by Pat Conroy
The crowd cheers when the first oysters are shoveled on because we know the process is quick. Another cheer arises when the heat forces the first batch of oysters to pop open, the juices of the oysters hissing against the tin and causing a redolent, noisy steam to rise in the air like a secret fog. The men with the shovels then distribute the roasted oysters to the restless waiting crowds, who grab them up, hot as bricks in a kiln, warming their gloved left hands as they pry the shells apart with their right hands. There is no labor at an oyster roast. The fiery heat has done all the work for you. Your one job is to eat as many oysters as you can while they are still steaming off the fire. A lukewarm oyster is beside the point and always a disappointment to the spirit.
I love to dip my oysters in a bath of hot butter, but other Low Country people swear by the catsup and horseradish, or cocktail sauce, route. Yet I have known people who carry whole lemons and who would not even consider adding another condiment to such a distinct and natural taste. Others believe that any addition at all is a form of heresy, and they eat their oysters as God made them, savoring that giddy briny essence of the Low Country as it comes from its shell.
Always, in the Low Country, you eat more than you should at an oyster roast. I never have left an oyster roast without thinking that I should not have eaten the last seven oysters I forced down. But how do you turn your back on something so enchanting and delicious? For the half-shell people, an oyster roast always sounds like an abomination unto the Lord, but the tradition dates back to the Yemassees, Kiawahs, and other tribes that once roamed these forests. Is a roasted oyster ever as good as a chilled oyster on the half shell? Perhaps a Chilmark, a Sailor Girl, a Point Reyes Pacifica, a Cotuit, or that Rolex of oysters, the snooty Belon—No, it’s not, not to me, but it is still terrific all the same. The camaraderie and the gossip and the sheer goodwill of the crowd set the oyster roast apart for me as something particularly Southern and indigenous, a rite that poor people have access to because our rivers are open to everyone and our oyster banks are fecund and public and healthy.
My favorite oyster roast was not planned. When The Lords of Discipline came out, I was spending the night with my friends Dana and Sallie Sinkler at their house on Wadmalaw Island. Before dinner, Dana and I rode out in his boat to an oyster bank across the river, where we gathered the evening meal with tongs. With a boatful of oysters, we recrossed the river at sunset, the water turning gold around us, and the wake of our boat kicking up a more startled form of gold behind us.
Before we left, Dana had started his own oak fire in his hearth and had laid a piece of tin across it. We roasted the freshly harvested oysters in Dana and Sallie’s living room. Sallie brought bread and bacon-laced coleslaw out of her kitchen. There was beer and wine and grand talk as we sat in front of the fire, and I could feel our friendship deepening while we opened the oysters and told each other the stories of our lives.
Last year, I bought two bushels of oysters from an oysterman on St. Helena Island for a roast of my own. The Low Country is always capable of astonishing me anew.
“Sir, are these oysters local?” I asked after paying him.
“No, sir. Gotta be honest. I harvested these oysters over three miles from here.”
OYSTER ROAST • SERVES 12
½ pound fresh bratwurst sausages
½ pound smoked bratwurst sausages
¾ pound Mexican chorizo sausages
12 dozen oysters, well scrubbed
4 dozen littleneck clams, well scrubbed
One 12-ounce bottle beer (not dark)
ACCOMPANIMENTS
Low Country Aioli (see below)
Cocktail sauce
Lemon wedges
Melted butter
You’ll need about 2 yards burlap for the grill method or heavy-duty aluminum foil, as well as 12 oyster knives and 12 oven mitts or thick kitchen towels.
CHARCOAL GRILL METHOD FOR SAUSAGES AND OYSTERS
1. Prepare the grill for cooking with about 7 pounds of briquets. (You’ll need about 15 pounds of briquets total.) Or use a gas grill.
2. Prick the sausages in several places with a fork, then grill, covered, turning occasionally, until browned and cooked through, about 10 minutes. Transfer to serving platters.
3. Scatter about 12 additional briquets over the glowing coals and replace the rack. Fold the burlap into a triple layer slightly smaller than the grill surface and soak it completely with water. Put 3 to 4 dozen oysters directly on the grill rack, cover with wet burlap, and roast, with grill cover up, until the shells just begin to open (about inch) or give slightly when squeezed with tongs, about 10 minutes. (If necessary, sprinkle more water over the burlap to keep it moist.)
4. Serve the oysters, with accompaniments, as they open, removing them with tongs, and roast any unopened oysters a few minutes longer, replacing burlap. Roast the remaining oysters in two or three batches in the same manner, adding about 12 more briquets between batches to keep the fire hot and resoaking burlap thoroughly.
5. In a 6- to 8-quart pot, steam the clams in beer over medium-high heat, covered, until clams open, about 10 minutes (discard any unopened clams after 15 minutes). Transfer the clams as they open to a platter. Carefully pour the clam broth into cups, leaving any sediment in the pot, for dunking in case the clams are sandy.
STOVETOP-OVEN METHOD FOR SAUSAGES AND OYSTERS
1. Preheat the oven to 500°F.
2. On the stovetop, heat two heavy, ridged grill pans or skillets over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then cook the sausages, turning occasionally, until browned and cooked through, 15 to 20 minutes.
3. Heat a large, deep roasting pan on the bottom rack of the oven until very hot. Remove from the oven and quickly fill with 3 to 4 dozen oysters and 1 cup water, then cover the pan tightly with heavy-duty foil. Roast the oysters until the shells just begin to open (about inch) or give slightly when squeezed with tongs, and roast any unopened oysters a few minutes longer, covered with foil. Roast the remaining oysters in two or three batches in the same manner.
4. Steam the clams as described in step 5 above.
Low Country Aioli •MAKES ABOUT 3½ CUPS
½sweet onion, quartered
½ pound tomatoes, halved crosswise
1 large green bell pepper, halved lengthwise, cored, and seeded
1 fresh habanero or jalapenño chile, halved
1 tablespoon olive oil
1½ tablespoons finely chopped garlic
½ teaspoon coarse or kosher salt
2 cups Homemade Mayonnaise (page 57)
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 to 3 teaspoons white wine vinegar
1. Preheat the oven to 450°F and set rack in upper third of oven.
2. Toss the onion, tomatoes, bell pepper, and chile with the oil in a shallow baking pan and arrange, cut sides down, in one layer. Roast, turning onion once or twice, until vegetables are charred and tender, 15 to 20 minutes.
3. Discard skins from tomatoes and bell pepper. Chop the tomatoes and drain in a sieve, discarding juices. Finely chop the onion and bell pepper. Mince the chile.
4. Mash the garlic and salt into a paste. Blend together mayonnaise, garlic paste, and black pepper in a food processor. Add the chile, about one-quarter at a time, tasting for desired heat.
5. Transfer to a bowl and stir in the tomatoes, bell pepper, onion, and vinegar.
The aioli can be made 1 day ahead and chilled, covered.
CORN BREAD • MAKES TWO 10-INCH LOAVES
3 cups white cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons salt
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 cups well-shaken buttermilk
12 tablespoons (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, melted
1. Heat two well-seasoned 10-inch cast-iron skillets in the upper and lower thirds of the oven while preheating it to 450° F.
&nbs
p; 2. Whisk together the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add the eggs, buttermilk, and 1 cup melted butter, then quickly stir together.
3. Remove the hot skillets from the oven. Divide the remaining ½ cup melted butter between them, then divide the batter between pans. Bake in the upper and lower thirds of oven, switching positions of pans halfway through, until golden and a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, 15 to 20 minutes total.
SPICY SLAW • SERVES 12
1½ cups Homemade Mayonnaise (page 57)
½ cup cider vinegar
½ cup sugar
1 tablespoon Tabasco sauce
2 teaspoons coarse or kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
4 pounds mixed cabbages, such as green, red, and savoy, thinly sliced
3 cups halved cherry tomatoes
1 large sweet onion, thinly sliced
3 cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and diced
1 small red bell pepper, cored, seeded, and cut into thin strips
1 small yellow bell pepper, cored, seeded, and cut into thin strips
Whisk together the mayonnaise, vinegar, sugar, Tabasco, salt, and pepper until the sugar is dissolved, then toss with the vegetables.
The slaw may be made 1 day ahead and chilled, covered.
APPLE COBBLER • SERVES 12
FOR THE APPLE FILLING
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
8 pounds Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and each cut into 8 wedges
1½ cups sugar
2 teaspoons finely grated orange zest
½ cup apricot preserves
⅓ cup brandy
FOR THE BISCUIT TOPPING
3¾ cups self-rising flour (preferably White Lily)
6 tablespoons plus ¼ cup sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
½ pound (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into bits
1¾ cups plus 2 tablespoons chilled heavy cream
1 large egg yolk
2 tablespoons heavy cream (not chilled)
1. To make the filling: Divide the butter between two wide, heavy 5- to 6-quart pots. Heat over moderately high heat until foam subsides, then sauté the apples with the sugar and zest, dividing them evenly between the pots and stirring, until apples are slightly softened, about 5 minutes.
2. Transfer the apples with a slotted spoon to two 2½- to 3-quart buttered shallow baking dishes.
3. Transfer all apple juices to one pot. Stir in the preserves and brandy and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Divide the mixture and pour it over the apples. (This may be made to this point 1 day ahead and chilled, covered. Bring the apple filling to room temperature before proceeding.)
4. To make the biscuit topping: Preheat the oven to 375°F. Place rack in middle of oven.
5. Pulse the flour, 6 tablespoons sugar, and salt in a food processor just until blended. Add the butter and pulse just until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Transfer to a large bowl and add the chilled cream, stirring gently with a rubber spatula to form a dough. (The dough will be sticky at first, but it will stiffen slightly as the flour absorbs the cream.)
6. Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface four to six times with floured hands (do not overwork dough, or biscuits will be tough). Roll out the dough ¾ inch thick, flouring the surface as needed, and cut out 12 to 14 rounds with a cookie cutter, rerolling scraps as necessary. Arrange the rounds on top of the apples, about ½inch apart.
7. Stir together the yolk and unchilled cream and brush on the biscuits. Sprinkle the ¼ cup sugar generously over the biscuits.
8. Bake until biscuits are golden and cooked through (lift one to check if the underside is cooked), 35 to 45 minutes. Serve warm.
The cobbler can be baked 1 day ahead and chilled, covered. To reheat, put the chilled cobbler, uncovered, in a cold oven, then bake at 375°F until the apples are bubbling, 25 to 30 minutes.
It was William B. “King Tut” Harper who not only sold me my first car but also taught me the joys of grilling steaks on a well-laid fire. In everything he did, King Tut was a craftsman who sneered at imprecision, indecisiveness, or anything he considered second-rate. “If you’re going to do something, boy, learn to do it right. If not, let someone else do it.”
Each Sunday afternoon at six, he rose from his recliner, walked out to his back porch overlooking Factory Creek in Beaufort, South Carolina, and lifted up a large bag of charcoal. With great care, he distributed the coals evenly in the pan of his grill. With a master’s touch, he arranged the charcoal in a cone-shaped mound, then drenched each briquet with just the right amount of lighter fluid, that amount being a secret to all but him. For five minutes, the charcoal marinated as King Tut looked out toward the setting sun, which had begun to ignite the creek with soft gold.
“Got to give the lighter fluid time to soak the charcoal, boy,” King Tut said to me.
Taking a blue box of kitchen matches, he lit a single match, held it straight up for a moment, and then tossed it with a priestlike flick of his hand toward the charcoal, which ignited in a satisfying but muffled explosion. “We’ll give it a spell. Then we’ll check to see if the fire’s right.”
“How will we know it’s right?” I asked.
“Because we’re men,” King Tut said, scoffing. “Men just know these kinds of things. It’ll look right. That’s how we’ll know.”
When the flames died down and the coals were molten and the same color as the sun-fired creek, King Tut placed three large T-bone steaks on the grill with the deftness of a card dealer. He was the first cook I had ever known who held religious beliefs against cooking beef until it was well done.
“I’d rather feed it to my beagle,” he said. “You don’t overcook a good steak. That’s a sacrilege.”
“Who taught you how to cook, King Tut?” I asked.
“Hush, boy. I’m grilling,” he said, his voice carrying both softness and scorn. “Grilling’s serious business. Go in and tell Maw I’ll be bringing the steaks in sixteen minutes. Git, now!”
The air was filling up with smoke, and the smell of beef hitting the fire brought the beagle out of the doghouse and teased the palates of fishermen returning to the boat landing a mile down the creek. King Tut turned the meat once and once only, and the steaks were uniformly striped by the lines of the grill. Those Sunday night steak dinners at the Harper house remain some of the finest and most hospitable meals I have enjoyed on the planet. The thought of those beautiful cuts of meat laid over a fire with such ritual and devotion are among the most mouthwatering memories of my boyhood.
Later King Tut taught me to wrap Vidalia onions and Idaho potatoes in foil and cook them in the glowing coals before putting on the steaks. He introduced me to the glories of garlic salt, Worcestershire sauce, red wine vinegar, sour cream, and a dozen other condiments. Cutting through blackened foil and catching that first aromatic explosion of steam from the grilled onions was the first experience I had of the pure sensuousness of cooking. Watching King Tut eat what he had cooked was one of the great pleasures of dining at his table. He ate with utter concentration, savoring every bite of his perfectly seasoned meal. On Sunday nights during my high school and college years, I hated not being at the Harper house. Because my own father could not boil an egg, I had never seen a man cook anything until I came to King Tut’s grill and learned of the rapture of the lucky men who step outside to light the fires that feed their families the best meals of their lives. Whenever I recall King Tut hunched over his grill, I think of fire and meat and small talk and getting things right and the coming of nightfall and the smell of the in-running tide. What King Tut was passing on to me was ancient, and he let me love him freely because he knew the responsibilities of being a father. Without knowing it, he prepared me for a lifetime of cooking for family.
When I was moving my family from Atlanta to Rome in 1981, a group of men I had cooked dinner for once a month planned a party in honor of my immi
nent departure. The novelist Terry Kay came up with the idea of barbecuing an entire pig in the woodsy backyard of Cliff Graubart, who lived on three acres of land a couple of miles from Grant Park. Terry Kay, the author of To Dance with the White Dog, loves playing “redneck” more than any white Southerner I have ever been around, and he can talk for longer than anyone has any reason to listen on such arcane topics as the proper way to plow a cotton furrow or the burial of a good mule. I find such conversation tedious in the extreme, and I do all I can to keep Terry’s mind from drifting back to those far-off days of his childhood when he and twelve siblings grew poorer and poorer with each passing year. It’s my belief that by the time I reach the age of seventy, Terry Kay will not even have managed to survive his hookworm-ridden childhood. In spite of all that, we let him cook the pig.
