Oysters have once again become the bivalve of the hour, the defining protein of the age, expressing everything we want life and food to be right now. Luxurious but unpretentious, decadent but healthful, oysters are the must-order—from the basis of le grand plateau de fruits de mer at a New York institution like Balthazar to seafood-centric newbies like The Ordinary in Charleston, South Carolina. Oysters are even quasi-wild and sustainable, not to mention downright good for the oceans. There’s something sweetly deceptive about their simplicity, too. At least it felt that way to me, sitting at grand old Elliott’s Oyster House on Seattle’s waterfront.
The two dozen trays behind the shucker were flagged with names like Hama Hama, Barron Point, Little Skookum—farms within a few hours’ drive (or sail) of my barstool. With the precision of a surgeon, the oysterman set to work and laid my order on ice, next to a cold glass of Washington Sauvignon Blanc. Those shimmering half shells seemed to say that they’d been plucked straight from the sea, as if there were nothing to know beyond their briny lusciousness. And yet, as with peas and pork and broccoli and beef, there is always a story to tell when you follow your food back to the source.
The wonderful thing about Seattle, that greatest of oyster cities, is that the story began just beyond Elliott’s big picture windows, among the sheltered inlets and forested islands that make Washington State’s $185-million-a-year shellfish industry easily the biggest and best in the United States, if not the world.
To read the rest of the story, please go to: Bon Apetit
