A French Affair

by Hilary Wilkes (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find France

In my early teens I was nothing short of boy crazy, fixating on a different cracked-voice, pimple-laden schoolmate with a graying upper lip every nine months or so. In high school I settled down into “real” relationships with older boys that fizzled when we all moved away to further our educations. And in college, well, the yearly freshman fifteen I put on cured all hops of romance. My Prince Charming did appear eventually and, luckily, he not only condones but encourages my relationship with my first true love. In fact, at times he even pays for my ecstasy, often joining in. Yes, I love oysters. The rawer the better, dripping with the sea water they were coddled in until plucked for my enjoyment. I come from a long line of oyster-loving, knife-wielding Eastern North Carolinians that would wade to their knees in the mushy sands of the Pamlico Sound, dig them up on the spot and snack ‘til their bellies were full. Sure, I’ve had oysters from all over the country and Canada, but the most pleasing were on a recent trip to the Alps. I kicked off my alpine journey devouring fondue in Lucerne, Switzerland and eating every piece of chocolate I could get my hands on. I toted Gruyere around in my backpack, trimming off small bites with my three euro Victorinox as our luxury bus wove through fields of bright yellow flowers into Annecy, France. Often referred to as “Little Venice”, the city is a maze of wobbly brick alleys crisscrossing over three canals. Spring had recently sprung in Annecy, with flower boxes lining the footpath bridges and wrought iron railings of centuries old apartments hanging above. It didn’t take long to fall in love with Annecy. From the expansive farmer’s market that popped up daily to the beautiful sunset cruise on Lake Annecy, everything was postcard perfect. When it came time to decide on dinner on our last night before heading over to Italy, my mother, a friend and I knew exactly where we wanted to go. Earlier in the day we passed through a red archway into a hidden cove of restaurants spilling out onto the street. After many wrong turns, we eventually found our landmark and quickly decided on a dark bistro with lots of things on the menu we couldn’t begin to pronounce. I popped in to inquire about wait times and was surprised to find the dozen tables or so empty save for one sleek French woman reading a magazine. She relayed that the staff was enjoying their dinner at the moment but the restaurant would open for customers at seven o’clock. Feeling mildly embarrassed – mostly because we were trying to dine so un-chicly early – we retreated to a wine bar I had seen at the entrance of the archway. The galley style bar had only seven or eight red leather bar stools, but being lame had its privileges and we were the only ones around to occupy them. Our host was cordial as we began our inquisition into the wine selection, wanting to try something special for our last night in France. Eventually he sighed and then said something miraculous in his wonderful accent, “Ladies, did you know we are actually an oyster bar?” The three of us looked at each other and burst into laughter. Clearly, we did not. But I'd wager in their six months of existence Huitres oyster bar in Annecy, France had never had more excited patrons. We giddily tried every oyster possible in every way they were served (raw or baked with butter, garlic and fresh breadcrumbs.) We raved over the minimalistic style of their oysters baked on the spot in a small toaster oven, and slurped raw oysters from up and down the French coastline until our dinner budget was officially busted. Noting the hour, we took picture after picture and wished our host well as we stumbled out into the cobblestone sqaure, the warmth of the wine and oysters filling our souls. The memory of Huitres always brings a smile to my face. Love is an amazing thing, be it of people, or food, or of experiencing an unexpected homecoming in a foreign land.