JAMES PEMBROKE

OYSTER-SHUCKING TIME

The worst five words in the English language? Simple. ‘Shall we skip the starters?’

On hearing this, put your napkin on top of the table and exit.

The best words? ‘Let’s get half a dozen oysters to kick off!’ Then, of course, still have starters.

For those who still cling to the obsolete rule that one must eat oysters only when there’s an ‘r’ in the month, the eight-month season is about to begin. Welcome back.

The ‘r’ myth is technically relevant only to Natives, our indigenous bivalves, which the Romans used to tow below their ships to the Eternal City. That’s because Natives are busy spawning during the summer and become milky. (The French call this laiteuse, and they rather like them that way.) Yet they are still edible and certainly should be as safe to eat as at any other time of year. Flat-shelled, they are a little more delicate than the cup-shelled Rock or Pacific oysters, taking five years rather than three to grow to an edible size.

Oysters were our proteinaceous staple right up until disaster struck in the mid19th century. We were pulling them out of the Thames as late as the 17th century. A combination of over-fishing and pollution saw our beds’ harvest reduced to a twentieth of their former scale.

Prices went in the opposite direction. In 1851, Henry Mayhew interviewed a shellfish-seller, who was selling three oysters for a penny. The 1881 Baedeker’s

Guide to London advised its readers that half a dozen would cost between 1s 6d and 3s – in real terms, between 48 and 95 times the price of Mayhew’s street seller 30 years previously. In 1942, when rationing spread to restaurants, they

could be ordered as a supplement for 3s 6d – the same price as caviar.

Not any more: prices have tumbled. £3 a pop is the standard price; but tiny, green-tiled Parsons in Covent Garden is offering three Jersey Rocks for £3. OK, so still a long way to go to honour Sam Weller’s comment about oysters and poverty – but a step in the right direction.

The oldest purveyor of bivalves (at £4 for Rocks) is, of course, Rules, started by Thomas Rule as an oysteria in 1798, but they have nothing like the selection of Boisdale in Belgravia, which hosts the annual British Oyster Championship.

Few restaurants are brave enough to cook oysters, for which Rocks are better suited. In prelapsarian times, they used to act as ballast in steak pies and were often cooked in ale and breadcrumbs.

However, last month, my old friend Adam from Oz took me out for dinner at the Oystermen, in Covent Garden, who offer six differently cooked oysters. Ads has always eschewed menus, preferring to order multiple batches of chips, or poppadoms in Indian eateries, and prawn crackers in Chinese restaurants. Yet he’s mad about oysters (albeit to accompany his chips) and insisted on our working our way down the list.

And they were delicious: tempura with champagne aioli and smoked-herring caviar or, more classically, with pickled samphire, brown butter and preserved lemon – two per portion for just £7.

Sensing I was a little overwhelmed by the quantities of Chablis Premier Cru he was pouring, Ads went in for the kill, and ordered three lots of the spiciest oyster dish in London: calamansi, jalapeño and dill. Taxi!!