(Bloomberg Businessweek) -- A few thousand soused revelers are gathered under a massive tent that faces the water as the sun sets across the ocean. Outside, trucks hawk fried seafood. Inside, a cover band draws a crowd to the dance floor with Brown Eyed Girl.
It’s a scene that could unfold any weekend in my adopted home of New Orleans—though there, the music would be better. But I’m in Galway, Ireland, at the World Oyster Opening Championship. It’s part of the Galway International Oyster & Seafood Festival, founded in 1954 and held every September, making it the longest-running festival of its kind in the world. Today, this spot is ground zero for the most zealous of oyster lovers, who carry tray after tray of the freshly shucked mollusks to the cocktail tables surrounding the dance floor. They eat, they drink, and they wait for a rousing competition to unfold among the world’s best shuckers.
Even among the Irish, Galway has a reputation as a good time—“better than Dublin,” my friends told me before I went—where medieval roots meet a boozy Bohemia that commands you to crawl among pubs along winding cobblestone lanes as dead-sexy Irish folk and street musicians provide the score.
Like hundreds of other visitors this weekend, I’ve come for the oysters. The Crassostrea gigas from the Pacific Ocean is popular around here; it’s on offer any time of the year. But the more exclusive and more expensive, native “flat” oyster is available only in months that have an “r” in them. This wild Atlantic version is harvested after it spawns in the summer, and the supply can last through the winter, until April.
I’d missed my chance to try them the first time I came to Galway, last spring. Fresh off a plane from London, I ravenously tromped from the renovated Eyre Square downtown to the 16th century Spanish Arch. At every restaurant I was told the same thing: “Come back in the fall. You can’t get the natives till then.”
As any normal person would, I decided to come back just for a bivalve—timing my “r” month to coincide with the September festival. Oyster-shucking champions from the U.K., France, Canada, Latvia, and even as far away as Malaysia would be in town. If you’re going to have the best oyster of your life, why not be fed by the most talented hands in the business?
The sole supplier for the festival is Kelly Oysters, a 60-year-old family business and one of 128 oyster enterprises in Ireland. The farm is in Kilcolgan, at the intersection of the Clarinbridge and Kilcolgan rivers. When I visit, brothers (and owners) Diarmuid and Micheal Kelly are standing knee-deep in an inlet of Galway Bay, methodically rocking crate after crate at a spot where shellfish have lived for more than 4,000 years.
Location is an important demarcation among the country’s suppliers. At Moyasta, a sustainable farm three hours south in County Clare, they like to say the abundance of algae and phytoplankton in the River Shannon combines with the rich minerals of Poulnasherry Bay to create an ideal oyster-raising environment. Others prefer the shellfish grown near Cooley Peninsula, in the northeast, between the waters of Carlingford Lough and the mountain of Slieve Foye.
“Every region has its own taste,” Diarmuid says, as he points out the mountains of the Burren to the south and Connemara to the north. “There’s different mountains, different lands, different salinity.” He tells me about the limestone in the south, the sandstone in the north, the fields in the east, and two rivers that bring sweet water. I begin to think that oysters’ superpowers include turning mere mortals into poets.
These native shellfish (officially known as Ostrea edulis) have been growing in colonies off the west coast of Ireland since before humans here kept records. But after European producers over-farmed the native stocks, they brought in more consistent Pacific varieties from British Columbia in the early 1970s. As it turned out, the Irish Atlantic waters are a sublime environment for Pacific oysters—they’re the most common oyster in the world, after all, served in Asia, Australia, Europe, and in the U.S. They take only three years to mature, compared with five or six years for native varieties.
Every year, 9,000 tons of Pacifics are harvested in Ireland, compared with 500 tons of the natives. “People think of the two varieties as being in competition with each other,” says JP McMahon, chef at the Michelin-starred Aniar restaurant in Galway. “But in a way, the Pacifics saved the natives and gave them time to come back.”
Chances are you’ve had an Irish oyster, though you might not know it. The value of their production in Ireland increased from 14 million euros ($17.3 million) in 2008 to more than 40 million euros in 2014 after a deadly (to oysters) herpes virus killed stocks in France. Today, about 75 percent of the Pacific oysters produced in Ireland head to France to be “finished,” according to a 2017 survey by Bord Bia, the Irish Food Board. Most of those are packed under the French Gillardeau brand, which calls itself the “Rolls-Royce of oysters.” The natives, on the other hand, go to purveyors in Dublin, London, or Zurich—“places that know and appreciate the difference,” Kelly says. A dozen can run 30 euros in a restaurant, vs. 20 euros for Pacifics.
For years, I’d stuck religiously to East Coast oyster varieties from the U.S. (where Irish natives are not available, by the way). I loved mild and meaty Bluepoints and sweet, plump Wellfleets. But I wasn’t greedy. Oysters existed in my mind as an appetizer, a special entryway into a bigger meal.
When Kelly hands me my first native flat, though, I’m struck by how smooth and shallow the shell is, compared with Pacific varieties, which are cupped deeper on the inside and gnarled on the outside. They grow in the same waters but feed on a different phytoplankton, so their taste is different, too.
When I tip the lush meat, chilled not by ice but by the river, into my mouth, there’s a wildness that’s hard to define. It’s not as hearty or robust as a Pacific, and it has a more delicate salinity. Some people describe it as gamy, the way nonfarm-raised animals can taste. Some call it subtle. For me it’s vivid, more like the difference between a funky, natural wine and a California chardonnay. Or, if you like beer metaphors, a double IPA compared with Bud Light.
The experience of tasting an oyster handed to you by a farmer feels intimate, as sharing food with another person should. I hold the elegant shell for a bit afterward, with the cool water rushing around me and the sun shining brightly above. This feels like the only way to really enjoy an oyster. And I think: “You win, Ireland. This is an oyster I’ll never forget.”
The greatness of Irish oysters shouldn’t be such a well-kept secret, says Aniar’s McMahon, who last year also opened Tartare Cafe & Wine Bar in Galway. He’d like to see a protective designation for Irish oysters to give them more promotional potential. “We have some of the best waters,” he says. “But we have not given ourselves the time to market it. That would never happen with our beef. We export 90 percent of our beef, and it’s always sold as Irish beef. But why don’t we protect our oysters and mussels?”
He’s right, in a sense: Even at some of my local oyster happy hours in New Orleans, where the emphasis is usually more on volume than variety, I’ve noticed a sea change in how oysters are labeled on menus. Gulf oysters were Gulf oysters forever, but now you can order “select” versions from specific companies. The same goes for these Irish oysters, which are identified by producer. At Tartare, for example, they’re classified as being from Redbank or Dooncastle. It’s not enough to be delicious; we crave things to be a certain kind of delicious.
Moran’s Oyster Cottage, a thatched-roof shack across the Kilcolgan River in Clarinbridge, is one of the few places around that serves both Pacific and native oysters from the Kellys’ farm. Before the festival begins, I go there for lunch. One of the managers, a smiling, bespectacled man named David Small, is competing in the Irish portion of the shucking competition that evening. If he wins, he’ll go on to the world competition the next day.
Small’s participation in the contest is a big deal inside the restaurant, and the waitstaff is buzzing. Bragging rights are part of the appeal, though there’s a trophy and prizes—a sterling silver clock is in the mix. And many shuckers use the competitions as an opportunity to travel. Champions from towns smaller than Clarinbridge can see the world and go to South Africa, China, and the U.S.
Lunch is clams and chowder and crab claws in garlic butter. Everyone is drinking Guinness. And we eat some freshly shucked natives. Here I notice a new set of flavors: Some have more of a seaweed taste, others a metallic note.
When we’re done, I find Small and ask if he’s nervous. “Not yet, but I will be later on when we get onstage, yeah.” I tell him I’m rooting for him. “Aye, you can root for us all,” he says. Later that night, I sit with a group of his fans to watch the Irish competition. He finishes second time-wise, and we’re devastated. But, because of the pristine appearance of his oysters, he’s announced the winner. We cheer madly.
The next morning, on the way to the opening ceremonies of the festival, I stop at the Saturday Galway Market, which has been in operation since the 1200s. There, Micheal “Rocky” Brown sells raw oysters by the sack and shucks them for tourists. Brown has a special take on the experience, one I haven’t experienced: He serves them with a dab of buttermilk. He explains the difference between the two Irish varieties in his vernacular: “The Pacific oyster is like if you’re drinking milk. And then, if you have the native oyster, it’s like you’re having the cream of the milk.”
The opening parade starts at the city center, where a flag squad of children dressed as fish sets the tone. A few young girls lead the way in shawls with green trim and matching headbands, followed by several rows of cheerleaders. A band consisting of only recorders and drums plays the same rambunctious little walking song, over and over.
The shucking competitors are also getting ready to march through town to the festival, and they hold their country’s flags, posing for pictures. Eamon Clarke from Toronto, Canada’s champion, looks like the guy you’d meet at a youth hostel in Amsterdam (torn jeans, scruffy beard, a real backpacker vibe). I talk to Honor Allen, the U.S. champion, who’s in his early twenties. He tells me the rules are different in the U.S., where speed is the only criterion.
I also meet 25-year-old Maria Petersen from Norway. Her father was a nine-time Norwegian champion, and she’s been competing internationally since she was 18. She doesn’t eat oysters—she’s allergic to them—but as a visual artist, she appreciates the challenge of making them look beautiful. “Most of the guys are muscular and just use force,” she says. “I love the finesse of it.” She shows me how she wraps her hand with tape before she competes to protect against blisters and cuts.
The fish-clad children lead us through the Saturday shopping crowds all the way to the seaside. The sun we were blessed with over the past few days has disappeared, replaced by wind and bursts of stinging rain. The shucking champs, once soft and friendly, now have an edgy, competitive focus.
Under the festival tent, there’s a collective inhalation of food and alcohol as attendees order oysters by the dozens. As the shells pile up on each table, I’m reminded of something else McMahon said while we were at Aniar. “I would argue that, rather than the potato, oysters should be the symbol of our food,” he told me. “It’s something that we’ve been eating since the first people came to Ireland. Oysters and seaweed, for me, represent the first foods of Ireland.”
I meet one of the judges from the previous night, and he explains the rules. Each shucker gets one shot at 30 oysters, with two to spare. They race to open them the fastest, but presentation counts, too, so even if you finish first, you won’t necessarily win. There must be no grit, the meat inside must be intact, and the shells must be displayed in a pristine manner. Essentially, they’re to look as they might be served in a restaurant—a beautiful, orderly, alluring array.
A well-coiffed local sportscaster interviews the competitors, who are lined up on a stage prior to their first heat. Anti Lepik, the Estonian champion, is approximately eight-feet tall, and his English isn’t great, but he knows enough to say, “I came to win.”
Much ado is made of Norway’s Petersen, the only woman. She downplays the fuss: Enough already, she came to win, too. The American champ, Allen, has a big grin and is full of Southern charm. His co-workers from Hunt’s Oyster Bar in Panama City, Fla., have come along to cheer him, and he gets the biggest ovation.
Suspenseful music—think Chariots of Fire crossed with the theme from Halloween—signals the start of the show. Each competitor wears a clean white apron. One hand is gloved, while the other holds the dull-bladed shucking knife. Their arms are muscular and defined. The best hands in the world may be roughened with use, a cut here, a scar there, but they’re still the strongest and the surest in the business.
During the first heat, the competitors from Malaysia and France are speed monsters, as is the gentleman from the U.K., but I watch him spill an oyster over the side of the tray, then casually slide it back in the shell as if he weren’t standing in front of judges and hundreds of people.
I join the David Small cheer squad, but I keep my eye on Petersen and Allen, who are competing side-by-side. When they’re finished, they take turns examining each other’s presentation and congratulate one another on a job well done. I admire their grace under pressure.
Finally, the winners are announced. It took Estonia’s Lepik 2 minutes and 15 seconds to shuck 30 oysters, far faster than anyone else, and he receives the speed award. Petersen wins the presentation award.
Clarke, the Canadian with the hostel beard, takes third overall and begins to lead the crowd in “Olé, olé, olé!” Ireland’s man, Small, takes second. He smiles shyly as he hoists his trophy. And then, based on the combined precision of his speed and presentation and, perhaps, his absolute hunger to win, Lepik takes home the top prize. The crowd explodes; everybody drinks. I stack the last of my empty shells, an altar of oysters in front of me, as an offering of thanks to the sea.
To contact the author of this story: Jami Attenberg in New York at jamiattenberg@gmail.com.
To contact the editor responsible for this story: James Gaddy at jgaddy@bloomberg.net, Chris Rovzar
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