There’s no ‘r’ in Maine, either

Wed, 07/17/2019 - 10:45am

Tradition had it that oysters were to be consumed only in months with an ‘r’ in the name. Such was the quick, short life of the oyster out of its depth that there was no lingering in the heat of May, June, July or August. Oysters were for gentlemen and ladies with fancy forks and elegant serving plates. Limoges to Majolica, the platters the oysters lay on remained as attractive when the shells were empty as when they were full (and sometimes as pearlescent).

But here in Maine, oysters are the province of men and women in waterproof trousers with keenly-honed knives and skill. These are oystermen who can shuck, clear and drink fresh oysters in a motion. All on a boat riding the summer swell, necks shielded from the sun by the sort of cap you might see in a Winslow Homer painting.

Here on the Midcoast, far from the famed Oyster Bar of Grand Central, one tastes the briny liquor of the famed terroirs of Glidden Point and Damariscotta with a chaser of ocean breezes come from the Atlantic. Short of the oyster farm itself, one doesn’t get much closer than an order from Bogie’s or 88 of local oysters to sharing the elixir that calls the oystermen from their beds on a July morning. Read more...