Shuckin’ with the Green Fairy

Like I mentioned in my recent post I’m a sucker for anything that requires a shucker. Oysters and clams should all tremble at the mere mention of my name. My appetite for bivalves is greedy and my capacity to ingest them is, as far I know, bottomless. I think the most I’ve ever polished off single handedly was 4 or 5 dozen. I say “I think” because a good many cocktails were being consumed alongside those salty little morsels.

That was an afternoon, many years ago, at my favorite Brooklyn oyster bar Maison Premiere. I was a sales rep for a wine distributor and had the freedom to take an afternoon to be a bit indulgent from time to time. One could argue that might be a contributing factor as to why I was categorical failure at that job, but that’s beside the point. I’d scoot in exactly at 3pm when their $1 happy hour kicked off, grab a seat near the door for an easy exit, order two dozen freshly shucked oysters and an absinthe frappe to get things going and settle in. Only kings have ever felt so divine!

At the end of that cool marble bar, licorice-scented air swirling around me, I first fell in love with the pairing of absinthe and oysters. It’s not a marriage that occurs to many off-hand. Most likely because absinthe still occupies a rather esoteric and often demonized end of spirituous menagerie. But it’s perfect. 

Absinthe, good absinthe rather, is one of the most complex, aesthetic, and easily quaffable spirits there is. The flavors span an entire spectrum of the botanical world from delicate lavender, to sweet fennel and tarragon to refreshing peppermint. Yes, you can use it to make a variety of cocktails, but a classic absinthe drip or frappe is the only real way to fully enjoy it. In this preparation a jigger of absinthe is diluted with roughly three parts ice cold water. When the water mixes with absinthe the jade-hued spirit will louche (turn cloudy) and transform into a swirling opalescent elixir. To make a frappe, my favorite method, you shake the absinthe with pearled ice and serve. You don’t get to see the whole louche magic unfold but getting to drink something akin to an adult snow cone will win my vote every time. 

In either preparation the absinthe is transformed from a high ABV jet fuel to a soft and creamy potion giving off a heady perfume with iridescent reflections. No wonder there are so many rituals associated with its preparation. There’s fancy glasses, frilly filigreed spoons to hold sugar cubes and ornate water fountains all made especially for absinthe. You really don’t need any of that bullshit. Especially the sugar. Absinthe needs nothing but itself and pure water to be its most beautiful.

Why does it work with oysters though? There’s something about the velvety texture and sweetly herbaceous flavors that both contrast with the bracingly briney mineral qualities of the oysters and simultaneous match with buttery texture. The pairing was all the rage in 19th century New Orleans but was forgotten about when absinthe was abolished. No, it doesn’t make you trip or go insane. It got that rep because people were making bootleg versions that were tainted with methyl alcohol, but the fear stuck and spread during the teetotaling time that was the early 20th century.

But there’s another reason I dig on the oysters and absinthe pairing so much. Call me a wine geek all you want, but I’m obsessed with anything that expresses terroir. I want to go on a mental trip to someplace beautiful every time I take a bite or a sip. Oysters just might be the most terroir-driven food in the world. Two specimens plucked from the same estuary no more than a quarter mile from each other can taste wildly different. Being the crazy little filter-feeders that they are, they take on the flavor of their environment. So if one area has a different phytoplankton or algae than another then they’ll be different in flavor.

Similarly, absinthe was traditionally made from the wormwood and other herbs that grew locally around the distillery. If different herbs grew around one distillery from another than the profiles of each would be distinct. The good ones, the only ones really worth your time in my opinion, are still made that way. My all time favorite is Delaware Phoenix “Meadow of Love” made by the quirky Cheryl Lins in Upstate New York. All but two of the ingredients (anise and fennel) she uses are from her own backyard. What I like the most about this version is the touch of violet and lemon balm she adds which cuts the licorice base nicely.

There’s no time better to get magically transported to someplace special via your senses than now. On my seafood excursion the other day I snagged myself a bunch of Fanny Bays, a meaty and rather cucumbery specimen that had some of the most deep and brilliantly colored shells I’ve ever seen. I whipped up some mignonette, grabbed my shucker, and mixed myself a mason jar of absinthe. And there I was, back at the end of that cool marble bar, my mysterious pearly drink in one hand and a shellful of quivering sea-snack in the other. Just for a moment...until the next one.