Bob Blanc... A tale of gluttony, family and respect!
A full belly on the morning after the Thanksgiving feast wasn’t going to slow him down. Bob rose with the sun, jumped into his car and zipped down the driveway to pick up Bob. Bob, anticipating Bob’s arrival, was already dressed and ready. He could not wait to depart on their annual trek to Tomales Bay and Hog Island Oyster Company. Anyone who could fit in the car was allowed to go, but this morning it was the exclusive domain of the Bobs. My father, Bob Sinskey, created this tradition and my father in law; Bob Helm had become his enthusiastic sidekick along with myself, Rob and a young relative by marriage named Robert… on this day, we were all Bobs.
The Bobs were on a mission to consume oysters of all kinds… whatever could not be eaten were to be brought home. We visited the dives along the shores of Tomales Bay where surly waitresses hurled plastic baskets of freshly shucked oysters at us. We ate them plain, with lemon and with cocktail sauce. Dr. Bob brought the wine and pulled several cold half bottles of Pinot Blanc from his bag. He popped the corks and gleefully poured copious amounts of wine into plastic cups. We slurped the oysters and then the wine. Briny sweet flesh followed by crisp, floral wine… an oral-gasmic epiphany!
The Bobs paid their bill, jumped into the car and drove until they arrived at Hog Island Oyster Company where we barbecued oysters over an open fire and dredged others in corn meal and pan fried in butter. Again, Bob pulled out his bag of Bob Blanc. The crisp acidity of the wine was the perfect foil for the semi-sweet BBQ sauce and the fruitiness was a nice contrast for the smokiness of the flesh. The Bobs ate. We dipped the buttery fried oysters in a “horseradishy” cocktail sauce, popped them in our mouths and chased them with the wine. The butter cut by the bright acidity of the wine and the horseradish tamed by the fruit, turned the repast into a gustatory delight. We finished every crisp morsel. But we still had our sights set on larger game.
The Bobs took our place at the end of the line. As we waited, we watched the fresh oysters pulled from the cold water, sorted and then placed in burlap sacks for the short journey to the shack. The Bobs were sated, yet we still enthusiastically anticipated our turn to buy some truly fresh bivalves. We ordered three hundred. Everyone in line groaned, fearing the greedy Bobs would deplete the supply of oysters before they got a crack at them.
We filled our ice chests with the oysters and dragged them to the parking lot where Bobs shucked and Bobs ate another dozen each before squeezing into the car for the journey home.
Back at the ranch, the Bobs smiled as they hauled their cache from the car. Instinctively we knew we had accomplished our primal purpose in life as hunter-gatherers. We were satisfied. The rest of the family had the table set with fresh bread, mignonette, cocktail sauce, sliced lemons, a big bowl of salad, all the fixins to shuck, fry and BBQ… and more, Bob Blanc. Bob started shucking, Bob manned the fry station and Bob went to work making oyster stew. I lit the BBQ.
Maria opened the refrigerator loaded with half bottles of Pinot Blanc, as they rolled out into her ice bucket, and some on the floor, she cursed me for not chilling the bigger bottles… The kids assumed their place in front of bowls of pasta, plates of shrimp and wine glasses filled with sparkling apple juice. The adults took to the table and proceeded to slurp, suck and crunch. On this day, the kids joined us for the toast and, though some could not yet say the word “cheers” they still took joy in the clinking of the glasses.
As the wine flowed, the stories ensued. My Father told stories of growing up in Baltimore and eating softshells from the Chesapeake Bay. Maria’s father contributed with stories of New York from days gone by… of building the sidewalks on Fire Island with his brother and gathering clams from the once clean Long Island Sound. Debates ensued on the virtues of the perfect crab cake and the tendency of people to overcook or over-embellish seafood. Stories were told of eating in foreign lands…of Grandparents’ skills, or lack thereof, in the kitchen… of the perfect beverage for this and that… of what makes us happy.
We did not need to say it. We all knew why we enjoyed gathering together every year … it was about respect! Respect for food, respect for the sanctity of the table and respect for each other. Oh yeah, the oysters and the Bob Blanc.
