My First Oyster- The Full Story.

I grew up in a nest of Francophiles. My mother taught me from the age of four that blue cheese is not moldy cheese; it’s a delicacy, the smellier the better. And when you eat that delicacy, you will enjoy it, and never put it on a baguette without butter.

It’s been almost five years since my last Parisian sojourn, and this time I was ready to truly understand what all the fuss is about. I wanted to walk the Seine and see the Monets and drink wine outside until 3 am debating existentialism. And I wanted to do all of this smoking a cigarette. But mostly, I wanted to eat. I wanted to eat more than I’ve ever eaten before, and not gain a single pound, just like the French do. I didn’t know how to begin, with what to begin, where to begin. Completely at a loss, I turned to the best person I knew for the job: my fabulously gay, snobbishly cultured, Parisian to a fault, uncle Richard.

Richard took it upon himself to “expose me”. When Richard decides to “expose” you, it means that a) you are a savage and the recovery must begin as soon as possible, but also that b) you are worth saving. There’s a compliment hidden in his mockery. Richard is tough- I can’t decide whether he’s gay and on top of that, he’s French or whether he’s French and on top of that, he’s gay- but I did NOT want him to know just how lost in this world of cuisine I really was. I tried my best to cover up my ignorance, but didn’t start out on a good foot.

“Are you familiar with Robuchon?” he asked me, with his eyes fixed on mine, so there was no chance of lying.

“The cheese.” I answered quickly and confidently.

“No, dear. That’s Roblochon.” He said the name of the cheese knowingly and with an accent that made him feel untouchable. Damn. French mess up number one. He continued with my education, “Joel Robuchon is only the most important contributor to contemporary cooking as we know it. That’s where we will go tomorrow, to his restaurant.”

Now that’s something I could wrap my head around. I’ve only been once before to a restaurant centered around its chef: Jean Georges in New York. It’s the best meal I’ve ever eaten. I wanted to get up and go to Robuchon’s restaurant right then and there. “Great! Tomorrow?”

It turns out that L’Atelier was full. “Of course it’s full, it’s L’Atelier”, Richard said with just a touch of disappointment in his snobbery. “But that’s all right, we’ll begin your education elsewhere. What kind of food do you want to eat?”

“French?” I responded. I shouldn’t have said it like that, I thought to myself. I should have said French. Or French! But not French? He’ll think I’m a Philistine.

“Yes, I know French, darling. But what does that mean to you?”

I quickly flipped through the images I had of French cuisine. Most of the classics made my stomach turn, but I didn’t want to say that out loud. I compromised, “just… no frog’s legs.”

“Oh, but frog’s legs are simply divine.” Does Richard know that he’s a French cliché? I guess if you embody the cliché, it’s just who you are. “But I understand. What about snails?”

“I’ve never had them.”

“Never had snails? What about oysters?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve never had oysters! How can you possibly have never had oysters?” (This seemed to be a shock to every French person I met. I don’t know where they think I come from, but oysters don’t just grow on trees in the good ol’ US of A. Even my 85 year old Polish immigrant great aunt was appalled when she discovered my inadequacy. I didn’t want to remind her that when she was twenty she hadn’t ever eaten oysters either. But then again, she was in a ghetto, and I’m supposed to be the one with all the privilege.)

“Well that’s where we’ll start then. I’ll make a reservation. Oh, you’re just going to love them, if you can get past your fears.” He said it like a challenge, and one I definitely wasn’t going to lose. Not that I wasn’t scared of oysters, but just that I wasn’t going to let a little slime stand in the way of my pride.

The next day, I met up with a terrifying jury of four for my oyster initiation. The two most Francophile people I know- my mother and my friend Andrew, who is studying in Paris for the semester and has clearly already tried oysters and told me he loves them- along with Richard and his boyfriend. The restaurant was called “Le Bar a Huitres”, literally, the oyster bar. Just in case I didn’t already know what I was getting myself into. As I walked in, I noticed that each table situated itself around a large tray of ice, piled high with oysters and mussles and shrimp, and other “fruits de la mer”. There it was, shining high at each table center. Talk about putting food on a pedestal.

Between those four experienced oyster lovers, a raging debate ensued as to the perfect first oyster for me. They ended up ordering three types, not that I know what any of the species really means, or that I cared at that point. I was zoning out, watching everyone else eat their oysters. Was I supposed to sip or gulp? Was chewing even part of the picture? How did everyone else get to be such connoisseurs, while I’m stuck at the novice end of the table with this silly little pick fork and a whole unexplained stick of butter?

The demons arrived, and everyone turned to watch me. I started with the smallest and apparently, “easiest one to swallow”. Now let me tell you, holding your first oyster in your hand while two French gay men watch you with judgmental anticipation takes “biting the bullet” to a new level. If bullets were slimy and chewy, and if biting was actually a “please let me swallow this without gagging” kind of maneuver.

Here’s how you eat an oyster, so that those of you who have yet to experience this rare form of French hazing will be slightly more prepared than I was: first, you detach the muscle from the shell using your conveniently sized pick. You are technically allowed to sprinkle some lemon juice onto the oyster, but such a decision may deem you “unappreciative of the true flavor”, depending on your audience. Proceed as you wish. Then you tip the shell into your mouth, so that the pure sea water lubricates all your insides and lets the oyster slide gently into your throat. Chew, chew, chew, and voila! You’re done. And I hope you enjoyed it, because everyone expects you to.

Despite all my complaining, and skeptical hesitation, it really wasn’t all that bad. Each variation was a little different depending on size, chewiness, saltiness, but each one gave me the same overall feeling of freshness. I wouldn’t have believed that mechanically chomping down on an ocean-bottom slug would make me feel refreshed, but the salty sea water was so real that just sipping it made me feel like I was in the sun. The taste of the sea was the main presence in the oyster’s flavor, so that even if I was eating oysters, at least I knew I was eating OYSTERS. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

“So? What do you think?”

“I feel like I’m on Cape Cod.” I didn’t know if that was the right answer, but at least I told him that my taste buds were awakened and trying to place themselves with this novel stimulation.

“You taste the sea?” he asked.

“Isn’t that the point?”

Richard smiled. I think my answer aged me a few years in his eyes, in a good way. I had turned the tables on him, removing the spotlight from me, the eater, and placing it where it was supposed to be for all true food lovers: on the food itself, on the oysters.

He relaxed a little, leaned back and swallowed his own oyster (with lemon juice, I may add). He beckoned the table to begin with the simple command, "enjoy."