We avoided the Blue Points and ordered two each of the others, making a perfect half dozen served in an ice-filled white ceramic bowl with lemon, mignonette, and cocktail sauce—with hots on the side.
Lynne’s favorites were the Browne’s Points, saying they had “a multiplicity of flavor and are much richer” than the other two. Me? I could taste the funky, silty, murky influence of the Damariscotta River, their harvest region. I liked their plumpness and sweetness, but my personal preference leans to a little more brine.
For me, the hometown favorite wins. I know, I know, I’m biased toward Wellfleets, but what can I say? They taste like “home.” As I picked up the shell last night, I nearly shouted, “Someone I know could have grown this oyster!”
In Wellfleet, I have similar memories of getting oysters from the flats, and of digging for clams with my cousins at dead low tide on Mayo Beach. We’d squeal trying to avoid stepping on periwinkles, and imagine being swallowed by quicksand as our feet sunk deep into black muck. After an hour or so, we’d gather our heavy buckets and head home tired, salty, and ready for a feast.