The Tainan Oyster Masquerade: Part 2

The glory of the oyster, as it was meant to be eaten, was not truly experienced until the second adventure. This time we specified not only that we wanted raw oysters, but also how we wished them to be prepared. This did the trick. We were presented with first one, and then another five or six orders of beautiful plump oysters, served in their shells, and arranged in hypnotic circles on the plate. They were served with lemon wedges and wasabi in separate dishes. I stuck with the lemon, as after eating one, I felt that I could not be satisfied more with any alteration of the flavour. I’m not saying that this was a perfect oyster, but at the time it felt like it. I felt the power and beauty of the ocean as I ate these oysters. I felt the primal lust of consuming a raw animal in its entirety. I felt the calming affects of its texture and the absolute fullness of its taste. From the eye to the hand to the tongue to the throat to the stomach, and deeper into the body and brain. As with all of our greatest experiences with food, this experience was not merely culinary but also spiritual.

We followed up our five or so plates of these oysters with pitchers of draft at the former German consulate, and then with several cans of Asahi at roadside. This led to a spur of the moment foot-race with Kinger at a local school.

We then made a late evening visit to one of the wholesale oyster vender that can be found around the city. Displayed on the floor was a massive tangle of mud and shells that could hardly be described as appetizing or aesthetically pleasing. Our representative seafood expert, Ron Rose, pointed out that the intriguing mess before us displayed a notable lack of small crabs and other sea life that should have been crawling about, and therefore indicated a lack of health in the ocean’s ecosystem. We were unperturbed by this warning though, and proceeded to purchase a large styrofoam cooler of unshucked oysters on ice.

We hauled our booty over to an empty parking lot and set about devouring it in a bacchanalian frenzy. It was pure oyster lust. Oyster upon oyster was shucked and devoured with growing speed and abandon. As each oyster was consumed, the desire for more increased. The natural neurotoxins from these still living oysters began having their effect and our civilized bearings melted away. Our faces, hands and clothes were covered with oyster juice, an astonishing pile of shells rose before us like a newly formed volcanic island. Revolting sucking sounds echoed down the streets. We had become primal beings linked to our Neanderthal cousins in the pure joy of consuming life, raw and whole.

Our Scottish representative, Collin, normally known for bouts of drunken insanity, was strangely disgusted by the carnage we had wrought and only wished for it all to end. I was happy to ignore his feminine pleas for decency, but the others catered to his whims and decided enough was enough. When we finally called it quits, Kinger had sliced open his finger on a shell and was bleeding profusely. I barely noticed as I rolled about, bloated yet energized from the thirty or so oyster souls sloshing about in my stomach. I can recall few moments in my life as happy as this one.

We deposited the remaining cache of oysters beside a homeless man sleeping at a neighbouring temple and headed back to Taichung. We imagined that our Tainan oyster adventure had finally come to a stupendously successful end. How wrong we were. The final chapter of this saga was not to begin until two days later on the other side of the island…