Oysters round two.
There’s something quietly satisfying about a table that doesn’t ask much of you. A wide metal tray mounded with ice, shells cradled open like small tides held still, a lemon wedge waiting off to the side. A little bowl of pink salt in the center like punctuation.
We went back for another round in Seattle, and it felt less like “going out” and more like settling into a moment. The kind where you stop scanning the room and start listening—to the scrape of a fork, the low murmur of conversation, the way cold air clings to a fresh shuck.
Each oyster tasted slightly different, as if the water can’t help but tell a story in variations: briny, sweet, clean, metallic in a way that somehow works. The ice kept everything sharp and bright. The wine didn’t try to steal the show; it just kept pace.
Round two is rarely about hunger. It’s about leaning into what’s already good—repeating a small pleasure until it becomes a memory you can return to later. For a little while, the day narrowed down to shells, salt, and that first cold bite.
