My first experience with oysters was not at age ten like Anthony Bourdain, and I cannot slurp them down a dozen a minute like Sonja Thomas. In fact, at age 24, I had never had an oyster. It wasn't like the opportunity had never presented itself; I just couldn't bring myself to follow through. It was the fear of rejection, of course - I was utterly convinced that when I tipped back the shell, my throat would close.
I creted an arsenal of excuses as to why I simply could not eat oysters: I had once had a bad reaction to shellfish; a close friend had been diagnosed with paralytic shellfish poisoning; I quoted an article about flesh eating bacteria.
But then my close acquaintances started to gush about these little bivalves. I had nothing to contribute to these conversations, and suddenly felt myself excluded from this circle of experience. When I admitted that I simply could not stomach the thought of eating one, I could just feel their eyebrows rise. So when Christmas rolled around and my mother suggested oysters as a treat, I loudly said, "yes." My sister turned to me and said, "Have you ever even had one?" There was that eyebrow again.
My first oyster was dead. Frozen and defrosted in a comedy of errors, I still managed to get it down. I don’t recommend you try to do the same. Regardless, there was something intriguing about the way that bundle of salt and lemon slid down my throat. I started to dash into oyster bars for a half-dozen, and learned that drinking cider on the side added a whole new level of wonderful.
So when I arrived in D.C. last month, my first order of business was to find an oyster buddy. One person I asked 'did not eat ocean things’ and another asked if she could order hers fried. I eventually convinced a good friend, Drew, to meet me at Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th for a few half-shells and some oyster brews. He confided in me that this would be his first oyster.
Old Ebbitt Grill has that classic Victorian feel you find around the city, with brass and wood covering the expansive restaurant. But it is clearly a place for regulars. When we walked up to the hostess and asked for a place at the bar she responded, “But which bar?” Apparently there are four. Three passes around the restaurant, one Yuengling (me), and one Guinness (him) later, we were ready to order.
I pretended to know exactly what I was doing and ordered a half a dozen Raspberry Point (Crassostrea virginica) New London Bay oysters. I was relieved when the bartender smiled, approving of my choice. They came on ice with a single lemon wedge and a variety of sauces that I cannot possibly bear to sully my oysters with.
I showed Drew how to move the oyster around off the shell with a finger, careful not to spill any of the ocean water cushioning the piece of meat and then tilted my head back. I thought I heard him mutter something about bacteria and then it was down the hatch.
Smooth. Fresh. Salt. Acid. Swimming. Ice. Heaven.
But then it was gone and down my throat and I turned to see an expression of pleasure and wonder on Drew’s face that I am sure mirrored my own. We moved on to the next pair, but this time I did something unprecedented: I chewed.
There is no way to accurately describe the taste or texture of an oyster. The reaction of the meat on the tongue is unique to every oyster, every tongue. The first oyster I chewed was sweet and soft, the second salty with a more resistant bite. Oysters appeal to our desire to explore umami: the combination of taste, smell, texture and sound in our mouths. That night I discovered this: swallowing an oyster without allowing it to linger in your mouth is like glancing at a beautiful wrapping job, and never exploring what what the gift is inside.
We ordered another set, this time sampling small and large oysters, one from Virginia and a few from Massachusetts. As each oyster was consumed, I started to feel a little giddy. I let my hair down and wondered why I had not put on heels that night. And then I did something unprecedented – I ordered a martini - dirty, of course.
Drew and I sat there giggling over our absolute infatuation with the platters sitting in front of us. I don’t know if it was the oysters, the martini, or the absolute thrill of being reunited with a college friend, but when I stood up to leave I knew I would eventually become one of Old Ebbitt’s regulars.
As we walked out of the bar I heard a man say, “Oh, I don’t eat oysters.” That’s when I felt my eyebrow go up.
Old Ebbitt Grill
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