WineNZ Summer 18-19 (1)

last word
oysters
In praise of
Vic Williams
S
ome foods polarise people.
Tripe is one. Raw oysters
are another.
Have you ever heard
anyone say that they ‘quite
like’ or ‘don’t mind’ either
one? Tripe lovers will travel hundreds of
kilometres to enjoy their chosen treat, and
oyster aficionados would crawl bare-kneed
over a kilometre of broken shells for theirs.
Those who fall into the opposite camp,
however, would quite likely endure similar
hardships to avoid either delicacy. Such are
the vagaries of the human appetite.
I enjoy tripe, sensitively prepared and
served either in the classical manner with
sliced onions and an indecent amount
of creamy sauce, or in the Italian style
with loads of garlic and tomatoes. Or
indeed in any of the other myriad ways
in which this now unfashionable meat
cut can be prepared. Those who share my
enthusiasm might like to know that there
are usually two examples on the menu of
Tony Astle’s legendary Antoine’s restaurant
in Auckland’s Parnell.
But it is oysters that get me really excited,
and I am delighted that it is at last becoming
easier in this country to enjoy them freshly
shucked.
People from European countries are often
shocked to be offered pre-opened oysters
in New Zealand restaurants, because they
have been brought up to believe that eating
a dead oyster could kill them.
Oddly, we are taught the same about
other shellfish, such as mussels. Most
recipe books tell us to discard any with open
shells because “that means they are dead”.
How did oysters escape this admonition?
Sadly, oysters can be a trigger for a
malady that legend has it is connected with
lavish dining – gout. It troubles me only
occasionally, but the pain is great enough
to drive me to caution when it comes to
the enjoyment of my favourite bivalve.
Thus it was that, finding myself in a
weekend market in coastal France a couple
of years ago, I was reduced to near-tears to
see a dramatically-moustached character
expertly opening a pile of oysters that he
assured me had been removed from the
ocean less than two hours before. The region
where my partner and I were staying was
famous for its oysters, and even though I
was just beginning to recover from a weeklong
attack of my painful nemesis, I could
not in all culinary conscience ignore him.
“Deux huitres, s’il vous plait,” I
said. “Deux?” he asked incredulously,
amazed that I wanted only one each for
my partner and myself. “J’ai le mal du
pied,” I explained, hoping that he would
understand my improvised French for
‘sickness of the foot’ and therefore my
predicament. “Ah,” he said knowingly,
as he opened two oysters and passed them
over, refusing payment.
I closed my eyes and tipped the oyster
and its attendant liquor into my mouth.
Bliss. It was fleshy, unbelievably juicy and
screamed of ocean spray. In the hollow of
that shell nestled all that is wonderful about
natural, unadorned food.
That single oyster, enjoyed on a sunny
day in a French carpark, was one of the
most marvellous things I have ever eaten.
Gout, be buggered. Oysters rule.
90 WineNZ Magazine | Summer 2018-19