Favourite Things, Oysters in Autumn
London
Nikon F3 28mm F2 HP5 (400)
Oysters
There is a rule, handed down by the British with the solemnity they usually reserve for queuing and the correct way to make tea, that you should only eat oysters in months with an "R" in them. This means that on the first of September, a certain kind of Londoner wakes with the bright-eyed anticipation of a child on Christmas morning, if that child's idea of a present were a cold, grey, faintly alarming mollusc that looks like something a seagull had second thoughts about. I'll admit my own first encounter was not promising. Until then, my experience of seafood had mostly involved fish fingers shaped like no fish that ever lived. So when a waiter in Mayfair set down a dozen Colchester natives on a bed of crushed ice, I regarded them the way you might regard a dog that has wandered into your kitchen and is staring at you with intent.
But here is the thing, if I do say it with the zeal of a convert: an autumn oyster in London is one of the great unheralded pleasures of civilised life. You tip it back, and for a moment you taste the whole Atlantic, cold and briny and clean, as if someone had distilled a bracing walk along the Cornwall coast into a single slippery mouthful. Then comes a sweetness you weren't expecting, and a faint mineral finish, like licking a very expensive pebble. You squeeze on some lemon, or add a dribble of shallot vinegar, or, if you are feeling reckless, a drop of Tabasco, and you reach for the next one before you've entirely decided you liked the first. By the fourth you're a believer. By the eighth you're telling the people at the next table about it, which is very un-British, and they edge away from you, which is very British indeed.
What makes it perfect, though, is the setting. There is something wonderful about stepping in from a damp October street, the sky the colour of old dishwater and the pavements glistening, into some marble-countered institution that has been shucking oysters since before America had a constitution. Wiltons on Jermyn Street has been at it since 1742, which means its staff have had nearly three centuries to perfect the art of making you feel slightly underdressed. Or you can perch at a counter in the City among red-faced men in pinstripes who appear to have been lunching continuously since the Thatcher years. Either way, you sit with a glass of something cold and flinty, watch the rain streak the windows, and slurp your way through a plate of the finest things the British coast has to offer, and you think: this, really, is what autumn is for. Then the bill arrives, and you think, briefly but sincerely, about taking up fish fingers again.
A pizza on a raised stand inside an oven, surrounded by bowls and bottles, in a cozy restaurant setting with brick walls.
Plate of food on a glass table with a restaurant setting in the background, blurry.
A black and white photo taken at an outdoor market or fair. Several people are seen from behind, standing in front of a stall decorated with chalkboard signs. The signs advertise seafood items, such as "Bloody Mary", "Oyster Boy", and "White Wine", with prices. The background features a graffiti-covered wooden fence and brick building with large windows.
A woman with long dark hair sitting at a restaurant table, looking at her phone with a smile. The background features a brick wall, a framed picture, and bottles on the table, with a pizza in the foreground.
Black and white photo of an outdoor cafe or restaurant with empty tables and chairs. In the foreground, there is a table with a pizza plate, two glasses of beer, and condiment bottles. In the background, people are seated and walking, with some wearing jackets and face masks.