Half shells

Stephanie and I went out to Oyster Boy last night. We had an urge to slurp raw seafood, and we're evolving this pattern of enjoying Friday night dinners together when we can.

Oysters are a funny thing for me -- I never ate a raw one until a couple of years ago -- my ex was horrified by seafood in its most aggressive form (she shuddered for years everytime she thought about the "lobster massacre" in PEI that literally made her turn pale and flee the scene). Oysters just weren't on the menu. I could smuggle smoked ones into dinner party appetizers (which she avoided), or eat the occasional baked one on the west coast, but no slurping of the briney juice. I ate my first raw one on my first mid-breakup date, and have been pursuing them with some vehemence on the right occasions since. I indulged in a bunch at a great vaguely-south-american restaurant in Portland the night before I came home, sitting at the crowded bar, talking to a guy who wanted me to go hear jazz with him. Such a CateSelf I hadn't ever imagined.

Last night was a bit spontaneous, and we hadn't made a reservation. We ended up getting our table through a funny little loop in time. While striding down the street to meet S -- first time wearing my red wool coat this season -- I heard someone say my name tentatively. It was K, half of K&R, the "couple friends" A and I had spent New Year's Eve with for 6 or 7 of the years we were together. We had drifted away a bit in the last 2 or 3 years, but I was also a little bit ... well, hurt might be too strong a word, but I noticed that they never called me once during my divorce. K checked in once via email when I sent out a group change of address notice, but no call, no dinner invite, etc. Not a big deal -- they weren't really intimate friends at that point -- and they are also an incredibly enmeshed couple, who probably can't fathom what people really need in that kind of circumstance. And I hadn't exactly called them up and said "let's all go out for dinner" either. Still. They clearly qualify as "people I'd spent good friend time with who were no longer in my life."

And here they were, on Queen, K trying to figure out the parking rules, R waiting in the car. "Where are you going?" she said. "Oyster Boy," I chirped. "Oh, we were going to go there, but they told us we'd have to give up our table by 8:30." (It was 7:00). We chatted a bit, awkwardly, I knocked on the window of their CRV and said hi to R, who was canceling their reservation. Then I skipped off. At the restaurant, was told, "yes, we have one table for two, you'll have to be done by 8:30." No worries, I said.

S and I drank cosmos, engaged cute pierced waiter boy in trying to get us the food before our deadline, more cocktails. And then? At 8:30? They offered to move us to another table, so we could stay as long as we wanted, shifted our original table over to make a six.

We had a great time. And I remembered the fussing that K&R could do, the hesitancy that comes from worrying about constraints. Constraints that frankly? Just aren't there. I think I used to fret about things like that too -- "ooooh, the table is needed, we might not have enough TIME, it won't be FUN" -- instead, we rolled, we flowed, we slurped, and it was yummy and perfect.