On the way back from Point Reyes last weekend we stopped at an oyster farm so I could indulge my love of oysters (not yet sated by the oyster pizza I had had on Sunday night!).
These were much fresher than the oysters I remember from Pantelleria, the Italian island closer to Africa than Italy—the rust-colored oysters gathered by some Italians we’d met who spent summers there, letting them open by themselves when they’d been long enough out of the water, sometimes after many days. They tasted pungent and rusty, those oysters, like their color. We’d drink a dry volcanic wine with them, that we had to drive up steep streets to buy from a man in a dim shop somewhere on the island, though the vendor of fish came past the rented house early each morning, in a three-wheeler, selling the swordfish that would be marinated in lemon juice and olive oil and sea salt.
On Wednesday night, rich with California oysters, I modified a recipe from the Hog Island Oyster Lover’s Cookbook and wallowed in a lovely “mess” of deviled oysters. Oysters dipped in Dijon mustard and rolled in fresh bread crumbs spiced with cayenne, paprika, cracked black pepper, and dried mustard, and when lightly fried laid on a bed of shredded spinach, fine-sliced radishes, pancetta, and white wine vinaigrette, to slightly wilt the salad mixture. Yummy.
I did feel a bit guilty, remembering the poor bedeviled oysters in The Walrus and the Carpenter, whose sad story can be abbreviated like so—
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!". . .
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
But four young Oysters hurried up,. . .
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
image: Édouard Manet, Oysters, National Gallery of Art
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