The Art of Tipping

A restaurant in any downtown area will inevitably be confronted with the strangest of circumstances and our’s is certainly no exception. Last night I had to out kick four homeless guys that were trying to bum money for a drink or to satisfy their crack habits and this was a slow Tuesday. Way too much drama for a slow Tuesday. This next story happened last night and while dramatic, to me is more of a combination of sad and comical.

To set the stage, our restaurant hosted a series of video game tournaments for XBOX featuring John Madden’s NFL football game. Basically, a bunch of nerds, rednecks and thugs(it is amazing the diversity of culture, or lack there of this type of event brings) get together and play against each other in a double elimination tournament. By seven o’clock the restaurant was beginning to fill with customers for the tournament as well those who were simply looking to wind down with a cocktail after a long day at work. One of our most seasoned waitresses approached me in the kitchen as I spoke with Baxter, my cousin and the owner of our restaurant. She showed me the credit card receipt where customers who pay with credit card are to leave gratuity, then below that total the bill and sign. It is something we have all done probably thousands of times, and being in this industry it a piece of paper I see several hundred times a week. Sometimes the gratuity is considerably more than expected, sometimes the inverse, and sometimes there is nothing at all. It all comes with the territory of working for tips – not everyone appreciates and understands the idea of customer service and the respect that should be given to the ones who serve us. It is my job to ensure that if someone chooses not to leave a tip, or if the tip isn’t proportional to the typical standard in relation to the bill, to find out why exactly they didn’t leave a gratuity for the waitress or bartender. There are circumstances where on a busy night our staff is overworked with customers and potentially gave poor service, or maybe one of our feisty girls was having a bad night and came across rude or unprofessional. There are a number of reasons why someone might choose not to leave a tip, and one of the circumstances in which I approach a customer is when I feel their actions have intentionally disrespected my staff. This time, Kat, my waitress handed me the signed slip and on the line allotted for a tip it said, “Sorry not today, great service though.” I looked at her, then at Baxter, baffled trying to figure out what she meant by this and how this person could justify writing what they did. To me, this made no sense whatsoever. If you get received great service, and recognize that then there is no circumstance in which you shouldn’t take care of the service staff. Not a single one. Kat motioned towards the table and the individual that paid for the two drinks, that during happy hour only totaled $4.50. She didn’t even leave a tip on discounted items! It was an overweight middle age black woman who was short with orange tinted hair, wearing tighter than appropriate acid washed jeans and the hue of gold lining her teeth –they seemed to match her hair. She wasn’t our typical customer and far from our desired clientele, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, walked over to her and in a surprisingly pleasant tone had the following exchange with her.
“Mam, my waitress showed me your bill and the signed credit card copy, which stated that you got great customer service…. If you don’t mind me asking, if you acknowledge that you did, indeed, get good service, then why would you choose not to leave a tip?”
“I didn’t leave no tip, cause I ain’t got no money.”
“I see, but you had enough to purchase the two drinks, it seems like you could have potentially purchased one less drink in order to take care of the service you received?
“I ain’t gonna overdraw my account just to leave a tip. I don’t gotta leave no tip.”
“If you can afford a drink, but not the gratuity on it then maybe you should reconsider going out. My waitresses make two dollars an hour and rely on their customers to make money.”
“What the fucks that s’posed to mean? Maybe you should pay them more,” she exclaimed beginning to get fiery.
“Mam,” I paused trying to find the words that might help her understand, “ I am selling you a vodka tonic for two bucks, so yeah, I could pay them more if I was charging twice as much for a drink. Additionally, my waitresses and bartenders are personally taxed by the government on the assumption that they are receiving gratuity on every credit card transaction. Thus she is essentially losing money by waiting on you. So keep that in mind.”
“I’m not keepin’ nothing in mind! I find you so disrespectful approaching me like this, I said I ain’t gonna leave no tip, now get the fuck outta mah face. If I were white, would you have come hollerin’ at me like this”?

“Okay, racial epithets are where I draw the line. You disrespected my waitress first – I think it’s time for you to leave. Get the fuck out of here,” I retorted feeling my face get red and the veins in my neck beginning to excite.
“I will leave, I can’t believe this shit is hapenin’,” she mumbled to her friend as she collected her belongings. I stood within a couple of steps to ensure that she was indeed leaving, but certainly gave her the space she desired.
“I done told you im leavin – get outta my fuckin face,”
“Mam, please lower your voice, I am giving you plenty of room.”
She grabbed her belongings and waddled towards the bar before heading to the front door.”
“Hey you, hey you – BARTENDAH!!!!” She screamed hoping to get Mike’s attention. He wandered over shaking his head – he despised this type of customer more than anyone else on our staff.
“I need the phone numba to da owner.”
“I can give you the number to our restaurant here, it is 757.622-XXXX“
“I need his ceeellll phoneee numba ya dumm ass,”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that, but you can call him during the day on the number I just gave you to setup an appointment with him.”
“That ain’t,” she began before I disrupted her.
“Mam, it is time to go, like he said call up here if you want to speak with Baxter. “
She begrudgingly made her way to the front door cursing under every breath she took. I shook my head as the door swung behind her and the echo of her profane voice faded away. A couple bar regulars grinned at me as Mike questioned the altercation. I explained to him and the regulars what had happened, and not five minutes had elapsed before the phone rang.
“Thank you for calling Baxter’s, may I help you,” I answered after the second ring.
“I need to speak with the manager on duty – wait – this is you – what’s yo name?”
“My name is Christopher Hill, what can I help you with?”
“Ya damn bartenda gave me the wrong fuckin’ numba – I told him I need the numba to the owner, and he gave me this. “
“This is the best number to reach him, but-“
“What is the number to your corporate office?”
“Mam, we only have one location, so again this is the number to our “corporate” office.”
“Yall stop bullshitting with me.” This went back and forth, until she seemed convinced that this was indeed the only restaurant until she called back about ten mintues later and asked for the number to our district office. Some people just don’t seem to get it, and she certainly seemed to be one of those people. When she called back she was more profane than before, and began threatening our business by stating that she was going to call the alcohol beverage control as well as the federal business bureau and get us shut down. I let her ramble and curse and finally hung the phone up when she, for the second time in a matter of 30 minutes, called me racist, and this time did so with profane language. I laughed about it for most of the night sharing with regulars and friends of mine who might find the story entertaining. At the same time I reflected on how sad this woman’s behavior was, and how eating in a nice environment outside of one’s home seems like a privilege and one’s behavior should reflect that. I wandered back to the office where Baxter was crunching some numbers for the sandwich shop we will be opening in the coming months and told him of the phone call I had with the crazy lady, he laughed and we swapped stories about similar situations, but neither could come up with a story that rivals this one.
When I added the part about her calling the authorities on us, he responded with this.
“Just tell her if she is going to call the federal business bureau then we will call the sheriff’s office and see if there are any warrants out for her arrest. That’ll shut her fat ass up real quick.“
We both chuckled for a couple of minutes. Just another day at the office……

Respecting the Food we Eat and An Ideological Flaw with Vegetarianism

It is probably way too early to be this philosophical, especially in relation to food at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, but this has been on my mind.


Earlier this week our restaurant hosted a party for PETA, an organization with which we are all familiar and all inevitably have varying sentiments. This organization provides us with twenty thousand dollars a year in business for essentially making our establishment vegetarian and vegan friendly for two days out of the year when we are rented out for their biannual staff parties. With that being said, I appreciate the business and am not about to ramble about my disdain for the organization. I am, however, going to raise what I see as a rudimentary and ideological flaw with their philosophy.
I fully support anyone that chooses to be a vegetarian for whatever reason – it is often noble and done with good intentions. The choice to become a vegetarian doesn’t really effect me and the number is never going to increase so dramatically that the restaurants I support will be threatened. There is a certain part of the world that chooses to be vegetarians due to devout religious beliefs and you can hardly blame anyone for that. Another class is the most recent emergence of Vegetarians - those who are looking for a healthier lifestyle (something that is an entirely different argument all together) and they are abstaining from foods that are sometimes high in fat or cholesterol, but in most cases, are inversely depriving their bodies of other nutrients, which are often found in meats. Their commitment to vegetarianism is not one grounded with philosophy, or ideology – still, it is an individual’s choice. There is another group of individuals that refrain from eating meats or anything tangentially related because of cruelty to animals. This is presumably the largest segment of vegetarianism, atleast in the western world, and is undoubtedly admirable. Obviously there are a lot of poorly run farms out there not treating animals with the respect they deserve, but there are also a lot of great farms that do respect these animals. This is obviously the wave of the new world, and is something that excites me as it does many of the great chefs around the world.
PETA is undoubtedly an organization striving to do good, I enjoy having them in our restaurant, and there has been a lot of good done in the name of animals, but I feel that along the way a certain misdirection has surfaced. I am not going to get into the seemingly fanatical views PETA has on some issues(breast milk ice cream, their views on seeing eye dogs and domesticated animals), and the perspective they take on certain circumstances in the real world. Last year I was walking one of their executives through our Private Lounge where we host parties and while talking I spoke of the catering we do and mentioned that a lot is done out of our other restaurant Sterlings as well, and when I explained to him that it was as steakhouse he commenced to pierce my eyes with daggers as if I had just put a bullet through the head of his six month old puppy. I refrained to explain the business behind the size of the Vegan/Vegetarian share of the market and how unrealistic it would be to have a world of vegan restaurants, or how hard it would be to support even one exclusively vegan friendly restaurant in this city! His response almost made me mad - something hard to do most of the time. Nevertheless, I kept my emotions to myself and have since thought a lot about that conversation and the close-mindedness he imbued.

So, here is the problem I have with the organization, and certain vegetarians who choose to be vegetarians based on animal cruelty. For the sake of this argument, the people who have chosen to be vegetarians for the sake of a healthier lifestyle are exempt, as well as those with religious commitments. When we host PETA, our chef works with their corporate chef to get products and ingredients that work well with the theme of the dinner. We have had several pizza parties where a soy cheese and fake sausage were used, which I don’t really embrace, but can handle. The menu for another PETA party consisted of this, and keep in mind the descriptions while not implying vegetarian indeed are; BBQ Chicken with vegan coleslaw, Burger sliders with vegan American cheese, Fried Chicken Tenders, Quesadillas, and a couple more items that were, believe it or not, intrinsically, and ideologically vegetarian such as mixed vegetables. My problem with the menu is this: the foods they are eating, and choose to eat don’t embrace the philosophy of vegetarianism. The foods mentioned above were created to replicate the flavor of something this segment of the market chooses not to eat - for whatever reason. This seems a bit heretical. They embrace the flavor of barbecue chicken, freshly grilled burgers, and the creaminess of melted cheese on top. They love a ranch dipping sauce for a crispy fried “chicken finger” or a fennel laced sausage for their pizza. Sure, this is stuff is so intrinsically American, things we are familiar with, and I am sure the challenge of being a vegetarian is difficult, but with the accessibility to farms vegetarian options are greater than ever before. Instead of embracing the flavors of the foods they vow not to eat, instead why not find ways to reinvent the foods that are distinctly and ideologically vegetarian. Hell, I probably eat as much philosophically vegetarian food as many of them. I adore just about every vegetable, fruit and legume. Granted, I eat meats, and I love seafood, but in a sense they do too. I do my best to eat locally, cook organically, and use vendors that are responsible and treat the products I eat with respect. As long as we remember where our food comes from, embrace how it came into existence by acknowledging the hands that cared for it, and most of all respect the life itself then a meal becomes more than the contents on our plates. Food should be a part of us, and it is up to us, as consumers, to be educated and informed about the foods we choose to eat and the farms we choose to support. If you respect something, then in the end it doesn’t go to waste, but rather becomes a thing of cherished beauty. This is how it works and always has. To me, that is what it all comes down to.

The Last Night

This is a short story that I recently wrote that is loosely based on real events. It is, however, fiction. I hope you enjoy.


January has come and the bone chillingly cold air is obvious proof of that. Crevices where sidewalks dip to meet the road are lined with sheeted ice. The leafless branches of trees sway with the howling wind that sweeps detritus down Granby Street. The moon is just as hidden as the sun was some six hours ago before it set, so the sky is hazy, which is just about right for a cryptic winter day.
“Sorry guys, another shitty night – but hey – look at it from the bright side, we are gonna have a chance to make it over to Cask for a quick drink, first round’s on me,” I exclaimed locking the front door. There were six guests left, half of which were employees enjoying a beer and some shots on their night off. Additionally, there were a couple of navy guys playing pool, trying to prolong their night, seeing as they would soon return to the Naval Base a few miles down the road. I slowly brought the lights up, indicating that last call was here and it was time to order the final drinks of the night, and to finish them in a timely manner as well. It was only midnight and we could legally serve alcohol for two more hours, but that didn’t matter since there was no one there to serve. I began doing paperwork for the night while sitting at the bar that was still sticky from a previous guest, who had drunkenly and haphazardly spilt his Captain and Coke. I began thinking about how much longer we could operate doing nights like this, and it frustrated me to think that on a slow night the bartender still hadn’t gotten around to clean the bar that was dirtied some two hours ago. This type of thing a restaurant owner or manager reflects on constantly, and as my mind began drifting elsewhere, out of the corner of my eyes I saw a group of guys approaching the front door. I wandered over to address them and see if I could be of help, but was reluctant to invite them inside. They, obviously drunk, begged for me to let them in, exclaiming that the morning would bring their deployment to Afghanistan and they wanted one more night of drunken happiness. I couldn’t argue that, so I granted them access, and motioned them to the bar where Jessica was waiting and sighing with discontent at me.
Scampering a couple steps ahead of the crowd, Johnny, an overweight Asian was the ring leader, and took the liberty of ordering shots of Rumpleminze – peppermint schnapps, a cordial that is so iconically appropriate during the winter months. Jessica lined up the shots, they looked on and cheered as each glass filled to the brim. She handed Johnny two at a time, and he began issuing the chilled glasses as I fielded a phone call asking what time we would be closing tonight. He motioned for her to pour four more, which upon his receipt, handed two right back for us, and he motioned that the others were for our off duty bartenders sitting at the bar who were already half drunk. I smiled as Jennifer handed me the shot, and I motioned that she could have one as well. This was a special circumstance, it was an honor to be a part of this quasi-last supper, and I was excited to embrace the occasion. Johnny motioned for everyone’s attention, and began his toast as the group circled around.

“Here's to other meetings,
And merry greetings then;
And here's to those we've drunk with,
But never can again.”


The toast seemed to echo the harsh truth of military life and the possibility of death, while sobering, was reality for this group that had worked so hard, together, in harsh conditions which would inevitably worsen upon arrival in Afghanistan. Johnny raised his glass, circled the bar clinging his against everyone’s and I half smiled at Jessica knowing I could never really relate to them – I would never have the fears, doubts, and sleepless nights by which their adventure on the other side of the world will be defined. I can, however, understand this desire to drink away the pain of leaving behind all they ever knew, and though brief, and unsustainable the notion of drinking away the pain makes complete sense. Perhaps at a certain point in drunken cloudiness the frightening journey for which they embark in the morning begins to fade and emotions of love, happiness, and peace will persevere. This indeed did happen but not before another two rounds of shots. Jamie the youngest of the group, just out of officer candidacy school was ironically from my hometown of Atlanta and we began swapping stories of our childhoods there, our families, and our forlorn love for that sacred place. He jumped in and offered to buy the next round, which also meant the next toast belonged to him as well.
“Okay guys – you know I love every goddamn one of you… including you bar keep – you are so damn cute and you too – Jeff, my fellow Atlantan,” he slurred, prefacing his toast in obvious discomfort from the spotlight. “Grab your glasses, this shit is much better than that peppermint bullshit! We got some Goldschlager… this stuff has real gold. Bring it on baby!!! Grab your glasses,” he hollered as the crowd gathered around laughing at the buffoonery he brought to the table.
He paused and continued solemnly, trying his hardest to keep his poise:

Here's To Singles,
Friends And Heroes.
They say in life we need friends and heroes,
As I look out upon all of you today,
I raise my glass and say to you....
I am glad I can be both.

“I love you guys – you know that – we have something special…. We are friends, but above that we are heroes, and wherever this journey takes us,” and he paused as a solitary tear slid the length of his cheek, trying to conquer the emerging emotions. He proceeded, “Wherever it takes us I am proud to be a part of this, and I am not talking about being an American, or even a Navy officer, I am talking about being a part of this fraternity, this eternal and sacredly formed friendship we have here tonight and I am a lucky son of a bitch to know every damn one of you.”
I looked at Jennifer who now had tears running down her face and she smiled softly at me. Later that night I found out that her father’s life had been taken in the Persian Gulf War, and this incredible display of emotion was something that was perhaps eerily familiar to her. She walked over, we wrapped our arms around each other’s goosebump lined shoulders and we soaked up the wonderful display of passion from these often cold and hardened souls. They held each other, smiled and opened the floodgates to their hearts that would, come tomorrow morning, be shut off from the world for six months. I lined up ten more shot glasses, and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark, perhaps the most iconic of American Liquors. I put eight glasses in front of them, and began.

“Guys, this is an incredible honor to have you all here. I’m happy as hell that you guys showed up when you did, and for me it is a raw and vivid look at fate that you came into our lives tonight. What you are doing for us and this country will never be forgotten – the sacrifices you have all made are selfless, and real and more than I will ever fathom. I know that you guys have to get out of here, but before you do, I want to buy each of you a shot and make a quick toast.
I began:

“I wish you health, I wish you well, and happiness galore.
I wish you luck for you and friends; what could I wish you more?
May your joys be as deep as the oceans, your troubles as light as its foam.
And may you find, sweet peace of mind, where ever you may roam.”

We raised our glasses simultaneously and they motioned for Jennifer and myself to come around, and out from around the bar so that we could be a part of them for a couple of moments. Johnny kissed me on the cheek with tears now streaming down his face, and we embraced for a couple of emotion filled moments. He was drunk, as were the other seven, but that didn’t take away from what they were feeling, because it was real. They vowed to return to my bar on their way home six months from now, and I insisted that all eight of them would be back and we would celebrate the occasion appropriately. As the bar cleared out, I turned off the lights and muted the music and locked the doors. Crossing over the Chesapeake Bay on the Berkeley Bridge I looked towards the waters that would soon be taking those eight Navy guys to a different part of the world, and I thought about their life on the ship and how grateful I was to have my life of blessing. This night helped me put life into perspective, and it helped me understand how truly blessed I am in so many ways – most of which I take for granted. I then began to think, in respect to these eight individuals that I really haven’t made much of a sacrifice in my life at all.
It took two months for Jessica to tell me the secret of her father’s death in the war of our childhood’s and we did it over shots on an eerily similar March night, and her toast was this.

“Life lives, life dies. Life laughs, life cries.
Life gives up and life tries.
But life looks different through everyone's eyes.”

I’m not sure what to make of the toast she made that night, however I feel that she had been trying to gather the courage to give it and tell me of her father’s death since that emotion filled night with the Navy guys. I guess I will never really know what she was trying to say, what it is like to lose a father in battle, or watch a fallen comrade never make it home, but I know I am blessed and Johnny, Jamie and the rest of those guys helped me realize that. It probably means more to me that Jamie, my fellow Atlantan, never made it home from Afghanistan. The other eight did and when they returned we hugged, laughed and cheered with thoughts of Jamie in the forefronts of our minds. Goldschlager tastes a lot better when drinking to the memory of a life that was sacrificed for his country.

Thanks to all of you who serve our Country. Hurry home Greg.
CH.

Oyster: The Great Wager

One of the greatest memories of food from my early life comes from the beautiful island of Nantucket.
My childhood friend Doug had invited me with his family to Nantucket, the wonderfully historical whaling island off the coast of Massachusetts when I was 10 years old. They annually rented a house for the month of July to soak up the beautiful beach culture, where they rode their bikes from one side of the island to the other as the beaches filled, adorning themselves with tourists. As the sun began to grow lazy in the western sky they would stroll to the wharf where ubiquitous fishing boats constantly weaved in and out of the inlet, back from their day on the open seas. The bewilderment of the incessantly swarming seagulls over each fish laden boat matches the amazement of the onlooking children that take great notice and excitement as these local fishermen butcher the day’s harvest.
While preparing for the trip, my mother told me the tales of her childhood, and her family who like Doug’s rented a house there every summer. While there, we daily hustled to the beach, neglected to lather ourselves in sun tan lotion and slowly encroached upon the waters of the Atlantic Ocean as our bodies loosened to the seemingly frost-bitingly cold water. We enjoyed that week during the summer before our fifth grade year of school with innocence and resolve in hopes of sucking every bit of joy out of our time spent on that island. The cottages, cobblestone roads and Inns are forever imprinted in my mind, the echo of sea shells in my ears, and the taste of my first oyster on my tongue.


We made the short walk into town whose streets are lined with ancient cobblestone, equally archaic buildings that date back to the mid 17th century as we talked about the wonderful trip that was drawing to an end, and how this paradise was everything but that centuries ago when the locals survived by whaling these cold, north Atlantic waters. The island itself has the ability to transform you into an ironically new and distant world, especially walking down wondrous Main Street where, like the days of old, the hotbed of activity occurs. There was a particular restaurant we were in search for on this breezy summer day as our sunburnt bodies hobbled down the various corridors of Nantucket. The sun was still high in the sky, but as tourists began crowding the downtown area, the sun escaped behind the island, descending towards Boston, a few miles west. We arrived at our destination, one of the island’s most acclaimed oyster bars that I later discovered was also religiously frequented by my mother and her family an entire generation in the past. I look back at my childhood Christmases when her sole contribution to the dinner table was undoubtedly Oyster Casserole, and I can’t help but think that her inspiration stemmed from that beaten up, brick building where the floors are bruised, stained, and in dire need of a polish. It probably looks no different now then when I was there some twenty years ago, or even when my mother was there as a child. It all seems to work, and is in fact a part of the reason why you love this place so much. That and of course the oysters…


“Gang, it looks like there is gonna be a hell of a wait – they told me close to an hour. Don’t worry Christopher that is to be expected. We come here every year and it gets better every time, I promise,” This, Doug’s father jolted at us with sheer excitement while directing it at me, the lone newcomer to the group. “So what do y’all want to drink? We can get some drinks and a couple appetizers to munch on while we wait.”

He returned a couple of moments later with a bottle of black cherry soda for Doug and myself, and a couple of beers for he and his wife. He was followed by a waitress carrying a Last Supper size platter which had, at the time, unidentifiable and grotesquely foreign objects. He had ordered a seafood platter with clams, mussels, and of all things freshly shucked raw oysters that were still nestled in their half shells, and everything was locally harvested – something I had no appreciation for at the time. We gathered around as he dared all of us to dig in and enjoy the wonderful foods that were born of the ice cold water in which we were swimming a mere couple of hours ago. Mussels were a piece of cake, and despite the occasional bit of sand that also created among these very waters some thousands of years ago, the clams were palatable. This was at a time in my life when I was slightly over weight, and called the “Vacuum Cleaner” by my family because of my tendency to devour anything in sight within reason. I was absurdly famished and knew I wouldn’t be eating for atleast another hour since we were still deep on the wait list, and as the mussels and clams slowly vanished I grew nervous. The oysters were looking me dead in the eyes, and I could barely stand to look at them. They were slimy, and had the appearance of some unknown and internal human infection.
“Come on guys, who wants to try an oyster – I promise these little buggers are good… much better than they look. ”
I kept telling myself, “nope – not gonna do it”, and I have the feeling Doug, in his mind was vomiting as well at the sheer thought of attempting to digest the mollusks that sat fat and juicy on the platter in front of us.
“No, thank you though Dr. Murphy – I think I am gonna stick to the Mussels and Clams, they look delicious though,” I responded with obvious sarcasm.
“Comeeeee onnnnn Christopher! Give them a try. I promise you will like them. You can go home to your mom and dad, as a proud, self-respecting young man, and brag about the adventures you had in Nantucket, and how you have found the love of your life – the oyster!”
“Dad – they look disgusting! You couldn’t pay me 10 bucks to eat one of those creatures,” Doug chimed in agreeing with me, trying to divert the pressure from me, seeing as I was quiet and unable to deter the attention.
“Okay I tell ya what. How about this – I will give 25 dollars to the first one to eat an oyster, but you have to keep it down. None of this running off to the bathroom business. Deal?”
Most of the negative thoughts escaped my mind at this point as Dr. Murphy began waving money in our faces, and for me, 25 bucks was quite appealing. I thought for a couple of moments before responding.
With skepticism I blurted, “Okay, I will do it! Just one though right?”
“Just one.”
I grabbed some saltine crackers, severed the package and readied my cracker for the slimy mollusk that to my knowledge was still alive. I motioned for a cocktail fork, which Dr. Murphy handed over, I stuck it into the oyster and like a construction crane, dropped it on top of my cracker, where it rested – sitting plump, intoxicating the air with the smell of the sea. Dr. Murphy squeezed a slice of lemon over the oyster, issuing acid downward in all directions as a seed escaped from the flesh of the citrus, landing on the oyster I which I was soon to be paid handsomely for eating. I childishly flicked the seed towards Doug, and smiled nervously, attempting to grasp the challenge ahead. A crowd gathered who were ease dropping and looking on with excitement as I painted a dab of cocktail sauce over the top of my prey, readying myself for the dare. I smiled again, before closing my eyes, and tilted my head back. I opened my mouth and slid the oyster,then cracker into my mouth. I chewed the cracker as the oyster slid down my throat - the texture was outrageously foreign to me, and it indeed tasted like the water in which I was splashing earlier that day. I swallowed the oyster, chewed the cocktail basted cracker and upon completion threw my hands in the air claiming victory and motioned for my winnings. I grinned emphatically at Doug and his dad, and the crowd of people who were all clapping.
I paused for a couple of moments after eating the mollusk as I mentally digested what had just happened. “That was great!”


So, Dr. Murphy forked over the $25 and I immediately wandered inside, found a waitress and purchased two dozen more oysters for us and the onlookers who had been cheering me on. That night I ate oysters until my belly was full, and by the time our table was ready I had probably consumed two dozen by myself, and was no longer hungry, but that didn’t matter because I ordered more for dinner. Our meal finished and we wandered home, laughing about my new love for oysters, and how I ironically was paid to try something that I ended up falling in love with. Of that trip, the memory of Nantucket is beginning to fade, but that island will, like I said before, be forever imprinted on my mind. My first experience with an oyster, however, is a memory that is still very vivid. It is a memory that I will cherish, and not a single meal I have where oysters are present is finished without the tides of Nantucket crashing against my mind. Oh, to be an innocent ten year old again, who would try just about anything for some cold hard cash.