Letter from the Gulf: New Orleans oyster culture

The Gulf gusher has finally stopped, but until authentic Louisiana oysters return to Felix’s Oyster Bar in New Orleans, things won’t be back to normal. At the moment, Felix’s head shucker Keith Chancley is serving oysters from out of town.

"Florida: small," he says, picking up a green oyster, prying it open, and throwing the sliver of pale flesh into a bucket. He picks up another. "If you get 'em from Texas they sandy; they got a sandy grit all the time."

Since 1948, diners have flocked to this tiny restaurant in the French quarter to slurp authentic Louisiana oysters—big, chocolate brown, with a distinctive flavour born of the confluence of river and sea.

Now, such oysters are hard to come by. Millions perished during the spill, and those that survived aren’t being harvested—oystermen can make more money working for BP. That will probably change as the cleanup winds down, but for the moment, Keith must make do with oysters from Texas.

“You gotta talk to 'em. You gotta be nice, or else they'll cut your hand open," he says, showing me a thick scar across his left palm.

He says at first he was nervous shucking in front of people, but now it’s a piece of cake. "These my little friends,” he says, rifling through the heap of bivalves in the sink below the bar. “They take care of me, I take care of them."

Keith, 51, has shucked oysters on this street for 25 years. He’s one of a rare breed who simultaneously serve, entertain, and protect customers from food poisoning while wielding a sharp knife. Many shuckers become local legends, earning nicknames like “Hollywood”, “Stormin’ Norman”, and “Uptown-T”.

When it comes to oysters, apparently there’s a lot to learn. "February they real good—by then they get full, like meaty,” Keith explains. Their flavour changes with the seasons, the salinity of the water, and even their sex, which flips during the course of their lives. "When the shell turns purple, that's when they're male —that's how the locals like to eat 'em. They might eat four, five dozen like that." Keith holds out a specimen. "See how it's fat in the middle?"

"Boy that's pretty," says a sunny 60-something called Esther who's taken a seat at the bar with her husband. "Can I get a napkin?"

As lunchtime nears, a few regulars trickle in. Alfred Buckner Pittman IV, a seventy-five year old sugar plantation owner from Texas, has patronised Felix’s for fifty years. "The very first time I ate an oyster," he says, his white moustache bristling, "I was in a tuxedo with long tails in Memphis, Tennessee at one of them debutante parties. I said to my friend, 'How can you eat those slimy things?' I ended up eating about ten 'cause they was free and stuff. The next mornin' I woke up with no hangover, and I said, ‘Holy mackrel! There's somethin' to this!’"

Pittman IV has come all the way to Felix’s from New Orleans airport. He was waiting for his son, “the Vth”, to arrive for a golf holiday, but the flight was delayed, so he popped into town for a quick dozen. “I've eaten ‘em everywhere, and this particular place here is the oldest and the best.”

I ask him what he thinks of the spill. "It's an accident, do you think BP wanted it to happen? I defend the corporation, I absolutely do. As far as folks' morality, well," he chuckles. "It's moral to be makin' money."

Keith starts placing opened oysters on the counter for me to try. After decades of shucking, he’s lost his taste for them, but Esther, who’s visiting from Mississippi, shows me the technique. "You need crackers!” she says, pushing a pile of Saltines toward me. “I eat a cracker right behind it, because I'm not a purist. There are folks that eat straight oysters. I gotta have crackers."

Behind the counter Felix’s owner, John Rotonti, is watching. His family has owned the business since 1948. Every day he calls his distributors, sourcing as few as twenty oysters at a time. Supply is sporadic and expensive. He can't make a profit without trebling prices, but he doesn't want to drive customers away. So he sits on the phone all day, hoping to keep the restaurant and his shuckers afloat.

Keith has his own worries, but he tries not to stress too much, he says. He still has a job and, for the moment, customers to serve: three jeans-clad construction workers who’ve ordered three dozen oysters on the half shell for lunch.

“You ready?” Keith asks. “All right!” He picks up an oyster, taps on the shell, and splits it open. “If they sound like a rock,” he says, grinning, “that's a good sound.”