A brief oyster obsession

Nina and I were enjoying a coffee the other day when she told me that her new boss was recovering from hepatitis.

"How did he contract it?" I asked nosily.
"He thinks he got it from eating oysters."

Any normal person would be put off by this conversation, right? Even WebMD offers this stern warning: "Eating raw shellfish, particularly oysters, may put you at risk for hepatitis A. Bivalves such as oysters and clams filter large amounts of water when feeding. If shellfish are living in water that has been contaminated with stool containing the hepatitis A virus, the shellfish may carry the virus. People then may get it when they eat the raw or undercooked shellfish."

Mmmmm, oysters. The word echoed in my ears until my longing for a big icy platter of them had taken over my system like a virus. I had to make a trip to the enormous BHV on Saturday morning (NOT a good time to shop there, in case you were wondering), so I decided to pop into Bar a Huitres near Bastille to fortify myself before braving the crowds. Sure it's a chain, but I like to see a lot of turnover when I order my shellfish, and I figure any place named "Oyster Bar" is probably doing a stiff business in bivalves.

Parisians regularly scarf down seafood platters the size of TV sets like it's their god-given right. Who do they think they are? Where I come from, the only groaning platters of shellfish I can find feature popcorn shrimp and plastic bibs. Here, they resemble seventeenth century Dutch still-lives, big metal trays mounded with ice and seaweed artistically displaying the ocean's most delightful creatures: lobsters, mussels, clams, crabs, oysters, prawns, winkles, and on and on. See some pictures if you don't know what I mean.

I'd already done the Sunday-morning seafood platter thing at Bofinger with my school friends; today I just wanted oysters straight up, and lots of 'em. They're available here in all sorts of shapes, colors and designations just as they are in the U.S. And just like in the U.S., I never have any idea what I'm doing when I order, so I just point randomly and assemble a melange. Yesterday I must have asked for some fines de claires, because I noticed a distinct green and blue tint to the flesh. Those in particular were lovely.

In general, I believe that there is something about eating oysters that inspires introspection. You pry open this creature with its rugged, scarred shell and put its secrets on display. There aren't many bells and whistles to distract you; just a squeeze of lemon and a quick scrape of the fork and then that fleeting sip of the sea. That leaves you with a lot of time to think. Plus, the inevitable accompanying glass of white wine doesn't exactly hurt either. While I ate, I remembered that the last time I enjoyed an entire meal of oysters was almost exactly a year ago in San Fran's Ferry Terminal Building with Eliz, Laura and Lacey during our Feeding Frenzy Weekend. If you had told me back then that in one year I would be closing in on six months in Paris, I would never have believed you. And now it's almost over. At least I know where to go if I get an oyster craving in my new home...