I’ve always considered oysters to be wildly overrated. You can be allergic to them, of course, but to be a food writer who hates oysters is like being an author who despises Dickens. They are part of the culinary canon. So I learned the lingua franca of foodies and, if necessary, could even keep a straight face while knocking one back. “So fresh!” I would marvel at the sight of the mollusc, which always looked to me like something straight out of a giant’s nostril. “Tastes of the sea!” I’d exclaim, internally railing at the absurdity of the expression. When was the last time anyone deliberately swallowed seawater?
My only saving grace was that oysters and champagne often come hand in hand; I was usually only seconds away from washing away the offending flavour with something delicious. I’d add a squeeze of lemon, a dash of tabasco, and gulp straight down without chewing, followed by a glug of champagne to disguise the taste.
By the time I met Chris, I’d got faking oysters down to a fine art, although I still felt like the child in The Emperor’s New Clothes, itching to call people out on what seemed to me like pretension. That said, I had come to enjoy the ritual: the platter mounded with sparkling shavings of ice, the crowning with lemon, even the loosening of the mollusc from its pearly white shell. I just refused to believe anyone really enjoyed the oysters themselves.
It was on our third date that Chris suggested oysters. We weren’t celebrating, we weren’t at a seafood restaurant; we’d gone to a small Portuguese bar that just happened to have oysters that evening, and he fancied sharing some.
I am not an epiphany person – I tend to think damascene moments are actually an accumulation of experiences crystallised into one by rose-tinted specs – but I do remember feeling I was at a fork in the road as I studied my menu and considered my reaction. I could lie, as I usually did – but it felt as if I’d be doing him and our budding relationship a disservice. I would be relegating him to the same status as past dates with whom I’d kept up my charade, and while it was early days, I thought he deserved more honesty. Potentially, I’d be signing myself up to a lifetime of “liking oysters”, of staring down bulbous bivalves in gnarly shells and having to swallow at least three, if not six, with enthusiasm.
Chris’s appreciation for oysters appeared to be sincere. There was no champagne (I clocked, heart sinking) and he had always seemed genuine. So I came clean, and told him to tell no one, but I didn’t like oysters very much; I only really ate them to prove my culinary credentials.
He laughed – at the absurdity of my facade and my embarrassment in admitting to it – and asked what other things I’d eaten just to pass as a “foodie”. I hesitated before reeling off my classified list, which included (but is not limited to) natural wine, most blue cheeses, aged red wine, caviar, sushi rice, whipped feta, whipped tofu – and long lunches. It was cathartic and revealing; I thought I’d left my people-pleasing days at school, but this disclosure demonstrated to me just how often I’d been the person I believed others want or expect me to be, rather than being my true self. It’s a skill that can be useful in journalism, but obstructive in dating.
The conversation was irreverent and fun – as our conversations have continued to be for more than two years now – but it was instructive, too. It taught me that better, deeper, connections with others are usually rooted in truthfulness.
In the end, we ordered the oysters. We largely agreed on the rest of my classified list, but he was and is determined to find an oyster I like, and I’ve signed up to that journey – not to impress anyone, but because they are something he loves, and loves to share. To that end, we have developed our own ritual: cheers-ing our respective shells and then assessing whether this one might be the oyster for me.
A few oysters have come close, but for now what I love most is the metaphor these molluscs, suddenly shucked of their shells, have inadvertently created: realising how much richer life is if people like and accept you for being you, rather than for being someone who likes oysters.
Hungry Heart by Clare Finney is published by Quarto Publishing (9.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
