away the reason for the gathering. 

 Under the occasional umbrella, people 

 are clutching their favorites: cocktail 

 sauce, jars of hot peppers, saltines, 

 oven mitts, prized oyster knives. 



"Hi, I'm ..." says the politician, 

 the only one among us in a suit and 

 tie, when he comes to my place in 

 line. But I interrupt, "We're from 

 Wake County." With blinding speed, 

 the man withdraws the campaign card 

 he's handing me and deals it to the 

 woman behind us. 



"Just wait a minute. Are you a 

 Democrat or Republican?" she asks 

 briskly. 



"Republican," he replies. 



"Well, you can just keep that, 

 then." 



"I'm a Republican. I'll take it," 

 booms a man's voice farther back in 

 line, and a few people chuckle. It's 

 obvious these folks aren't too inter- 

 ested in any campaign rhetoric. Like 

 my friend and me, they've come for 

 one thing: Lockwoods Folly oysters, 

 smoked over barrels of burning 

 hickory, all you can eat for $12. This 

 annual gathering is nonpartisan. It's 

 integrated. It's ecumenical. There's 

 even room on the same table for Texas 

 Pete and Tabasco. 



I'd gotten the tip early in the 

 week from the other half of the family 

 oyster-appreciation network — the 

 man who taught me to relish sardines 

 with mustard, Spanish olives, hot dogs 

 with sauerkraut and, yes, even raw 

 oysters plucked right from the shell. 



"Insiders know this is the biggest 

 and best oyster roast around," Dad 

 said over the phone, reading from a 

 blurb in the Wilmington paper as if he 

 were issuing a call to arms. The 

 directions sounded deliciously 

 surreptitious. To get there required 

 many turns on back roads; the writer 

 provided landmarks such as junkyards. 

 Bring your own oyster knife and 

 dipping sauce, it read. This was the 

 real nitty-gritty. 



Dad wasn't sure he could make it 



there, so I needed a partner for the 

 trip. Unlike brownies, which I'm 

 perfectly content to consume alone by 

 the panful, oysters are meant to be 

 shared. And unfortunately, although 

 it's painful to disclose, my husband 

 understands the appeal of neither 

 oysters nor fried okra. 



I made a phone call to my friend 

 Tracy in Garner. A landlubber from 

 Wilson, he eagerly accepted the offer 

 to consume fine oysters in a traditional 

 setting. It's three hours, but it should 

 be worth it, I promised, reading him 

 the quirky directions. 



O n THE morning, we leave 

 Raleigh later than planned, without 

 sauce or butter, spilling coffee in the 

 car and turning around once to gather 

 a road map and some CDs. We aren't 

 prepared. We aren't worthy. 



As it turns out, even sauceless 

 amateurs are accommodated at 

 Varnamtown (also spelled Varnwm, 

 depending on which road sign or 

 tombstone you read). Under the tin- 

 roofed shelter, complimentary trays of 

 jalapenos and butter circulate among 

 the crowded tables. In a screened-in 

 area in back of the shelter, apron-clad 

 women drop dollops of cornbread 

 batter into vats of oil. The small, 

 round cakes are placed freely on the 

 tables in baskets at regular intervals. 

 Tracy and I walk timidly to the back 

 of the middle table. 



"What's the protocol here?" I ask, 

 pulling a buck knife with a 5-inch 

 blade from the pocket of my 

 sweatshirt (to clarify, I'm from a 

 family of oyster-eaters, not competent 

 shuckers). 



"The protocol?" says a tall man 

 beside a pile of spent shells, eyeing 

 me suspiciously. "The protocol is you 

 grab an oyster, open it and eat it." 



But getting to the oysters involves 

 wedging into a tight spot next to him 

 without appearing too pushy. He 

 doesn't seem to care, but he does look 

 a little worried about my knife. I take 

 a quick accounting of the well-dulled. 



short blades being wielded around me; 

 I feel like a sheepish Crocodile 

 Dundee. Once I open a couple of the 

 well-roasted oysters, I realize this is 

 like using a chainsaw to cut butter, as 

 I overheard someone say recently, and 

 a mortal wound may be close at hand. 

 The oysters are cooked well, and the 

 shells give little resistance; an 

 abandoned table knife nearby proves 

 tool enough for the job. 



I won't say we achieve a groove, 

 but Tracy and I eventually manage to 

 have more empty shells than closed 

 ones in front of us. Every 15 minutes 

 or so, two men in boots and rain 

 slickers dump a new heap of steaming 

 hot oysters in a central spot on the 

 table. Then the diners rake piles from 

 the middle of the table toward them 

 like cumbersome poker chips. The 

 oysters are perfect: small and well- 

 done but tender, deliciously briny with 

 a smoky flavor from the hickory fire. 

 Because of my lack of deftness or 

 neatness, each morsel I manage to 

 extract also wears a generous sprin- 

 kling of ash and other unidentified 

 organic material. 



"You have to like eating dirt," 

 interjects my neighbor. "That's what 

 the cornbread' s for — to flush out the 

 grit." 



There's also ice-cold cans of cola, 

 though I take the first swallow with 

 skepticism. Dad and I traditionally 

 take our oysters with beer and none of 

 that microbrewed stuff. You don't 

 want to overshadow the entree. But at 

 Dixon Chapel's roast, alcohol is 

 prohibited, and we honor this rule. It's 

 really the only thing that reminds us 

 we're at a church-sponsored function 

 (that and the lack of swearing, which 

 you'd really only hear if the oysters 

 were bad). Oh, and I do strike up a 

 conversation with a fellow in a 

 wheelchair who asks me where I am 

 from. When I answer, "Raleigh," he 

 replies in a sympathetic molasses- 

 thick voice: "That's OK. The Lord'll 

 forgive you anyway." 



Continued 



COASTWATCH 19 



