One More Croissant for the Road. Felicity Cloake

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      Palourdes – clams

      Couteaux – razor clams

      Homard – lobster

      Crabe tourteau – brown crab (sometimes just listed as tourteau)

      Araignée de mer – spider crab

      Crabe mou – soft-shell crab

      Their custodians loiter in front, waiting for customers. I experience the same mild panic as when confronted by a weighty wine list in a smart restaurant – how on earth is one supposed to choose between baskets of bivalves? I do a slow circuit of the stalls, trying hard, like everyone else, to look like I know what I’m doing, and end up back at Aux Délices de Cancale, run by two brothers, Fabien et Gildas Barbé, attracted not by the subtle curve of the shells on display, or the quality of their barnacle build-up, but by the fact that they have the largest oysters I have ever seen, propped out front to draw in the kind of shallow people impressed by size. People like me, in fact.

      I go for half a dozen ordinary number 4s (they’re graded by size, from fat 00s to tiny 6s, and in general, I think smaller shellfish have a better flavour) and one complete beast of a pied de cheval, or horse’s hoof. Come on, it had to be done!

People gather round murmuring in wonderment as the stallholder, who has opened the others as easily as a can of Coke, braces Monsieur Big against the back wall and sets about him with a chisel. ‘How old is he?’ I ask as he hammers away with gritted teeth. ‘Oh, about 15.’ Fifteen! I think. That’s the same age as my oldest nephew! When this animal was born (spawned?) I still naively thought I was going to have a proper job by 30.

      Holding his prize carefully lest it spill out, Gildas, victorious over the shellfish at last, explains that the creature weighs about 180g, well over twice as much as the others, and will need to be tackled with a special knife, which he will lend me for the purpose. The assembled crowd goggles as I escort my victim over to the sea wall, where Matt is already sitting with his slightly more modest order. He raises one eyebrow, which in Matt terms is pretty serious stuff, and don’t I know it. I like oysters you can eat in one gulp, that are easy to chew and slip down as smoothly as an ice-cold martini, not ones with the strength to fight back in your digestive system. Nevertheless, I’ve paid to have this chap’s shell wrenched off, and he deserves to be done justice, if you count being eaten alive as justice, though now definitely isn’t the time to go into that particular argument.

I unfold the sturdy knife Gildas has provided and nervously begin to divide the creature into vaguely edible portions, silently begging for forgiveness as I perform this gruesome but necessary live butchery, and then, conscious of the expectant gaze of not just Matt, but several other diners, tip the first chunk into my mouth and begin to chew. It’s better than I expect, more scallopy, but with a definite meaty texture, and a surprisingly harsh, almost tannic finish. Not unpleasant exactly, but for reasons as much psychological as gastronomic, I can’t say I enjoy the remaining four bits. After a bit of a breather (if only I’d known you could buy chilled wine to take away at the shop round the corner), I tackle his smaller, sweeter relatives, who prove far more to my taste, though frankly, once the last shell is tossed onto the beach below, joining the thousands already piled up there, I feel I wouldn’t be sorry not to see an oyster again for a good while.

      A Platter of Oysters

      Though fun to order in restaurants for the sheer decadence of it, it’s far better value to eat oysters at home – they’re not expensive. I like natives, which have a slightly sweeter, more complex flavour, but rocks are cheaper, and almost as good.

      As many oysters as you feel you can eat (3 per person as an amuse-bouche, 6 for a starter, between you and your god for a feast)

      2 banana shallots

      100ml red wine vinegar

      1 lemon per dozen oysters

      Very thinly sliced brown bread, spread with unsalted butter and cut into decorous triangles

      1 Keep the oysters, flat side up and tightly wrapped in damp newspaper, in the salad drawer of your fridge (between 1° and 4°C), refreshing the newspaper every couple of days as it dries out. In theory they’ll be fine for 10 days, but the longer you leave them, the greater risk you’ll have to chuck out some dead ones, so I’d advise eating them as soon as possible.

      2 When you’re ready to shuck them, if this is your first time, I’d highly advise watching a video online if possible. A stout oyster knife will make life easier too. Wrap the oyster firmly in a damp tea-towel, as much to protect your hands as to provide a firm grip, then gently insert the tip of the knife into the hinge at the pointy end of the shell. Slowly work it in, twisting it slightly, until you hear the shell pop. Remove the top shell, cutting away at the oyster if it sticks, then slide the knife underneath its body to detach it from the bottom. Carefully place it on a platter, making sure not to spill any juices – if you’re feeling fancy, the oysters look lovely on crushed ice, which seems less wasteful than rock salt.

      3 To make the shallot vinaigrette, peel and finely chop the shallots and put them into a small bowl. Pour in the vinegar and season well with freshly ground black pepper (no need to add salt, the oysters will supply plenty). Cut the lemon into wedges and serve with the oysters, with the bread on the side (don’t forget a little spoon for the vinaigrette, and somewhere for people to put the oyster and lemon shells if they’re not sitting down).

We sit in the sun, quietly digesting, trying not to think of the bivalves splashing about inside, and watch the bustle on the beach below, which is less of a place for sunbathing and sandcastles, and more a giant oyster factory – long, low racks stretch right down to the low tide mark, laden with huge wire bags of bivalves. Workers in waders rolled down to their waists in the sunshine wander among them, turning the odd bag and loading a few that have clearly passed some mysterious test onto the tractors that chug in a steady train down the slipway behind us – one flops off onto the road with a great jolt, and a chino-clad tourist runs to the driver’s aid. His spectacular failure to even get the bag off the ground, and the nonchalance with which she picks it up and tosses it back onto the trailer, have us cheering like a seaside Punch and Judy show.

      In fact, all this activity proves sufficiently fascinating to persuade Matt to cycle back to check on the museum before we head on to Saint-Malo – at which point it begins to rain, and not just rain, but pour. Shoving our bikes hastily behind an abandoned boat, we rush in the direction of the entrance, only to find it still locked up. When I eventually locate a living being in a shed nearby, she tells me, and a vexed-looking French couple who have followed me in, that they’re not actually opening for another 30 minutes. The French observe this is not what’s printed on the board outside. She happily agrees it isn’t.

      The terror of missing out on the opportunity to get better acquainted with the many creatures currently dying a horrible death in my stomach must show on my face, because Madame suddenly relents and offers to let us into the museum early instead. I’m delighted: not only will this offer entertainment (though, given that it turns out to be largely devoted to a collection of seashells from around the globe, it doesn’t actually provide very much of that), but it’s warm and dry, too. Perfect.

Once we’ve exhausted the gruesomely detailed biological diagrams of the oyster and mussel, both of which make me heartily regret my dietary choices over the last 24 hours, we stand and watch the rain until a sufficiently large number of pensioners in СКАЧАТЬ