Of bulots and oysters (and mussels, comte, galettes, and shrimp)

I insisted on accompanying the chef to the market today. “It’s just a supermarket, you know that right?” asked Ronnie the chef. “Si!” And off we went.

One of the other artists came along too and the two of us ladies were pestering Ronnie everywhere he went. “Can we get this? How about this? Only two euros!”

Long story short, after I dragged Ronnie ’round to the fish monger, we made a seafood fest tonight. And boy was Ronnie glad. He seemed delighted with the French oysters. He’s used to creamy-tasting oysters, so the bright, clean, briny taste of the French oysters were a happy surprise for him.

Only wish we had had time to make potatoes to go with the meal. Le sigh. Can’t have it all.

(Do you know what bulots are? I’ve been contemplating writing a short essay about them, entitled “Consider the Whelk” after M.F.K. Fisher’s writing on oysters. It would begin with “How to eat a whelk. Step one: Find a nail. Pull it out of a boat if you must.”)

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