CHINCOTEAGUE, Moonstone, Bayou La Batre, Blue Point, Wellfleet, Malpeque … this was what I knew of the sea as a child: the list of oysters on the menu board at Grand Central Terminal’s Oyster Bar. My father used to take my sister, Laura, and me there after our parents divorced.
I had never been close to my father and was shy during these meals. At the Oyster Bar, we didn’t have to face each other; we could sit side by side on barstools watching the waiters in their white aprons as they opened oyster after oyster, each with one deft flick of the wrist. These men had dignity and composure such as I’d never seen. They were giving a performance as much as preparing meals. We could watch, sip our oyster stew and count ourselves as having accomplished another visit.
