The story of the curious oysters

"The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings". So said the Walrus to the Oysters.

Part two of the London Trilogy is the tale of  my first oyster. These little animals have received a bit of bad press recently... so I thought I'd jump on the band wagon! No just kidding, I am of course in support of eating oysters as a lovely sustainable seafood item. But while Alice in Wonderland's the Walrus and the Carpenter sung to the little oysters to lure them off down the beach in a sort of creepy abduction, I went to Borough Market.

As a former London resident I have often observed the Borough Market oyster stands and their oyster-eating customers (that's the only kind they have). Yet somehow I always felt too shy to ask for an oyster myself because I wouldn't have a clue what to do with it and would be embarrassed in front of all the knowledgeable oyster people. And I could hardly say "thanks" and pop it into my pocket to eat privately later. But during this last visit to London I decided to throw caution to the wind. Well actually I just found a friend to feel foolish with. You see, I liken novice oyster-eating to falling over:

If I fall over and embarrass myself with friends, well actually no one is surprised, and we laugh about it. If however I slip, trip or fall over when alone, I have the choice of either a) pretending I meant to do it and thus staying on the ground for a while, or b) getting up, doing an exaggerated 'silly me' face, probably accompanied by a shaking of the head and rolling of the eyes, in case anyone is looking, and then carrying on down the street trying to hide the fact that I really hurt myself.

So basically I had a friend with me to look like an idiot with, which makes it ok. And to pay for the oysters as it turned out. Winner! I mean thanks. So I went for it...

Formerly unbeknownst to me, there is a significant level of decision-making to be done when buying an oyster. This starts with whether or not to go native. Does it matter? Surely an oyster by any other name would smell as briny? Yet there are two species on sale and you must select one.

So, there's the native (or flat) oyster Ostrea edulis which is kind of round, and then there's the larger and kind of longer-shaped Pacific (or rock) oyster Crassostrea gigas. Natives/flats are well, native and look flat. The Pacific/rock oyster is from the Pacific, and resembles a rock. You really couldn't make this stuff up.

Why two species? Well, native oyster populations were thought to be less productive than desired, being a little 'averse to harsh weather conditions' as Richard Haward's Oysters puts it. The soft beggars. So in the 1960s the hardier Pacific oyster was deliberately introduced to be farmed for commercial purposes. This introduction of a non-native species was promptly followed by escapees merrily establishing populations in the wilds of the British coast (all imagine an oyster legging it over the farm walls to 'run free' and start an enormous family...). It's said that the Pacifics grow faster and spawn more frequently, and so are better suited to farming, and to outcompeting the sensitive natives as it turns out. Wise decision? Barn door, horse, bolted.

So oysters are bivalves, which is solely a revelation about their shell type. But, if you want to talk about the birds and the erm, shellfish, oysters can change sex and fertilise their own eggs. Yeh, take that! So yes, bivalves, meaning that their shell is made of two parts which can open and close. Normally when I say 'bivalves' I do the international sign for bivalves - heels of palms together, open and close hands at the fingers. Haha I know you're doing the international sign for bivalves right now....You'd like to know of some other famous bivalves? Alright let's see what I've got up my sleeve... well apart from muscles *smirk* there's scallops, clams, and mussels too.

Both oyster species are now found both wild and farmed in the UK and bivalve farming is generally great - all we need is a lil bit o substrate (rock, rope, whatever the mollusc likes to attach to), and a good water supply. Therefore this method of seafood production is uber sustainable and uber low impact on the environment. Wicked.

Second call to make: do you go large? Word of warning - the scientific name of the Pacific or rock oyster is directly translatable as "this oyster is giant and thick". Hindsight allows me to share a little wisdom with you - going for a 'large Pacific' on your first ever oyster could be a mistake. The oyster shells are all closed (this means the oysters are good and safe to eat) and obviously (but worth stating), raw. The guys on the stand (the 'shuckers') open the oyster up for you ('shuck' it) and cut them away from the shell to facilitate the tipping of the entire thing into your mouth. This you know is the etiquette in oyster-eating and only a total buffoon would do it any other way. Read on.

Thirdly, lemon juice? Tabasco sauce? Oh man. At this point I'm down the line at the table of condiments, holding my oyster-in-a-half-shell, unable to make any more decisions. MASSIVE oyster and all of its liquor in hand, I can delay no longer. Yet while I'm not known for the smallness of my mouth, I know that there is no way it will hold the entire contents of the shell. Tip it all in at once? (Shuck that!). So I gingerly held down the oyster and poured a good part of the liquor away until I felt that what was left was a manageable portion for a lady. What else have I since read in that pesky oyster-eating etiquette? That the only absolute rule that you must not break is do NOT pour out the oyster's liquor. Ooops.

And with that, in it went. Poor thing. No not the oyster - me! I'm the one standing in Borough Market, mouthful of what felt like curdled seawater. And they are considered an aphrodisiac??
"Well that's an alleged effect of the high levels of zinc contained in them"
"It's Boring Lindsay! Kick her!"
So eating oysters is considered to be a prelude to something else. Well, unless that something else is throwing up, I don't think I felt it.

The end of the tale? There was only one way for that oyster to go... no I didn't spit it out, I chewed like lightening and swallowed it down. And do you know what? I'd do it again! The bit about throwing up was just for comedic effect and while difficult to describe, oysters certainly can't be called bad... let's say complex.

And my friend? Well, apparently he didn't 'reduce the shell contents to a manageable portion for a lady' like I did. "Erm, you have a little something in your beard..."

The Idiot's Guide to what NOT to do with Gurnard (I'm an idiot, here is my guide)

So in my last post I allowed my literary attentions to drift away from coastal fauna and instead penned a little prose about coastal flora (and dog wee). This time I'm not even going to write about Cumbria. Mixing it up, flying by the seat of my pants? Nope, I took a train. Drum roll please, for Part One of the London Trilogy.

It's 6am and I'm outside Billingsgate market, courtesy of a taxi driver who did well not to smash into McDonalds on the approach, as he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other over his nose..."What is this Billingsgate? It is fish, yes?"

Billingsgate market is the largest inland fish market in the UK. It opens for trade at 5am and is the place to be for anyone who wants a box of fish before sunrise. They also run a super duper range of courses at the Billingsgate Training School - brilliant, just try and stop me! So there I was, bleary-eyed and bushy-haired, and apparently with a very tense neck:

After enough tea to fully open my eyes and relax the muscles in my neck, my course mates and I set off on a tour of the market expertly guided by the fantastic Ken, who has been in the business for more years than I should tell you (I don't actually know) and who is an absolute legend. Here he is, demonstrating to the group how selling fish is just like conducting an orchestra:

 

Ken had many invaluable tips about buying fish (body tone, body tone, body tone!) and insightful thoughts on why we shouldn't buy dogfish... "that dogfish there? I wouldn't give that to your cat.... and I bet your cat's horrible".

Bah ha brilliant! Now I may be (definitely am) shamelessly adapting this comment to suit my conservation purposes but I like to think it means that dogfish is not only a lovely shark, friend not food, but that it tastes like poop too and therefore the best all-round advice is don't bother eating it.

Me: "Oh, so what you're actually saying is, dogfish tastes like dog poop? Interesting..."
Ken: "that is not what I said. Why I oughta...!" *shakes fist angrily*
Me: *Running away shouting* "dogfish is dog poop!"
Ken:

As part of the tour we bought fish to practice on in the kitchen workshop area later, so I got a couple of gurnard (No, I'm not obsessed) then went around with everyone else trying really hard not to be a know-it-all when we were asked 'who knows what fish this is?' at every box.

Well I failed at that, but I got all the fish right! *smug face*.

Now I can't possibly go any further without advising all you female readers that if you're feeling a bit low in the self esteem department, to take a trip to Billingsgate market - it's a man's world and apparently the men there only communicate with women via the universal language of wolf-whistling. I nearly fell over when, while practically sleeping on my feet and looking like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall before his haircut (but after a shave), I got my first wolf-whistle of the day. They then came thick and fast, along with the offers to help me cook my fish:

Man: Nice gurnard.

Me: Thanks.

Man: What are you going to do with that?

Me: Cook it.

Man: You need some help with that?

Me: Bye.

After the full tour of the market, including the cold storage area which was really cold, we went up to the kitchen workshop to learn what to do with our fish. Ken showed us a great way to gut and skin a gurnard in one deft manoeuvre which I have since *deep breath* videoed myself doing and attached below *cringes but ploughs on valiantly for the cause*. But before you watch the video, please be aware that I don't know why I say directly to the camera "this is a red gurnard, because it is red" in a weird voice. I also have no idea if the sound or even the video itself will work. What's more (embarrassing), look out for me purposely and repeatedly pricking my thumb on the spines to demonstrate where they are. Want to know something that I didn't? Gurnard is a member of the scorpionfish family. Scorpionfish in general have a protein-based venom in their dorsal spines and while I can't actually find any information anywhere to back up the fact that gurnard spines are venomous, my thumb doesn't usually swell up and increase in temperature on a Friday night. Ah well, you live, stick yourself with gurnard spines, and learn. To be fair it was no big drama, didn't actually hurt, and would be rather easy to avoid so don't be discouraged from having a go.

Final thoughts on gurnard before incredibly-embarrassing-video-time? Well, they have large heads, which I can sympathise with, and they can grunt and growl, which is what I was doing as I was trying to pull my gurnard's large head off. They also make a little girly farty sound as you pull their heads back and their guts come out.
"Urgh pardon you".
"It was the gurnard!"
"Lindsay, you can't blame the gurnard every time."

Now watch the video and never, ever tell me what you think of it.