October 20, 2007
A few evenings ago, John and I went Neptune Oyster for a light meal before a concert. It’s a tiny but charming bistro with marble tabletops, plush red banquettes, and a passive-aggressive but efficient waitstaff.
We perused the oyster menu. I was not born an oyster eater, but they’re in fashion these days, and they regularly find me without me seeking them out. So I have slowly gone from repulsion, to intrigue, to almost — only almost, though — enjoyment.
When I do in fact have a choice, I try to find oysters that taste as little as oysters as possible. The menu described one type as ‘creamy’ with a ‘hint of cucumber’ (for real). I went with that. It was from Washington State.
John was impressed that a little North End bistro could bring to its tables an oyster still fresh after a 3,000-mile journey. “Wow,” he said, “all the way from Washington State!”
All of a sudden, I was not impressed. I felt guilty.
Time to buy a carbon offset. Or maybe the little lychee tree growing in my kitchen window will suffice?