Jonathan Swift thinks I’m cool. He once wrote “he was a bold man who first ate an oyster” and just the other night I proved myself to be the Fonzie of the bivalve scene by eating my first oysters.
The Aquitaine region is famous for its oysters, and Bassin D’Arcachon, the main oyster growing body of water in France, is like 20 kilometers from Bordeaux. What does that mean? I don’t know, I’m an American and was raised to believe that the metric system was for communists (To quote Grandpa Simpson “My car gets 40 rods to the hogshead and that's the way I likes it!”). But basically it means its super close to Bordeaux so the oysters here are crazy fresh. I know its not a month with an R in it, but hey, its almost there and how much longer was I going to be in the right spot ready to eat some raw prehistoric sea creatures?
Now even though I had a marvelous time reading Mark Kurlansky’s novel The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell (http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/05/books/review/05royte.html ex=1299214800&en=e8625854ea39292a&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss)
I am pretty shamed to say that I had never eaten a raw oyster, so I was some what nervous. I had read that European oysters were slightly different from their American cousins, but when the waitress brought me my 6 huitres d’arcachon, the difference seemed to be as obvious to me as which one of the Olsen twins is the fat one.
So I took my fork, prayed I wasn’t secretly allergic to them, scooped loose the mighty Ostrea edulis and slurped it down. It tasted somewhat like a pleasant wharf. I then added the red wine vinegar and shallot sauce and a squeeze of lemon juice and low-and-behold they were pretty damn good. The tartness and onion-y flavor just went really well with the subtle salty sliminess of the oyster. Way to go France!
It was a good experience. I feel like I have now communed with the sea and can resume to eating things with faces. If you can’t tell, I am pretty damn proud of myself.
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