Oysters
On polite fictions.
Someone asked what I’d been most excited to eat post-pregnancy, and I realized I hadn’t gotten oysters yet. So, we went out early to get them on our anniversary. It was a cool evening, so we were the only people seated outside, and the baby stayed mostly quiet until the check came—a blessing.
A long time ago, I watched as the back-of-the-house staff at Craigie (RIP) assembled a platter of seemingly just-shucked oysters from already opened shells and a plastic tub filled with meat and brine. This wasn’t shocking so much as it was sensible—that you would do the worst of the labor before the busiest part of service.
I’ve never worked at a restaurant, but I have opened an oyster. A skilled shucker does it in a second, one swift movement, and it’s ready to eat. My record is maybe a minute or two?
Some vegetarians will eat oysters because they’re more plant than animal, though a friend of mine objects—it feels cruel to swallow its whole body in a single bite. It’s not sentient, I suppose, but when you’re struggling to open the oyster, breaking off bits of its shell to get inside, what does it know except it’s alive?