In connection with Mr. Bob Sawyer’s supper party in Pickwick, it may be recollected that “the man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork: and very little was done in this way.”
And in one’s own house, unless there be an adept at oyster-opening present, the simplest way to treat the bivalve is the following. It should be remembered that a badly-opened oyster will resemble in flavour a slug on a gravel walk. So roast him, good friends, in his own fortress.
Oysters in their own Juice.
With the tongs place half-a-dozen oysters, mouths outwards, between the red-hot coals of the parlour or dining-room fire—the deep shell must be at the bottom—and the oysters will be cooked in a few minutes, or when the shells gape wide. Pull them out with the tongs, and insert a fresh batch. No pepper, vinegar, or lemon juice is necessary as an adjunct; and the oyster never tastes better.
At most eating-houses,
Scalloped Oysters
taste of nothing but scorched bread-crumbs; and the reason is obvious, for there is but little else in the scallop shell. Natives only should be used.
Open and beard two dozen, and cut each bivalve in half. Melt two ounces of butter in a stewpan, and mix into it the same allowance of flour, the strained oyster liquor, a teacupful of cream, half a teaspoonful of essence of anchovies, and a pinch of cayenne—death to the caitiff who adds nutmeg—and stir the sauce well over the fire. Take it off, and add the well-beaten yolks of two eggs, a tablespoonful of finely chopped parsley, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice. Put in the oysters, and stir the whole over a gentle fire for five minutes. Put the mixture in the shells, grate bread-crumbs over, place a small piece of butter atop, and bake in a Dutch oven before a clear fire until the crumbs are lightly browned, which should be in about a quarter of an hour.