Oyster Bash
We drove to Munson's in San Francisco on Thursday night to avoid the weekend traffic and planned on taking in the oyster farm the following day. Michael was 14 and Marc was 10. They were unfamiliar with oysters and with what takes place when Munson gets out of bed. Friday morning provided them with their first exposure to Munson's daily ritual. My way of dealing with it had always been to go out for Danish and a newspaper. I had neglected to mention anything to my sons about this in advance. They witnessed the typical 90 minutes of loud and excessive groaning, coughing, hacking, snorting and retching that could only come from a life-long, self-obsessed hypochondriac. Once Munson conceded that he would in deed have another day on earth, we went off to the oyster farm.
The Johnson family operated their oyster farm in the Point Reyes National Seashore for more than 40 years until it was shut down by the government in 2014. It was over an hour drive from Munson's with the last few miles on a dirt road. You had the option to purchase oysters for sale in the parking area; or depending on the tide, venture out onto the mud flats surrounding Drakes Bay and pick your own. Wooden planks laid out across the mud allowed you to search for oysters without going in up to your knees. There was also a booth where a crew went about shucking oysters all day and gave pointers on the proper technique.
The long drive, the remote location and the undeniably freshest and cheapest oysters ever seen resulted in visitors buying way too much - we were no exception. It was 30 years ago so I do not remember the price or how many dozens we took away with us in a collection of plastic buckets, but it was definitely way too much. Despite the informal and funky look of the place, the Johnson Oyster Co. supplied an estimated 40% of the oysters consumed in California before it closed.
On our return to the city we stopped at the Tattoo Museum on Columbus Avenue and from there walked down to Washington Square to check out some sort of arts and crafts fair. It was at the fair that Munson bought a smudge stick complete with instructions. None of us had ever heard of such a thing before but it was purported to bring good luck so Munson had to have one for Saturday's big game.
Michael and Marc, having seen it 24 hours earlier, were slightly less awestruck Saturday morning when Munson thundered through another horrific routine. Then it was time for game-day preparations. Nothing short of his own death would cause Munson to miss a UCLA football game. That Saturday, September 10, 1988, UCLA was playing Nebraska who was ranked second best in the nation. It was the beginning of the season and hopes for UCLA's team were high as was usually the case in those days. Unfortunately, UCLA was coached by Terry Donahue who wasted little time each year in finding ways to squander great talent and crush any optimism.
Munson's regular game-day preparation included selecting a lucky set of clothes and a lucky spot from which to view the TV. The day promised to be a grim one for Munson and UCLA as Nebraska was fielding possibly its best team ever and was expected to win by at least 20 points. In recent years, Nebraska had beaten UCLA four straight times, never scoring less than 40 points, including the previous year.
Twenty minutes before the opening kickoff, Munson lit up the smudge stick. The tightly bunched sage branches began to smolder as Munson carried out the steps of the ceremonial rite. Following the written instructions, he positioned himself, waved the smudge stick, and spoke the sacred words to the east, west, north and south. The smudge stick, having filled the room with smoke and the smell of burning sage, was put aside at the close of the ceremony and we all sat down to watch the game.
From the very beginning the game resembled something out of the Twilight Zone. UCLA could do no wrong while Nebraska was hampered by Interceptions, fumbles, penalties and had a punt returned for a touchdown against them for the first time in 264 games. When the first quarter ended, UCLA led 28 to 0. It was as if an unseen force was orchestrating every action on the field. Nebraska players fell, turned the wrong way, missed tackles and blocks, or were out of position for no apparent reason. Munson began referring to the smudge stick as though it was the Holy Grail. The bizarre other-worldly series of events tailed off after halftime but the game had been decided in the first 10 minutes of play.
When the game ended it was time to celebrate. Munson carefully replaced the smudge stick in its packaging and put it away for another day and it was now time for oysters all around. The beer Munson and I had during the game and later while fixing dinner prevents me from being able to recall that evening in detail. I do remember the latter part of the afternoon being very festive. The post-game vibe was an altered state of mind. There was no rational explanation that could account for the freakish happening we had just seen and it now seemed as though anything was possible. Despite never before having cooked a single oyster, I nominated myself as head chef.
Once I had found a blender and a wok, I sent Munson out of the kitchen, opened another beer and went to work. I struggled through a process of trial and error to perfect the batter and find the proper temperature for the oil. Nothing less than an inebriated frenzy enabled me to eventually master the method and timing for dipping, dredging, submerging, rolling and retrieving the oysters from the hot oil. Mistakes along the way were hastily discarded. Although it took me a couple of dozen oysters to get things just right I had plenty left to make dinner. Two hours after I began there was enough fried oysters and pico de gallo for the UCLA football team.
Weeks later, Munson called to tell me that after we had left for home on Sunday morning, he had spent the day cleaning the pico de gallo, flour, batter and oil that covered most of the kitchen and had found several discarded oysters that were in plain sight. He explained that some unpleasant odors followed a week later which led him to expand his cleaning effort. He found more oysters both beneath and behind the stove, others lodged between the stove and the fridge, and another on top of the fridge. I told him that I was not the least bit surprised as there were far more discarded oysters than there were places to put them and I was under a great deal of pressure at the time.
He said he was pretty sure that he had located the last oyster earlier that day. It was plastered to the inside of the stainless hood above the stove. He said he was glad I had launched it there. If he hadn't been required to clean the hood who knows how long it would have taken him to notice the batter on the ceiling.