Oysters

I once visited an oyster farm in California, where shucked shells from harvested meat were used to lay a track to the highway. Lorries passing had powdered these shells, and a dust had floated up and settled over a kilometre in every direction. The landscape was nuclear grey and, until I realized what was going on, I approached the farm slowly like the couple driving towards their doom in a horror flick. I’ve tried clusters of tiny African oysters, delicate fines de claires and whoppers in Mexico, but the English and Irish natives are my favourites. It is their minerally twang, firm texture and meaty taste that are so good.