Recently at a friend’s birthday dinner there was a foodie moment that could have triggered an existential crisis. “You know oysters,” she reminded me, sliding the menu in my direction. “Just order for the table.”
As a millennial straddling the fine line between seasoned foodie and trying-too-hard elder Gen Z adjacent, the pressure was on.
I can’t just throw out a random half-dozen and hope for the best. I have to curate an oyster experience that screams “I know my stuff,” while also avoiding the ultimate fear: being an imposter. I refuse to be a fake New England transplant or a fraud in the art of the bivalve — something my father would never have forgiven me for…