New York City Should Be Called 'The Big Oyster'

Photograph by Thomas B. Ling

Raw. Sexy. New York City. "Eve can keep her damn apple," I kept thinking as I made my way through the sexiest, most exotic oyster soiree I've had the pleasure of attending, nestled snugly in a private 21st Century clubhouse, hidden in a Flatiron loft. The room was purring.

Behind me and to my right, billiard tables covered with a very rare occurrence glistened, four out of five species of oysters: Virginica, Gigas, Sikamea and Edulis... it just rolls around your tongue like tiny shiny colorful spirited citrus pearls, a most exquisite oyster garnish.

Ahead and to my left, was a bar of boozy delights: bubbly, Bootlegger 21 and Barrow's Intense. Oyster shooters and sips of sparkling wine, imbibing fine; and on my arm, my incredibly handsome man feeding me oysters til I could indulge no more.

I was happy as an... oyster, as were Kevin and Rudi, our lovely hosts who were shucking and entertaining, clearly excited, waxing and waning, watching their vision unfold in front of our very eyes.

History revisited, in the making, very much in the present on this night, this Oyster Week. You're the oyster of my eye, New York City.