November 13, 2023 Issue

Helen Rosner, in her superb “Tables for Two: Bronx Sidewalk Clam Heaven,” in this week’s issue, writes, “There’s something unavoidably primal about prying open an oyster or clam and sucking it from its shell—there’s no way to aesthetically refine the act’s essential ferality. It’s fun as hell, a disposal of ritual, a moment of pure sensation.” I agree. And the way she puts it is pure pleasure. The passage in the newyorker.com version is even more delicious:

There’s something unavoidably primal about prying open an oyster or clam and sucking it from its shell—there’s no way to aesthetically refine the act’s essential ferality. All the usual intermediations of human carnivorousness are absent: no slaughter, no butchering, no cooking. It’s fun as hell, a disposal of ritual, a moment of pure sensation. A white-haired gent in a topcoat and fedora throws down a dozen clams shoulder to shoulder with a twentysomething fashion girly in platform sneakers, an eleven-year-old boy in a camo jacket, and a middle-aged food writer: We are animals eating animals, in the middle of the street, in the Bronx.

I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I’m fascinated by the newyorker.com variation of “Tables For Two.” Here’s another example from the same piece: Rosner writes, “There’s an array of dressings and hot sauces, including a mouth-puckering homemade mignonette, and the oysters are glorious, a symphony of brine and richness.” Yum! That sentence is double bliss; both form and substance are delectable. The newyorker.com version contains a delightful extra clause:  

There’s an array of dressings and hot sauces, including a mouth-puckering homemade mignonette, and the oysters are glorious, a symphony of brine and richness, especially the Blue Points, mild and rich as salted butter, and the peachy sweetness of the Kumamotos.

Rosner is rapidly becoming one of my favorite New Yorker writers.