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“He was a bold man that first eat an oyster.”—Jonathan Swift
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ndeed. Craggy as a boulder on the outside, slimy and viscous on the inside, the oyster is one delicacy that doesn’t inspire gluttony at first sight. It sits there in its pool of brine, pale and glistening like a beached jellyfish, fragrant with seaweed, daring you to sniff it or gaze upon it, let alone gobble it. It’s only after you’ve taken the plunge and slurped the little mollusk from its shell and let it slip down your throat that the mystique, the beauty, the downright delectability of the noble Ostreidae becomes apparent. The flavor is fresh, sparkly, brimming with ozone. Your senses are aroused. Your spirit is invigorated. And as Valentine’s Day approaches let us recall the words of a prominent London medico as he lent credence to the enduring rumor that the oyster is an aphrodisiac: “The diners immediately absorb an abundance of minerals and vitamins, free from any heavy load. So they remain alert. The appetite is stimulated. The physical aura of the oyster is sensual: plump, quivering, round, soft to the touch. To the woman, it symbolizes the womb of the pearl; to the man, the anatomy of the woman.” Waiter, make that two dozen Olympias! Oysters develop their unique flavor and character through a process that’s been evolving for the past half billion years. First the mama oyster expels some 700 million tiny eggs into the briny, which drift with the tides and currents until they reach babyhood and grab onto the first solid surface they find. Here they pass the time gulping down six gallons of water per hour, absorbing oxygen and nutrients and growing a heavy hinged shell (useful against predators). The oyster’s rich flavor comes from the amino acids it ingests to counterbalance the saline in the surrounding seawater (“the saltier the water, the tastier the oyster” goes the saying), which is why oysters from different locations taste so different. (Three oysters from the same bed transplanted to, say, Cape Cod, Chesapeake Bay and Hog Island will develop entirely divergent flavors within a few months.) The water’s temperature and mineral content, the local plankton and the strength of the current all help determine an oyster’s texture and flavor as well. Pale green oysters frequent the seaweed-rich waters off Brittany, while the copper deposits under the Aegean Sea lend the local bivalves a brisk metallic flavor. Based on the massive shell mounds that dot the globe from Denmark to Point Reyes, oysters have been a popular snack item since prehistory. (One Maine midden contains 7 million bushels of oyster shells.) Back then a 4,000-mile barrier reef of oysters ran from Scandinavia down the Atlantic coast and into
the Mediterranean all the way to Greece. The fishermen of Rhodes were in fact the first to farm oysters, albeit casually—they tossed shards of pottery into the water to give the critters something to cling to. The Romans loved oysters and devoured them in quantity sometimes hundreds at a sitting. The Emperor Nero claimed he could determine an oyster’s origin by its flavor and texture, and h had plenty to choose from: Bivalves from every corner of the Empire were shipped overland in carts packed with snow (in the winte or seawater (in the spring and autumn). The oysters of Colchester were especially prized. “There is some good in Britons after all,” said the historian Sallust. “They have produced an oyster.” Fellow scribe Seneca wasn’t so oyster-happy: “They’re not really food, but are relished to bully the sated stomach into further eating.” Oysters were equally popular in the Western Hemisphere, where massive oyster beds fed the Indians of both coasts. Colonists and conquistadores accustomed to the flat European oyster were dazzled by these plump, enormous mollusks, some up to a foot in length. (“I felt as if I had swallowed a small baby,” said a visiting William Makepea Thackeray.) Seaside oyster roasts were popul community events. Every coastal city had oyster bars and oyster cellars where you coul have your fill for 6 cents ($20 in Gold Rushera San Francisco). Oystermen peddled them from pushcarts of ice and burlap, crying, “Ge your fresh oy-oy-oy-oy-sters man, mannyman, manny-man, manny-man!” All of this gluttony depleted our onceabundant oyster beds, and by the end of the 19th century the bivalve was becoming the scarce and pricey commodity we know today. But what the hell, right now, “R” month and all, is a fine time to slurp ‘em. (The reason we avoid oysters in the summe months is because they’re too busy spawnin and ridding themselves of their delectable amino acids. Nevertheless, “Let’s sing a song of glory to Themistocles O’Shea/ Who ate a dozen oysters on the second day of May.”— Stoddard King, “The Man Who Dared.”) There are lots of good places to down a dozen or so, but our favorites include Tony’ Seafood in Marshall, where you can devour freshly barbecued oysters on the shores of Tomales Bay; the Buckeye in Mill Valley, home of oysters Bingo, the finest baked oys ter dish west of Jefferson Parish; and Fish in Sausalito, where the raw oysters are as fresh and plump and sweet and effervescent as love itself. No horseradish required. < Muse on mollusks with Matthew at mstafford@pacificsun.com
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