters.
However, my strongest memory (in my mouth) of tasting them was in Paris, at the Hélène Darroze restaurant, with my friend Mireille, ha-ha. I don’t recall the exact preparation, but it was sumptuous. The impression was of eating the sea. (It was an oyster with green apple aspic, osetra caviar, with an “iced” cream of duck foie gras, and rye breadcrumbs.)
Michèle, a Parisian: I married a great oyster lover and now have two teenagers; the eldest loves oysters almost as much as his father, but he was only willing to try them at age twelve.
My first experience was at my in-laws’. For our engagement! My family didn’t care for oysters. I had never had any before. I am still a new convert… I eat six, the least fat ones. I like them alive, very fresh, with a drop of lemon juice.
For me they are still for festive occasions. I like their silver color, which marries so well to dishes, silverware, beautiful glasses, tablecloth, and candles. It’s the easiest festive dinner to prepare (I am not the shucker!), and it amuses me to see guests sometimes eating with their fingers.
My husband, the great amateur, likes them without tralala (fuss). He buys two dozen almost every Sunday during the r months for him and his son. My daughter and I make crepes.
I love eating oysters at the great Parisian brasseries with my lover (husband). We order a huge seafood platter; he devours almost all the oysters; I pretend to see nothing. We have the impression of taking advantage of our beautiful city.
Diane, a Brit who lived in Paris for a few years: My first experience of oysters? Well, actually it’s very easy to recall, since the opportunity to indulge came late in life. It was January 28, 2011, and I was forty! I had not long since made the leap from the UK to France and was staying with a friend’s parents in Nogent-sur-Marne. They informed me that from about November to February, their apartment overlooked an oyster seller. And sure enough, as we were in January, several times a week the Oyster Man (as he became known) would set out his fine selection and I would watch curiously from the window, drawn by “Huîtres d’Oléron” written in neon above his stall in the street below. My friend’s mother, already a mentor in many things French and culinary, loves oysters but never buys them because my friend’s father doesn’t like them, so she rarely has anyone to share the moment with. As I had never tried them, I was happy to volunteer.
As we approached the stall on a crisp winter’s eve, the first thing that amazed me was the choice. I had naively thought that there were—just oysters! Apparently the Oyster Man asked (my friend’s mother translated) which variety we would like and what size. We followed his recommendation as my friend’s mother revealed to him that it was to be for my very first experience of oysters. (I think I may have blushed, especially when he gave me a look as if to say, “What, at your age?” Pfff, les Anglais!)
Back in the warmth of the apartment, there was a bustle of activity to open the oysters and prepare for the ceremony. A table was laid, napkins were selected, also lemon, vinegar, followed by bread and, of course, wine. (Unfortunately, I was too excited by the oysters to remember the wine!—pfff, les Anglais!) Then, preparations complete, the moment had arrived. Following a brief instruction and demonstration from my friend’s mother, I began with a plain oyster: nothing else.
My first reaction: pleasantly surprised! I swallowed, oyster, juice, the lot. I hadn’t really known what to expect, but I liked it. And I remember that the more I had, the more I liked them! I experimented a little, trying lemon, vinegar, pepper, but (maybe it’s because I’m British, the island influence and being connected with the sea) in the end, I loved them plain. Just oysters. We shared the platter equally between us until, alas, they were all gone.
But not quite. I congratulate myself to have had the forethought to have saved the shell, complete with lid, of my very first oyster. One of life’s precious souvenirs, which now adds a splash of the sea to my home.
Stéphanie, an American and longtime resident of Paris: My first memory of oysters was at Felix’s Oyster Bar in New Orleans, Louisiana, at the age of four or five years with my father. According to the story, he set me on the bar (in my little pink frilly dress), where the shuckers fed me oysters one after the other. They seemed amazed, even in New Orleans, an oyster city, that a little girl of this age should have such an appetite for oysters! My sister and mother detested these creatures, so it wasn’t a family obligation. Strange but true, I am a born oyster lover.
I like them raw and nature—mainly without lemon juice or shallot/red wine sauce, which for me is the only way to dress up a less-than-superfresh oyster. A slight sprinkle of freshly ground white pepper is perhaps the only justifiable “artifice.” Some warm versions (if not overcooked) can be delicious, but I still prefer them raw.
“Close your eyes and open your mouth!” Voilà, my advice to the novice who has never tasted an oyster.
Na, a Moroccan who lives in New York: My first? In Oualidia (Morocco) in an oyster park in 2004. I was with my friend Miriam, who converted me almost immediately. I ended up eating two dozen. It was a very beautiful gastronomic experience. Happiness!
I like them alive, raw out of the shell, with or without lemon; and I try to encourage virgins by preparing a slice of country bread, buttered, and placing the oyster on top with a drizzle of lemon. It is easier to eat and get used to the taste. I also insist on the fact that oysters are good for health and loaded with vitamins.
My strongest memory is when I had just met a man. He discovered I love oysters. He surprised me that very evening by delivering a wicker basket with four dozen oysters and a love note. He had completed the round-trip to Oualidia to make sure they were fresh.
I also remember when I was in Dakhla, in the south/Moroccan desert. Dakhla is known for its giant oysters. We rented a boat and headed to discovery. A few hours later, the motorboat driver, a local from Dakhla, takes us to a hidden spot for lunch. We land and swim to this little shack where the fisherman/oyster farmer welcomes us with a glass of mint tea, and while we sip our tea he goes to take his oyster baskets/cages from the sea. He makes us taste them just out of the water, and then makes an oyster tajine with olive oil, garlic, cumin, paprika, parsley, coriander, and saffron and some Moroccan bread. We ate on the sand in the middle of nowhere.
Carmen, an American raised in Puerto Rico: My first experience was when I was seven or eight, back in the small town of Boqueron on the west coast of the island in Puerto Rico. There was only one kind—they were sold by the fishermen on wooden tables built on the sand next to their boats. I think they were 5 cents each.
I like them both ways, raw and cooked. To me, if I am eating them raw, I like just a touch of lemon or piquant sauce (made from Puerto Rican hot peppers) like we had when growing up. If cooked, I like them coated with a panko mix, with a touch of red pepper flakes to spice it up a little bit. I love to drink cider or Champagne with oysters, but my first choice is beer.
I have a lingering memory of diving for them. I was ten—there is nothing like diving for oysters (lobster, conch, etc.), then sitting either on the boat or the beach shore shucking and eating them.
Dorothy, an American and multidecade New Yorker: I was probably nine years old, in 1960, when I tasted my first oyster. I lived in Tallahassee, Florida, then, and it was the segregated South. My dad taught at an all-black university, Florida A&M. Restaurants were segregated, too, and we were even not welcome in many stores. Still, we had a very vibrant life, and I remember being under the impression that black people made the best fried foods ever—fried chicken, fried seafood, especially fried oysters, which is the only way my family ate them.
On special weekends, Dad would load us into our station wagon, a Plymouth, and we’d drive to Apalachicola, in the Florida panhandle, south of Tallahassee. Some summers, we’d rent cottages near there with other families from the university. But most of the time, we’d drive up to what was pretty much a shack, a small “restaurant” on the side of the road, where women and guys in white aprons would fry the most delightfully light fish, shrimp, oysters, and hush puppies. They’d drain them on brown paper bags and serve them with coleslaw and cheese grits and lighter-than-air biscuits with honey and butter. Sometimes I’d sit on a stool and watch them dredge the oysters in cornmeal, so I knew what “naked” oysters looked like, but I’d never eaten one until that day when I was nine.
I was a tomboy and loved helping Dad clean fish and do stuff like that. (He wasn’t a great fisherman, but he loved the outdoors and the time it gave him to think.) I loved his company. So I jumped at his invitation to go fishing with him. He was a tall guy, 6 foot 2 inches, and he’d walk out on this thin spit of rocks, way out into the water, which I think may have been Apalachicola Bay, which was fed by the Gulf of Mexico. I’d watch cranes fish, and fish jump, and sometimes I’d catch hermit crabs. On other occasions, when the whole family came along, we’d crab from a bridge, dropping nets baited with mullet heads into the water, and pull up delicious blue crabs. Once, when I was about ten, we raced a few across the kitchen floor and then grew afraid to pick them up!
Anyway, as it got late, I sat in a shallow little cul-de-sac watching my dad start to pack up and move closer to land. I’d been eyeing these large shells that had attached themselves to some rocks when I realized that they looked just like the oyster shells that were strewn over the parking area. So I took a knife that Dad had left in a toolbox, pried one off a rock, and then opened it. And there it was, this gleaming, plump organism that smelled of the ocean and salt. It was suddenly irresistible. So I slurped it into my mouth and held it there for a few seconds, getting the sense of it, probing it with my tongue. As I was chewing it with I’m sure a most beatific look on my face and a wet chin from its fragrant juices, my dad rushed over with a horrified look on his face. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, not unkindly, just with concern. “It might have diseases, bacteria.” Frankly, I didn’t care. I was hooked. But he did shoot me worried glances on our way home. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned that oysters from this area were quite famous!
I have never had a preparation that I didn’t like, but I prefer them cool, not ice-cold. I think the taste is muted if they’re too cold, much like most white wines. If I can’t have them raw on the half shell, my second-favorite way to have them is fried because of the memories I associate with that preparation, and because, very important, John, my husband, and the girls will eat them fried.
Guillemette (and Simone), Parisians: I certainly was too small to remember my first. I adore them but detest preparing them, so I love them when they are served to me. The only exception was fried-and-breaded oysters in New Orleans. The taste got a bit lost. My best ever, though, were eaten in New York at Momofuku… served with green mango!
I have a lot of family memories of eating oysters, moments when men go to the kitchen, generally complaining about the tools (“Your oyster knife is nul”).
My best memory, however, is of my little daughter, turning around an oyster plate. I said to my friend Anne, “She is only eighteen months, it may be a tad young,”… and hop, Simone took one and adored it.