Red, White, & Roux

Have you read "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain? If you have some interest in the restaurant business, or even just eat out once in awhile, I urge you to grab a copy. Bourdain has ventured beyond that original great chef's memoir into fiction (sad attempts and best avoided), and more recently into cable television programs, where he travels the world eating exotic and homemade dishes many of us would avoid.
I like to think that I would take any food journey offered. I hated sushi the first time I tried it. There was an automatic gag reflex every time I attempted to swallow. I was with a group of friends, and we had all been invited to a party in Tampa. One of the other guests was an expert. The hosts had him hand-preparing various raw seafood rolls. Our unsophisticated palates just weren't ready.
We went out for pizza afterward.
I didn't give up, though. Now, an evening with a huge platter of sushi and sashimi rates up there with some of my favorite things to eat. I have had favorable experiences with tongue, blood pudding, chitterlings, and haggis. I like to think of new food as an adventure. Even if I don't care for a dish at first, I'll give it a second chance.
This brings us to the ultimate seafood experience - raw oysters.
I didn't much care for them for them growing up. I remember that my dad, Steve Roux, showing a remarkably misplaced sense of humor, threw my sister, Susan, off of eating raw oysters for a number of years. We were sitting outside on the patio, shucking a fresh bag. Susan was around six years old. Just as she prepared to toss one down, he said, "Can't you just feel that little heart thumping as it slides down your throat?" She tells me that this image is with her to this day.
On the upside, she met and bonded with her husband over an oyster. They were at a party. As a flirtatious gesture (and perhaps a little one-ups-man-ship), he offered her a recently opened half-shell. Maybe he was expecting the "Ewwww," response; if so, he was disappointed. She slurped it down with relish. Their eyes met. The marriage has lasted over twenty years.
I distinctly remember the first time I truly enjoyed eating raw oysters. It was a Christmas party at the Apalachicola home of local figures Allie and Jiggs Zingarelli. Imagine a freezing cold December evening. The real food was inside, but the oyster bar was set up in the garage. Jiggs & Company had been to Dry Bar earlier in the day to gather up the mollusks. He had a shucking table set up, complete with crackers and Louisiana Hot Sauce. The only decoration was a personalized Christmas tree decorated with empty Budweiser cans.
At that moment, I began to set my oyster-eating standards, and they are with me to this day. The oyster must be fairly small; it should be positioned on a Nabisco Premium Saltine cracker; four or five drops of hot sauce are to be added (it must be Louisiana or Crystal hot sauce). The entire thing is consumed in one bite. I ate over two dozen that cold December night, and my culinary life has never been the same.
I am proud to say that I adore raw oysters, but my standards are exacting. I won't eat them unless it's cold outside, and I want to know the provenance. I am reminded of a really bad experience in Kansas City (mid summer and they were actually dry around the edges), and an interesting, though expensive, experience in San Francisco.
My mate and I went to a famous place there. I liked the ambiance. There was a long black and white tiled counter with stools and shuckers behind the bar. I perused the offerings and ordered an exorbitantly costly plate of oysters from three different venues, all north of California. I asked if they were farm-raised. My shucker replied, "Oh yeah, all oysters are farm-raised now."
I must confess that the school teacher in me reared up, along with a little local pride. "Oh, no, my dear, there are wonderful wild oysters still gathered in Florida." He placed a really decent plate of bi-valves in front of me. My request for Saltines and Louisiana Hot Sauce was met with polite denials. They only had Tabasco, and those little octagonal oyster crackers that around here we deign only to put into soup. Next time I'm in San Francisco, I'll bring my own.
Actually the oysters were very good. I just didn't like gulping them and trying to chew those little baby crackers at the same time.
Think about this - just how many places in the world exist where even a fancy party will have a shucking station? For years, I have taken for granted that there will be a bag of oysters at most significant gatherings. I can shuck my own, but there is usually a volunteer who will perform the honors.
Is this to become a precious memory of the past, or will it be something that my son, for instance, can also take for granted?
I have some advice for every stakeholder from Charlie Crist and the Riverkeepers, to the gentlemen who man the tongs every day. Get some guys from the Army Corps of Engineers down here on a quiet, chilly evening. Put a cold beer in their bureaucratic hands, and feed them the best of what our bay has to offer.
I believe that they might rethink their position on the water level of Lake Lanier.
Denise Roux is a regular columnist for the Apalachicola and Carrabelle Times.