This is where my story begins. It was a cloudy weekend in February and the Cocault family decided to take me to their beloved « campagne » (The country side- where every French person jets off to at the first opportunity – a chance for busy Parisians to escape the shuffle and pressures of daily life and where they are offered a chance to reconnect with the idyllic, traditional, simpler French way of life.) A three-hour drive saw us arrive at the house of Monsieur Cocault’s parents- a lovely couple that by all accounts was ready to welcome an unknown American import into their home. I remember papie (grandpa Cocault) looked exactly like my host dad but more wrinkly and bony. Mamie (grandma Cocault) was a lady who made Pâté de Lapin (rabbit) and stored it in little glass containers, and kept weird Bird feathers in her attic, which I came across while exploring the house with my host sister Agathe. This is also the first time I saw a bidet… but that is a whole other story that I would like to tell but unfortunately has nothing to do with food.
That afternoon, Papie walked into the dining room with a silver bucket filled with ice and what I learned were live oysters, freshly gathered from the sea behind their house. Papie sat down, took out his shucker in silence as if beginning a sacred ritual, and began to shuck. This man of about eighty shucked faster and more swiftly than anyone else I have come to see shuck an Oyster. « Alors Andrea, tu veux gouter? » They asked me. Did I want to try…? They assumed I would say no or that I would hate them by the tone of their voice. Papie handed me an oyster, drizzled some vinegar with shallots on it and told me to suck it into my mouth, chew it once if I wanted to, and then swallow. Hi stone of voice was grave and frankly I was a bit scared.
I took the little Oyster, and poured it in my mouth.
The next three seconds were the worst gastronomic moments of my life. The taste of sea filed my mouth, the salt water hit me like a giant wave and the slimy Oyster felt like a blob of Jelly so potent that I swallowed immediately. I felt the oyster move down my throat, and I swear I felt it move! I was panicked, and Agathe started giggling as she handed me a pièce of baguette with butter to help it go down. I wondered why on earth people would subject themselves to this….
Fast-forward six years, and I could not love them more. A true delight of salty fishiness. Whether you have them with just lemon juice or with wine vinegar and shallots or plain on a piece of buttered bread, they are just wonderful. At the market at Talensac, I can buy 8 oysters for about 2,70 Euros. Not bad…
