As a young person growing up in Kansas, I couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting than a raw oyster. They seemed slimy, stinky and squirmy – why would any sane person want to pop one in their mouth?
I managed to avoid the mollusc until I was 25 years old, when I was confronted by a raw bar at a friend’s wedding. Trying to fit in at this chic affair, I swallowed my inhibitions and a couple of oysters. To my surprise, I didn’t die. I ate oysters a few more times while living in Boston, but never with much enthusiasm.
That all changed when I moved to France, where fresh oysters during winter are part of the culture. There are more huîtres consumed here than in any other country – around 130,000 per year. The majority are pried from gleaming seafood platters in polished restaurants and brasseries. But my favorite place to eat them is on the hood of a parked car.
> Read the rest of this review at The Girls’ Guide to Paris
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