The Grand Central Oyster Bar, NYC: Sipping, Slurping, Savoring

This is a story about anticipation of the delights of food and the senses, and how food, unlike romance, is just as good in the anticipatory stage as it is when you are finally there, tasting and savoring.

Tomorrow I am going to The Oyster Bar under Grand Central Station, with my dear friend Thomas. A sensitive man who understands the simple, fine things in life, Thomas is a talented art director and photographer who designed my very first website. We met when we were just out of college, two young kids working at Bergdorf Goodman. There, we’d create cartoon strips at his desk about our crazy work and personal lives, complete with ink drawings by him and copy by me, while our boss had prima donna issues. But it was so fabulous being at that store in the public relations department, and we were so young and resilient and everything was new and exciting.

Thomas and I had an adventurous social life outside of the store, yet somehow we later lost touch for many years. Fast-forward lightening speed to the Internet, and we found each other again. To celebrate that, and his beautiful build of my website, we planned a dinner.

April’s constant cold rain and chill has us repairing to The Oyster Bar, and the anticipation is as thrilling and delicious as I know the meal will be. The restaurant is a divine antidote to the work we do all day. The walls are lined in the same yellow and black tiles from a million years ago that have always been delightfully the same, even though the restaurant was almost lost to a fire. The waitresses at the horseshoe counters still have Irish accents. The menu never changes except to add more and more wonderful-sounding oyster names to the hand-written chalkboard over the silver pan-roast pots at the bar. Just reading the chalkboard of oysters-of-the-day gives joy—it’s pure poetry. Oh, there’s Apline Bay and Beau Soleil, Caraquet and Chincoteague, Damariscotta and Kittery Point. Nootka Sound, Otters Cove, Pappasquash! Paramour! Skookum and Sunset Beach, Top of the Bluff and Tatamagouche, Windy Point, Wellfleet…And the best part is, when the platter of your select dozen arrives, the plate isn’t just put down before you. Rather, the oysters are presented, with the server intoning the names in a beautiful, circular poem on ice brought to life.

You can do a business lunch at the red-and-white checkered tables where the floor, years ago, used to be covered in sawdust. You can feel utilitarian and child-like, in a good way, by sitting shoulder to shoulder with strangers at the horseshoe counters, retaining privacy despite the swivel chairs that could inspire silliness at any minute, and the fact that your bowls are practically touching.

And the bar…oh, the bar that is the real Oyster Bar. The bar where they do the pan-roasting is where you feel swell. Where Dorothy Parker could drop by and sit next to you, and where I sometimes have dinner with my chic, elegant friend Michael, whom I first met when we both worked at Saks Fifth Avenue. And while he waits for me there, he is reading a book. A book! I love Michael! He is reading a book at the bar of The Oyster Bar, waiting for me. That is a true kindred spirit. Here is where you are surrounded by other kindred spirits, from around the world, where you can meet the sweetest, most elegant older couples, the man so dapper in his tweed fedora, the woman holding his arm, in her suit and pearls…and when they say thank you to a compliment, they have English accents.

The bar at The Oyster Bar is where, tomorrow, on my own uplifting, tall stool, I am going to order roasted oysters, the chowder, and a glass of Prosecco. And I am going to be so happy. I am going to be in bliss. When you sip your chowder or spoon onto your tongue the heftier, more sensual pan roast, it is a moment of self-involved, deep, gustatory pleasure—but, at the same time, you breathe and pause, then look around and take in everyone around you in this fish-scented scene. What are they doing? The same thing. In bliss eating raw oysters, mostly. And everyone around you is smiling. Smiling, sipping, spooning, slurping, savoring. I have never seen a group of more happy, quiet, meditative people eating at a bar. It’s the place, and all it means to each person. It’s the oysters. It’s the pan roast and the stews and champagne and the chowders. There is a purely spiritual, indeed religious aspect to the way diners at the bar eat their oysters. Alone or with a mate or friend, they have their blue-and-white checked napkins tucked under their chins, a glass of wine or champagne on their right, and front and center, the plate of oysters. And for garnish, the little cups of horseradish and spicy sauces. Dressing an oyster, or not, is also a part of the slow, reflective process. Each oyster gets a good deal of time of slurping and savoring. Then the sip of wine. Then the contented pause. Then the smile, the glance at a friend, a look around the room. Then the ritual continues. Part of my joy of sitting at the bar at The Oyster Bar is eating and drinking and drinking in others eating and drinking. It’s a part of the meal, and it is lovely.

I’ve never seen anyone unhappy, or bickering, or sad, or lonely at The Oyster Bar. I’ve never known anyone who has had a bad time or meal, except a former beau who had a stomachache after his Clams Casino. But I think it was because our love was new and it worried his system; it was emotions, not the delicious clams. Everyone I’ve ever spoken to there has a story. “My mother and I always used to come here,” said the woman from Australia sitting next to me once at the counter, “And I always think about her when I come alone now.”   “It was my father’s favorite place in New York City. How he loved it. I loved coming here with him…I miss him so…” said my dear friend Jennifer, a luminous soul, fiction writer and poetry editor. Times and people have come and gone. My beloved sweet mother, almost 91, first took me to The Oyster Bar. How grown-up I felt! We’d go to Lord & Taylor or to see the Christmas windows, and then she’d take me to The Oyster Bar where I had my very first bowl of the New England clam chowder.

Now, those days are memories, and my mother and I won’t make any more memories there. Because she is too frail to travel. When I go tomorrow with Thomas and sit down at my prayer of a meal, I will be tasting my times with my mother and my childhood and her young, vibrant womanhood gone by, all of my good times with friends there throughout the years, the sadness and joy of what has been and what will never be, the loss, the longing, and the poignant feeling one gets when you take your sip—and it is always like the first sip–of that creamy, oyster-filled savory soup on your spoon. Everything is the same, and everything is different. That is the bittersweet spice in the food at The Oyster Bar. And I am like the tiles: been through a raging fire, a devouring fire, but I am back, and nothing has ever tasted so wonderful as good, delicious food with dear friends, surrounded by happy people, after being so burned. Before and after oysters and chowder and sparkling wine at The Oyster Bar, every sip, imagined and real, tastes like Heaven.

by Nancy Angiello Copyright 2011