Or The Rule of OysteR

Some of us are oyster addicts, yearning hopelessly for the gray flaccid treasure lolling moistly, inertly in its rough little casing, the shell lined with a subtle shining nacre, poor cousin to the shimmering abalone’s. But the succulent meat of the oyster way outshines the abalone, that rubbery delicacy of the Caribbean. Abalone fritters? Only if you’re desperate. The oyster comes in toothsome stews, elegant spinach creations labelled Rockefeller – and the mouth-watering naked pleasure of nestling oysters on crushed ice plates, cocktail sauce at the ready. And those stupid oyster crackers, their raison d’etre totally mysterious.


My personal affliction took hold when I was two-and-a-half and my Army Air Corps mission-flying Daddy returned to Ohio from New Orleans with his crew, bearing a gallon jar full of freshly shucked oysters. They swept me up onto the kitchen counter to perch beside the jar, grinningly offering a slippery morsel. They knew full well that of course I would be revolted by their sliminess, and looked forward to my wails of protest. Silly men.


I remember how big they were, and how they crowded the little kitchen. While they debriefed among themselves about their DC-3 junket to the South, I dipped in to help myself to more. I greedily slurped down about a quarter of the jar before they noticed. In horror, they saw what I had done, and rapidly plopped me onto the floor. My mother giggled and patted my little blonde head.


It was the beginning of a lifelong, world-wide search for more perfect oysters, a reprise of that pre-WW2 moment in that kitchen.


On Australia’s Gold Coast, there were oyster shooters, wallowing in saki and wasabi. Then there were New Zealand South Island’s bluff oysters, a gustatory destination unto themselves. Truly, it’s said New Zealand grows the best of the best.

But it’s a tad out of the way, no?

As is South Africa, home of the biggest oysters we’ve ever seen. HUGE. We were on a motoring tour of South Africa, a nation full of marvelous beasts and vistas. This stop wasn’t on the list of must-dos, but a coastal town? That called to us. It was on our track.


        Knysna, rife with marinas, fishing boats and a plentitude of bars and restaurants, pulled us in. Turned out it offered the most enormous and delicious oysters we’d ever seen. We stuffed ourselves and waddled out nearly delirious with our discovery. Years later, in Tucson’s Scordato’s restaurant bar, we met a man who lived just uphill from Knysna. He knew about these oysters.


Now, we settle for northern hemisphere troves. And there are plenty. Maybe not so huge, but surely as flavorful.


Our favorite haunts for the fattest oyster lie around the continent – first found was the Old Ebbitt Grill in Washington, D.C., play place of news folk and congressmen in the shadow of the capital building. The Ebbitt usually flaunts a menu of six imports.
Then we have Texas with their Gulf oysters – and of course, New Orleans, where it all began.


We’ve been lucky with our finds. Just down the road from Alamos, our charming Mexican town, there’s a source on the Sea of Cortez. Shrimp as big as your fist – and gloriously large oysters. We do indulge, from time to time.


But in Tucson’s dry southwest, far from the oceans, how could we sate ourselves? Aha! They import, of course, from everywhere. To reliably satisfy cravings in Tucson, we aim at Kingfisher’s imports, or the Valencia that trucks them up from Mexico. As good, would be Sullivan’s. All have decent oysters, but sadly the rule of “R” is written in stone, in North America. I have a story….

Once, overnighting in Fayetteville, N.C., en route to a Christmas in Texas, we were directed to Fayetteville’s popular 316 Oyster Bar. We were so enthralled with the succulent oysters spread before us, we had two dozen each. Ooooff. So, when flying past there again a few months later, we stopped to indulge ourselves again at the 316. Mouths watering, we ordered a dozen each.


We anticipated the same excellence we’d found before. But no. What were placed before us were wee marble-sized niblets – not the eye-popping wonders of six months before. What was the problem? We summoned the waitresss.


“Gee, ‘at’s the way they’s comin’ th’u these days,” she said.
Baffled and annoyed, we asked to see the manager.


“Hey, we made a special trip to have your great oysters,” we whined to him. “what’s this miserable offering, those pea-sized things?” we queried.


“Oh, ah’m so sorreh – we kin give yuh an extruh dozen to make up fuh that. But yuh see, this idn’t thuh raht season for oystuhs and we are not puhmitted to get them from thuh public bids. So we buy them from private bids, jes’ tuh have em, since folks expect us offuh oystahs. You know that rule? In months with AHR, oystahs ahr in season. This heah is June, an the oystah idn’t grown big yet. No ‘ahr’ in June.”


After downing the sad offering, and muttering between us about this horrid development, the light went on. “Bids” was southern for “beds!” Oyster beds. And we had totally forgotten the Rule of OysteR.


Those tiny things show up in Tucson as well. We try to control our lust till we enter the R months.

It’s now May.

We have a wait.