The oyster, for me, is more than a briny bite of the sea.
It marks the good times and moments of high celebration. My mother’s oyster stew on New Year’s Eve. A plateful of raw Wellfleets on the Fourth of July. The appetizer at a milestone birthday dinner. Like caviar, these craggy bivalves tell the world, even if it’s just your small world, that something special is going on.
Yet plenty I know—and I’m sure you know some too--shudder at the thought of swallowing even one raw oyster, let alone a plateful. Jonathan Swift popularized the notion that it was a brave soul indeed who first sent one of these slippery, slimy slugs down the hatch.
Bravery? Please. To the detractors, I ask, does the venerable oyster offend your gustatory standards any more than a bloody steak? A Rocky Balboa wannabee chugging a glass of raw eggs? Or the reveler who feels lucky to have won the worm in the mezcal?
That said, I’ll give the other side this much: oysters raw carry a certain risk. And maybe that’s what makes them, in part, so darn appealing. Last summer, word went out that a swimmer with an open wound had contracted flesh-eating bacteria at a Falmouth beach. No one linked the man’s bad luck directly to the oyster, except in this way: health experts warned the immune-compromised—I’m 70 with medical issues that qualify me as such—that we should refrain from raw seafood. Raw oysters were mentioned specifically in some cases as carriers of infection that can be transmitted through consumption.
That was August. I haven’t had an oyster since as I weighed the risk. But now the holidays have come around again, and I wonder—ok I hope—that abstinence is not the answer.
In my consternation, I reached out to Dan Goulart, coastal project manager for the Nature Conservancy. You may have heard about Dan of late. Along with state and local officials and $800,00 in grant money, he and the team are building five oyster reefs off the Massachusetts coast. They want to create an infrastructure akin to a coral reef, safe haven for thousands of species that will benefit from the oysters’ amazing ability to keep nitrogen levels low.
Goulart struck me as a friendly and thoughtful guy. I chalked it up to the fact that the man loves his oysters. In fact, he told me he had a bunch that morning—straight from the ocean. Oysters for breakfast … I’m gonna have to try that. Goulart buys into the idea that state and the Cape’s shellfish constables keep a pretty good eye on the pollution and that includes the bacteria. When testing shows levels of fecal coliform and other nasty stuff gets too high, they shut down the shellfish beds and the beaches. As long as you buy your oysters from a reputable source—I have several in and around my mid-Cape stomping grounds—or, if you harvest them yourself and stay in areas proscribed by local authorities, Goluart says the oyster is a safe bet.
So pin a medal for bravery on me, Mr. Swift. I’m taking Goulart up on his bet, ready with my lemon juice and horseradish just in time for the Wellfleets, Duxburies and so many others by a roaring fire.
And please don’t tell me they’re also delicious with cocktail sauce. You can’t be serious. Ketchup in any form or fashion is best kept in the fridge until it’s time for the cheeseburgers to go on the grill.
