The oyster bars of Barcelona, where I lived in the late-1970s, were cheap. So was the cava, Spain’s own sparkling wine, guzzled in carefree abandon. Some years later, I found myself living in Charente, one of the finest oyster regions of France. A local vineyard made an inspired bubbly at a fraction of the cost of the more prestigious brands associated with the Vallee de la Marne or the Montagne de Reims districts. These all formed my earliest impressions of the shellfish.
These days, however, whenever I smell the seared shells of oysters laid out on grills and along barbecue pits, I am more inclined to think of the riverside bars and restaurants of Hiroshima, or the sea-facing oyster cantinas of Sendai. On the Itoshima Peninsula in Kyushu, I have walked past nests of tiny eateries that felt like dedicated oyster malls. Such spots spring to life as the mercury drops throughout November to January.
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