I took a break from a semi social-media hiatus to tweet about the Oyster Evangelist earlier, but I feel like this topic deserves a longer treatment, which I now have the time and inclination to give it.
There’s something about oysters (as a cuisine) that inspires intense feelings of love or disgust. And many (if not most) people who love oysters—Oyster Evangelists I call them—are deeply invested in converting repulsed defectors like me. I was thinking about this while in Seattle, where oysters are pushed aggressively on everyone; almost as aggressively as the Seahawks, but with less garish colors and noise.
Like people who love oysters really, REALLY love oysters. But that’s not good enough, you see. Oyster Evangelists are committed to making YOU love oysters too, and when you refuse, to low-key shame you for being unsophisticated enough to be revolted by oysters, and then to rinse and repeat this process of oyster proselytizing at every opportunity.
It’s like a First World foodie version of Green Eggs and Ham: Would you could you with a lemon? I would not could not with a lemon. Would you could you baked or fried? I would not could not baked or fried. Would you could you with Tobasco? I would not could not with Tobasco. In Seattle? Not in Seattle. In Japan? Not in Japan.
And so on.
Eating something that (arguably/at least to me) kind of looks, feels, tastes, and smells like part of the female anatomy served in its own exoskeleton when that is not my personal flavor/mouth feel preference is just ... a bit much? I don’t care if it’s fanned out on a bed of ice and came from a special rock or if Jacques Cousteau himself plucked it off that special rock. I don’t want to eat a slimy sea booger swimming in its own salty fish juice, m’kay?
The only oyster cult I’m joining is Blue Oyster Cult, and let’s be honest they’re not even that great of a band.