Shellfish Shock

The months passed, Christmas arrived and we still hadn’t found a house to buy. Living in the gîte was starting to pall, but we were determined to hold out until we discovered the right place. In the meantime one of the estate agents had taken pity on us and invited us to have our Christmas meal with her family.

We were lounging around in our sloppy clothes late on Christmas Eve when the phone rang.

“Lorraine, on vous attend!” said a perplexed voice.

Getting an invitation mixed up at any time is bad enough, but this was a mammoth social faux pas. We’d assumed the invitation was for lunch on Christmas Day. Not so. The French celebrate on Christmas Eve.

A quick bath, a change of clothes and we were running by torchlight along a dark country lane, out of breath and trying to find the right words to apologise.

As we arrived fourteen pairs of eyes turned in our direction and we suddenly knew how bacteria must feel when it’s being studied under a microscope. A chorus of bon soir reminded us that French would be the only language spoken; taking a deep breath we went to join the throng. Making small talk didn’t follow the usual pattern. Our accents were so dreadful; much of what we said was incomprehensible. Françoise, our hostess, was kept busy translating our errors and we panicked whenever she left the room.

Gradually the apéritifs relaxed us. An enormous fire burned in the grate next to a beautifully decorated tree, and the natives were friendly. All was well with the world.

When we were called to the table Derek and I were relieved to find that we were seated side by side and Françoise had positioned herself opposite. Linguistic help was on hand.

Relief turned to horror as I looked down at my plate. There, gleaming palely in the candlelight, were a dozen oysters. Neither Derek nor I had ever attempted oysters before, preferring our seafood cooked. Cautiously I glanced around to see how they should be handled. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying them, so I decided to give them a go.

I saw that Françoise loosened the flesh with a sharp knife, followed that with a quick squirt of lemon juice, and then lifted the shell and tipped the contents down her throat. How difficult could that be? I followed suit and found myself swallowing a portion of lemon-tinged seawater-flavoured slime. One down, eleven to go.

I decided to skip the lemon juice part of the proceedings and get the awful business over as quickly as possible. Knife, tip, and swallow. Knife, tip, swallow, I was doing well until Françoise saw that I was omitting the lemon juice.

“You must use the lemon. It’s the only way to be sure they are still alive,” she exclaimed.

Surely I’d misheard? She couldn’t possibly have said that the oysters were still living. I squirted some juice and sure enough the creatures on my plate shuddered. So did I.

“You have to be careful, some of them may be dead,” said Françoise with a smile.

I’d been hoping that they all were, but clearly so had Derek. His expression of horror almost made the experience worth it.

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