It was easy to assume that New England would prevail. In the food media narrative that has solidified around American oysters over the past 20 years, it nearly always does. The Wellfleet oyster, with its strong mineral punch and the kind of pure ocean finish that makes people close their eyes for a moment, the cold, clear waters of Maine, Cape Cod—that’s the story. That’s what is written about. The raw bars in Manhattan charge four dollars per shell, and that’s what people order.
After three weeks and five areas, the narrative had changed.
Due in part to location and in part to the fact that Kumamoto oysters should be consumed as close to the source as possible, the Pacific Northwest ranked first. Those tiny, deep-cupped oysters tasted like sweet cream and sea cucumber with an almost fruity finish that doesn’t like anything from the East Coast on a wharf in Puget Sound, where the fog was still hanging over the hills and the water was chilly enough to make the hands hurt after five minutes. Eastern oysters are not in competition with them. They are skilled at something very different.
New England fulfilled its promise. The Eastern oysters at a raw bar in Rhode Island in the late afternoon were briny in a way that made you sit up straight. The harbor outside the glass was still bustling with working boats. Sharp, clean, mineral-like, and leaving a lasting finish. They have gained the status of reference point. An oyster that tastes like it came from the ocean rather than a tank is the outcome of the chilly water and strong tidal motion.
The Chesapeake proved to be more fascinating than anticipated. After decades of ecological harm, the Bay is still recovering thanks to vigorous aquaculture and restoration initiatives. Ten years ago, the oysters from Virginia’s aquaculture enterprises lacked a certain feature. Yes, it’s milder than New England, but it has an earthy sweetness and buttery depth of its own. It doesn’t make an effort to be briny. It is successful in becoming something softer.
Malpeques from Prince Edward Island, which is officially on the other side of the Canadian border but is too near to be excluded, were as reliable as promised. That’s what cold water does. The meat was firm, the shells were clean, and the ratio of salt to sweetness was almost ideal. To say that a decent Malpeque is dependable would be an understatement. They have a calibrated flavor.
The Gulf Coast comes next. Texas and Louisiana produce huge oysters. Food writers who like tiny, delicate shells from northeastern waters frequently brush them off as being too large, too low in salinity, or better suited for a charcoal barbecue than a shucking knife. For the commodity product, such reputation is true. It is inaccurate given what the area’s off-bottom, small-scale aquaculture plants have been quietly producing for the past few years.
Deep-cupped oysters that were meaty in a way that felt almost luxurious were being served at a boutique outside of Galveston. They were clean, sweet, and had a subtle salinity that allowed the shellfish’s natural flavor to shine through rather than overpower it. The point was the size, which is meant to be the liability. There was more of a truly delicious flavor.
That’s the oyster that came to mind later. Not the most renowned. Not the most anticipated. However, the one that presented the most compelling case for why regional presumptions about American seafood should be examined more frequently than they already are.
