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Posts Tagged ‘Wellfleet oysters’

Tropical Storm Danny is pouring long ropes of rain down the walls of the Truro Public Library.  I’m taking advantage of the wireless, while Jack negotiates with the hordes of other kids for a few more minutes with the trains.   He’s into non-fiction lately, so we’ve just read books about tornadoes, hurricanes, the first railroads, and kittens.

We had a good meal last night, at Mac’s Shack in Wellfleet.  Mac’s original restaurant is more the shack—right on the sandy shore of Wellfleet Harbor.  It’s all take-out from a window, picnic tables, paper and plastic, and BYOB.  It’s a kid-friendly spot that also serves excellent food.  The story about the more expensive and relatively fancier “Shack” is that they hoped it would be less of a kid and family destination, and more of a date or dinner party spot.  But last night—Saturday at 6—almost every table had a child or two. The building’s facade is pretty inviting to those little people for whom reality and fantasy are often blurred:

macs shack

(Jack asked if the fisherman was real, but he knew the lobster was pretend.)

I haven’t been able to persuade Jack to eat fish except in highly disguised forms, so he ordered a bacon cheeseburger.  Good boy.  While he waited impatiently for his fries, I let him have the camera.  He took portraits of everyone, but I won’t embarrass Peter, Anne, or Curtis by posting them here.

me at macs

Local shellfish was flying out of its shells, due to the fast, professional shuckers:

clams

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The oysters we had the other night in P-town were getting spawny.  It’s summer–a cool one, but still summer, so the oysters have lost their briny, idiosyncratic edge, the flavor that marks them as a certain species in a certain water.  They’ve grown flabby and creamy, inevitably fertile.  I’m glad there are cultivated things that haven’t become completely unseasonal, indistinguishable month to month.  We’ve tried to achieve it with tomatoes and strawberries, and haven’t.

I do love Wellfleet oysters, but the oysters I long for are those from Tomales Bay.  The oyster company out there in Marin County, called Hog Island after the bay island once peopled with pigs, was one of our favorite destinations in the Bay Area.  We’d park the car just off the narrow slip of road along the bay, hear the crunch of oyster shells under the tires, feel the breeze off the water, walk just a few yards to the table of sorting tubs right on the shore, and order 50 or 100, depending on who was coming over later.

Kumamotos–which fit into the circle of your hand’s ok sign–, Sweetwaters–Pacific essence…

Sometimes we’d hike, or stay over, and wade in the water on the opposite side of the long, skinny bay.

Shucking, back in our birdhouse apartment in the Berkeley hills, Peter would find an extra dozen or two.  Shhh… don’t tell!

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