IT WAS OYSTER NIGHT at our house, a designation determined by two factors.
First, it was April, a month with an "r" in its name. According to bivalve lore, any "r" month is a good month to eat mollusks. Secondly, I was cooking.
My wife had fled the homestead, opting to spend the evening in the company of Schubert impromptus. I opted to spend the evening in the company of our two sons, plus some tacos and oysters. I planned a supper with two sittings. First there would be a taco sitting, for the boys. Then an oyster sitting would follow, for yours truly.
The taco preparations were pretty straightforward. I knew my audience. This was a no-chopped-onions, no-shredded-lettuce
crowd. I timed it so the tacos would be ready when "The Simpsons" rerun had ended. At 6:27 p.m. I walked to the stairs and bellowed "supper!" A few moments later the guys were in the kitchen, looking for something to devour.
The taco part of the evening went quickly. I figured that after the tacos had vanished, my companions would, too. The 24 oysters sitting in the fridge were waiting for me.
A few years back, the older kid had an unhappy encounter with a raw oyster eaten on a skipjack bouncing in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. As soon as I mentioned oysters, this kid remembered he had homework to do, and left the kitchen.
I expected the other kid - a meat-and-potatoes type - would also want no part of mollusks. I was wrong. The kid reminded me that two years ago, when he was 11, he and his buddy, Hugh, had shared an appetizer of broiled clams and oysters at A.J.'s, a dimly lighted restaurant in Chincoteague, Va., that the kid now regards as one of the globe's fine dining establishments.
How, the kid wanted to know, could I forget that he liked oysters? I told the kid he could have some of mine.
These were triple-dip oysters. The recipe, by New Orleans chef Emeril Lagasse, called for dipping the oysters in seasoned flour, then milk, then seasoned corn meal. Finally, the coated oysters were plopped into a skillet of hot oil. They were fried for about three minutes, then served with a sauce made of horseradish, cream, garlic and shallots.
The kid worked with me, until I opened the jar of horseradish. Somehow the aroma reminded him that he, too, had homework.
I developed a rhythm - dip, dip, dip, plop - as I took each oyster through my assembly line. Oysters sizzled in the skillet, the pan of horseradish sauce bubbled on another burner. I walked to the foot of the stars and hollered "oysters!" to the upper floors.
