It was a family holiday, two weeks travelling down the coast of France and into Spain at the age of 11, my first time abroad. I remember ,we'd been into the local town to purchase the ingredients for a lovely seafood dinner; an adventure in itself as we went from stall to stall of fresh delights, loading up on Crevettes, Moules and a beautiful bouillebaise despensed to order into huge jars from a large pot. Then dad said, 'Let's try some oysters.' Looking at the strange creatures that resembled flints of sedimentary rock I was intrigued.
Back under the pine trees seated behind our sturdy Bedford, Dad commenced what was to become a bloody battle. He'd never shucked oysters before and anyone watching this awful struggle would have known. He used a bone-handled penknife which was incredibly unsuitable, both due to sharpness and grip. The drama of gasping man pitched against silent bivalve added to the exoticism of the occassion for me.
Finally, amidst efforts of encouragement, dismissed assistance and plasters...dad laid out the six, yes six oysters. Such a brief reward after the toil. However, those two oysters I ate with gusto, not a rushed swallow but a considered experimental chewing of trepidation. These Crassostrea gigas were as alien to me as a distant cousin of the brother of ET's mum; yet I don't think any foodstuff has hit me with such a 'connection', a sense of life, the feeling that something other was happening other than merely/purely eating.
It was a passion which was to stick with me, yet, lay dormant for some years to come as I rode the tough rollercoaster of council estate life, adolescence and a brief relationship with McDonalds Big Mac meals as a hangover tonic...
