You won’t believe what passes for an oyster fest in North Carolina
Shuck your own, if you can find one
They were breaking attendance records at the NC Oyster Festival, Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina last weekend, so your intrepid reporter had to go do that thing they commanded in high school: Compare and contrast.
At the risk of being accused of being a “homey,” I’ll say this:
If someone tried to call that an oyster fest on Cape Cod, the Attorney General would be investigating consumer fraud.
It wasn’t mainly about the quality of the oysters, though I will get into that. Here’s the amazing fact:
There were maybe 300 booths at this two-day “fest” October 21 and 22. You could buy honey, soap, a metal fire pit, light switch covers, license plate strip signs, knives, art made out of bottle caps. You could find a new bank, get health insurance, link up a cell phone.
But in the entire scene there were only two – count’em, two – booths that actually served oysters, both tucked in the far corner of the farthest row.
Seriously?
It gets worse.
One of the two wouldn’t even shuck, you had to rent a knife with an extra $5 deposit and go shuck yourself (spellchecked that twice). The oysters arrived in an aluminum cylinder like you fill with charcoal briquets to start a hibachi. They had been heated so of course the brine drizzled out and the result was chewing rubber. Each bucket held about two dozen; $40.
I took up duty in front of this booth because I couldn’t idly observe these people trying to shuck, it was like witnessing a slow-motion accident, someone sure to be impaled. I introduced myself, explained I come from Cape Cod, showed them where the hinge is and that the cups go down on a flat surface with palms well out of the way.
Many thank yous were received.
That was Dirty Don’s Oyster Bar and Grille, they have four establishments in the Myrtle Beach area. They don’t grow their own oysters, they import what they called “Blue Points.” Right, whatevs. At least they didn’t call them “Wellfleets.”
Their only bivalve company was Moore Street Oyster Bar, and at least they shucked. They said their product came from an oyster farm in Southport, North Carolina. They were serving a “Carolina Gold” (not to be confused with the famous rice) and a “Carolina Fat Belly,” not blinking at charging $3 apiece. The Golds were briny, firm, small-medium, tasty and could pass. The Fat Bellies lived up to the name with a deep cup and bigger body, fine-looking, but arrived in the mouth with that muddy taste and squishy texture shared by a lot of Southern oysters.
I asked a nice woman in an info booth why there weren’t more oysters at an oyster fest. She gave me a look along the lines of, Oh, you noticed? Then she shrugged and with that cool Carolina drawl said, “Yeah, I guess more would be better, wouldn’t it.”
Tell you what, though:
73 degrees, sun browning my pate. The Atlantic was 75 yard away, surf breaking off a beach with sand so fine it squeaked when you walked on it. And the band boasted superfine red-and-black checkerboard outfits; always fun bouncing to a solid version of the Commodores’ classic “She’s a Brick … House.”
Just one thing, please: Don’t call it an oyster fest.
With thanks to my wonderful North Carolina hosts Maria and Ray: Sorry guys, but you know this is truth!
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Seth, this is out-loud funny. Thank you for sharing your keen observations.