Tales from the biz: My single favorite oyster story

When I lived in New York, one of my best friends was a girl from Massachusetts named Jonna. She was a ton of fun, and a truly great girlfriend - always around for a night out, to throw you a birthday party, to listen when you have a problem, and cheer on your victories.

The restaurant that we worked at featured a large raw bar selection, with a rotating choice of fresh oysters every day. Tatamamagouche oysters, the Nova Scotia natives known for being mildly briney and having a very clean finish, made regular appearances on our lineup. We always loved customers who dug into to a plate of oysters, not only because they were expensive but not filling (therefore padding the check without taking up valuable tummy space - so they would still order other appetizers), but because people who ordered them tended to be fearless, playful, and a lot of fun to wait on.

One night Jonna had the distinct pleasure of waiting on a group of six or seven businessmen, all in their late twenties/early thirties, handsome, and only slightly rowdy. Cute men and a guaranteed large check? She was in heaven.

Midway through their first course she poked her head into the server station where I was at the computer.

"Having fun with your man meat?"

"Oh my god, I'm dying. Look at what's on their table right now."

I peeked out and scanned their table, noticing a huge platter of oysters right in the middle. Most of them looked like the Tatamagouche - which were particularly long and skinny that night.

"Hot..." I muttered, turning back to the computer.

"Dude, if those guys make it through all of those, they can have my Tatamagouche later on tonight."

I caught the reference and turned around just in time to see her bounce up to the table, asking if they were enjoying their platter.

"God, I love that girl," I mumbled to myself before diving back onto the floor.