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Based on its geography and surrounding provinces, Halifax, Nova Scotia should be one of the oyster capitals of the world. Right? Food blogger Andy Murdoch makes the case here, and provides a comprehensive guide to oyster eating in the city.
Hama Hamas, Blue Pools, and a bevy of beautiful whites
Here at The Oyster Guide we decided to ring in the holidays with a wine tasting, pairing six different whites from three different countries with half a dozen different oysters. There were a few duds and a few standouts. The picks of the litter: Screamingly salty Marin Miyagis (from I Love Blue Sea) with a butterscotchy Girard Napa Valley Chardonnay, and wicked briny Mystics with that very same Chard. This is further proof that the old rule about oysters requiring high-acid whites is a bunch of hooey. With very salty oysters from either coast, a rich, full-bodied Chardonnay rounds out the palate and takes away the salt much better. Then again, medium-briny Hama Hamas made a 2011 Crossings Sauvignon Blanc absolutely sing; the watermelon rind of the oysters and grapefruit of the wine both coming to the fore. So sometimes the old rules do apply. Last, Blue Pools (tumbled Hama Hamas) paired with a 2010 Barone Fini Alto Adige, grown high up in the Tyrol, to create an elegant, minerally purity. Yum, and Happy New Year to all. May your 2012 be bristling with bivalves.
Nice little Chesapeake oysters grown by Johnny Shockley, a third-generation Maryland waterman who has transitioned to the aquaculture side of things (which is pretty much an essential survival strategy if you’re a Maryland waterman these days). The primary oyster is grown on Hooper’s Island, where the salinity averages 16 ppt (pretty low) but dropped to an almost-fresh 7 ppt in 2011 (due to lots and lots of rain). I think the 7 ppt oysters have a place, since the lack of salt allows a pure, clean “oysterness” to shine through–kind of a marine version of jerusalem artichoke and creamed corn–but most people want more salt in their oysters, so some Chesapeake Golds are also being “salted up” near Chincoteague Bay, a centuries-old strategy for giving them an intense, bitter-salty Atlantic brine. If you get the opportunity, try them both: a fun lesson in the power of terroir. Whatever the salinity, what stands out in Chesapeake Golds is the small, thick shell, which opens beautifully, the deep cups, and the full meat inside. A great selection for those who like a cocktail-sized oyster.
Chesapeake Golds
Tawny-shelled Ned's Islands
Ned was an old Native American guy who lived all alone on his eponymous island on the Connecticut side of Long Island Sound. I don’t know if he liked oysters or not, but the waters off his island were thick with ‘em. This is the fabled home of Bluepoints, and that’s the flavor you get in a Ned’s Island oyster. Bluepoints have a checkered past. They were originally from the Great South Bay on the southern coast of Long Island, but after those were wiped out in the 1800s Bluepoint production switched to Long Island Sound, which had the last great wild sets in the area, and that’s where it really took off. Bluepoints became the most popular oysters in the country. But because the name is not trademarked, soon other regions (Delaware Bay, Chesapeake Bay, the Gulf of Mexico) began selling their oysters as Bluepoints, and still do. It’s done a terrible disservice to the name, because a good Bluepoint from Long Island Sound (like those harvested by Hillard Bloom Shellfish of Norwalk, Connecticut, the family-owned company that saved Long Island oystering) has wonderfully firm, briny flesh, while many of the ersatz bluepoints tasted like something the plumber freed from the U-curve under your sink. I still hit these fakes in restaurants all the time.
Ned’s Islands have the classic taste, with a lively 27-ppt brine. They are started in a hatchery (using local broodstock), then grown out in off-bottom cages. Any oysters that don’t meet the Ned’s Island specs are culled, meaning you get a deep-cupped, 3-4-inch oyster every time. Up off the bottom, they have access to a tawny-colored algae that covers the shells (very reminiscent of a Quonset Point) and gives them a complex flavor: sweet (at least on this December evening, when, admittedly, most oysters are at their sweetest), perfectly briny, with a lingering, tannic, green pepper finish (almost like a Chinon or other Cabernet franc). They also have a nice crunch, which to me is essential to the pleasure of an oyster.
Carlsbad was a sleepy beach town midway between San Diego and Los Angeles before Lego decided to build a theme park there in the 1990s. The oyster, the only truly Southern California variety, has a bit of a theme park look to it: glassy shells with jagged fans of white and purple stripes reminiscent of an art deco light fixture. It is grown offshore in suspended culture and has a strongly briny flavor with overtones of melon and cucumber, and a touch of alkalinity. Definitely different than the Bay Area varieties. Interestingly, there are three variations on the Carlsbad theme: the very small Carlsbad Luna is the briniest, because it hasn’t had time to build up its glycogen content yet, while the Carlbad Blonde is balanced between briny and sweet. Carlsbad Aquafarms also takes some Blondes and gives them a two-hour freshwater immersion, which sweetens them markedly and allows certain flavors to come forward. These are sold as Del Sols; I haven’t tried them, but am eager to. I welcome comments from anyone who has. Look for Carlsbad Blondes at restaurants and farmers markets throughout southern California.
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