Although I make no pretenses that I despise slippery, slimey, OOKIE oysters, I found myself consuming them on a couple of occasions recently. The inaugural oyster was on Valentine’s Day at Ella Dining Room & Bar in Sacramento (FABULOUS eats by the way). Mr. T ordered oysters on the half-shell and I obliged him by eating a couple. Note: They taste like the freakin’ sea. Dis-gust-ing. Better slathered in sauce so you can’t detect the ocean in your mouth, but still OOKIE. Color-me-surprised when I succumbed to eating another mangy mollusk not six weeks later on our fabulous trip to Napa. Here’s how it went:
Psyching self up to eat the oyster at V. Sattui. Note the gigantourness. At least the Ella oysters were dainty. Inner monologue: I don’t wanna. I don’t wanna. I don’t wanna.
I’m practicing T’s “Church lady” face and trying to get the slimey bite well-positioned for consumption. Inner monologue: Still don’t wanna, still don’t wanna, still don’t wanna.
Down the hatch. Inner monologue: I can’t believe I’m doing this, uh-gain.
Really don’t think I need to explain this one.
Long and short: Oysters = slimey OOKIE snot = YUCK.