London’s Master Shucker Says We’ve Been Eating Oysters All Wrong

To most Londoners, an oyster is the card they use to touch in and out of the Tube. But there was a time when the city was almost paved not with gold, but with the shells of oysters, so common was the shellfish as food for the masses.

Not so much now. Oysters are a delicacy that come with a side serving of extravagance, luxury, aphrodisia, and ideally, a bottomless glass of grand cru, daahling.

This shift from ubiquitous source of nutrition to foodstuff of the elite has meant an evolution in the capital's oyster bars. And there's nowhere that says quality oysters like Bentley's Oyster Bar and Grill in St. James', a restaurant that began its days in 1916 humbly, selling oysters and fish and chips.

But things change and today, this genteel establishment is overseen by Michelin-starred chef patron Richard Corrigan.

"People come here but they're not coming for me," he says. "They're coming for Helio. He's the star."

Helio Garzon is a professional oyster shucker with 50 years of experience.

"Most places wouldn't hold with people just doing oysters and nothing else," says Corrigan. "But I wouldn't let a chef anywhere fucking near these oysters. Chefs have too many other things on their mind to give the oysters the concentration and focus they need. You need oyster barmen of this standard."

Garzon is modest about his work. Corrigan, however, extols it.

"The volume of oysters we've got coming in and out the whole time means you need people who are very dedicated," he says. "It's not just about opening oysters, but about a behaviour with the people across the counter that you can't teach."

Garzon himself shrugs: "It's very simple. See that little hole? You stick the knife in there, and then when it's about a quarter of an inch inside, you just flip it open. I let the knife go through, and there you go. It's perfect."

The entire action is a combination of a deft jimmying of the shell followed by a swift flick of the wrist that reminds me of the skill of a locksmith opening your front door when you get home and realise your keys are on the other side. Neat, tidy, simple.

"These guys know from look, feel, touch—from just opening the shell—whether an oyster is good or not. You won't see it because it'll be in the bin before you can. That's the art," says Corrigan.

Garzon continues: "We serve different oysters from different regions—England, Ireland, Scotland—which to most people look the same. But they're not the same. They're all from different waters and I can tell the difference."

He picks up two oysters and holds them out for me to compare. One is from Dorset, one is from Galway. He's right: to me, they both look like similarly gnarly, ridge-backed, sharp-edged, seaweed-coloured shells. But it turns out the Dorset bivalve is about 18 months old and the Galway one is closer to three years.

"These little shells attached to the oyster shows the amount of time they've been in the water," explains Garzon. "The Irish one is a little fatter at this time of year and has a more melon or cucumber taste, it's a little sweeter and there's more meat in the shell."

Now it's my turn to get my shuck on. Wisely, I've been given a safety knife to stop me from accidentally digging out the soft pad of flesh between my thumb and forefinger instead of the oyster. Garzon has a lovely scar to show for the first time he did that.

"You learn very quickly how not to do it again," he laughs.

Having watched him a few times, it looks simple enough. I gamely stick my knife into the shell and try to get it inside. It's not actually easy at all. I can barely get my knife in, and once I manage to force it in enough, it's rather stuck. Who shall pull this sword from the stone? I think to myself. Or this shucker from the rock oyster.

I begin to try and flick my wrist to prise the lid of the creature off. I confess: I'm no Crossfitter with mega upper body strength, but I can hold a plank for a while so I wouldn't say I'm weak. Still, trying to get the lid off an oyster, I could feel the effort in my biceps and was beginning to break into a sweat. I was about to give up when finally something gave, and with a satisfying crack, the mollusc opened. A perfect oyster. Garzon looked amused at how long it had taken me. He is able to open and prepare around 200 oysters an hour and even then, I think he's being humble.

"We do 12,000 oysters here a week between cooking, chopping, and eating them raw in the high season from September to February," says Corrigan.

"Before we open for customers, we have maybe 100 or 200 opened ready," adds Garzon. "You have to be quick because we oyster barmen the only ones who do it and if people come and order five dozen oysters they want them served in front of them ready so they can eat them and then head out."

My oyster finally shucked, the next challenge is to know how to eat it. Tabasco is traditional and it's on the countertop for those who want it, but Garzon steers me away from it.

"For me Tabasco sauce disguises the quality of the product," he says. "You need a little lemon juice and some black pepper. It's like balsamic vinegar and black pepper with strawberries, the acid and pepper help bring out the flavour of the oyster."

And do you open your gullet and let the salty flesh slide down your throat or are you allowed to bite? I ask. Garzon shakes his head. Neither apparently.

"Just press it with your tongue," he advises. "Don't bite. If you swallow it straight down and there's a bit of shell loose or anything's not happy with it, it's too late."

Though of course, you'd never get a bad oyster here.

"We're very lucky, because thanks to our oyster barmen we've not had one person ill," says Corrigan. "That's the key to this bar, the skill of these guys."

I take it as I'm told to: lemon and pepper, a slide onto my tongue, a gentle squeeze against the roof of my mouth, and there it is, for the briefest of moments, the cawing of gulls, the wind in my hair, and the salty-chill flavour of the Atlantic Ocean. It's no wonder Garzon has to be fast, this is a moment I'd want to revisit over and over again.