Ruby Tuesday

I got it backwards, but I came back from the river to eat oysters.

Tonight was Metzger's "Don't Chuck that Shuck" night with the Ruby Salts people shucking and the rest of us slurping $1 oysters for a good cause, namely the Virginia oyster shell recycling program. As in, all the proceeds (they brought 1,000 oysters, btw) would be donated.

Was I willing to consume bivalves for the sake of replenishing Virginia's natural oyster habitats? I would. Judging by the capacity size crowd when I arrived, so would half of Richmond.

Undeterred, I found a space near the door to wait for an open stool, happy to have the soulful stylings of Mr. Fine wine playing overhead. Still on river time, I was in no hurry.

The knot of people in front of the shucking table was the greeting party for the constant stream of people coming through the door, each time allowing the waning sun's still-yellow brilliance to bathe the bar sitters in the bright light of a Church Hill evening. Eventually, a server stood on a ledge to lower the shades for nearby diners.

Standing by the VOSRP explanatory display was a favorite drummer hanging out with a market-owning couple who were gracious enough to draw me into their group once I'd gotten a glass of Muscadet from the harried barkeep. I felt a tickle on my back and turned to find a familiar face looking for a hug.

But all in all, there were only three familiar faces in the crowd and that's a delightful change for a Richmond evening.

I dazzled my companions with oyster knowledge gleaned from past interviews with oyster gardeners, experts and shuckers, even a few lifetime watermen. Why learn if I don't share?

Because the drummer had band practice looming in 20 minutes, they'd already ordered their oysters, expecting to slurp them standing up if need be. When three stools opened up, we took possession, the drummer using his stool long enough to finish his beer and oysters before saying goodbye and turning it over to me.

I was curious about how the market owners had ended up as market owners, impressed that they'd been waiting for someone else to do it and when no one did, jumped on the idea. Frugal and DIY-driven, they'd been amazed and thrilled at the neighborhood's embrace of their concept.

Now that I had a stool, I could order my own oysters and begin my philanthropic work for the evening. Those Ruby Salts weren't going to eat themselves, although I also wouldn't be averse to someone pouring them down my throat.

Once the sun set, things began to settle down within while I moved on to more Muscadet and my next course of pork belly confit with stone fruit mostarda, walnuts and Geuze (not that I'm a lambic drinker).

The small bowl belied the big flavors within - the salty, crispy pieces of pork belly balanced by the sweetness of the mostarda - making for a dish that read sort of like a highbrow and obscenely rich General Tso's.

Of course talk turned to restaurants since their market serves food and we hashed out which places deserve how much frequency. Of course, everyone draws this line in the sand in a different place. I know there are places I can go months without visiting while others draw me in more regularly.

Their top choices and mine had some overlap and some glaring differences, but I'm used to that. My taste, my preferences in general, rarely match other people's and I'm not just talking about food.

Looking around, it was obvious that I was the sole person in Metzger who'd come out to dinner solo. In all likelihood, I was probably the only person who'd come back from the river to eat bivalves from the river.

While the sun is bright
Or in the darkest night
No one knows
She comes and goes

For better or for worse, most of the time no one does know.