“I’m a professional shucker”: Grace Jones’ unusual oyster addiction
The simplest things can often reveal the greatest insight into one’s character, and Grace Jones’ oyster game is no exception.
Now, one can’t expect any rules from the former ‘Disco Queen’ and new wave icon. Jones is a woman who does things her own way, at all times, from her choice of covers (twisting The Normal’s ‘Warm Leatherette’s’ synth snarl into a dub-funk groover is a bold move) to her strikingly androgynous impact on the fashion world, and taking a detour into becoming an unlikely action star in the likes of A View to a Kill and Conan the Destroyer, firmly charting her own course to fame with zero compromise to her subversive originality, which must surely also yield a healthy disregard for culinary etiquette.
Stuffy kitchen sticklers will lay out a tedious checklist for any foodie who fancies themselves as a shellfish connoisseur, chiefly to ensure oysters are only indulged in the months containing the letter ‘r’ to avoid the summer spawning season’s bacteria risks, check for a tightly closed shell, and to detect the correct pungency of ocean brine for optimum freshness.
To be fair, this is likely all solid advice; the saltwater bivalve mollusc is capable of meting out crippling levels of food poisoning if gobbled without care. Jones cares for oyster orthodoxy as much as she does convention in any regard, though.
The ‘Pull Up to the Bumper’ singer has set out her own custom when snacking on her favourite marine treat, reportedly maintaining a strict mix of white wine and eating as many as four dozen at a time, a number she makes clear to her rider. The humble oyster’s key allure, however, is the intimate process one’s forced to adopt when tackling raw.
“I love shucking my own oysters,” Jones exalted to the Canadian Globe and Mail in 2015, “I’m very good at it. I’m a professional shucker. There’s a pleasure in the ritual. What’s it going to look like when I open it? How much juice is going to be inside it? What sauce am I going to put on it? Or am I going to eat it with just lemon? Or is this one going to look like it doesn’t need anything? Or perhaps I’ll do a mixture of the mignonette and another sauce, or just lime or Tabasco?”
Sometimes, the journey’s better than the destination. As this writer can attest, on one fateful afternoon in Belfast’s St George’s Market, the novelty of holding that shell and admiring the strangely beckoning white gloop before knocking the pearly gunk back can be more trouble than is worth; the ill feeling of such salty snot sat curdling in the belly takes much of the afternoon to get over.
Still, Jones is made of sterner stuff. Whether the taste is its own reward, or she’s hooked on the purported aphrodisiac properties, Jones’ sense of euphoria from a good shuck is no faint praise for the brackish bite, especially when considering her other chases for potent, sensory overload.
“It makes me feel really good going through the ritual,” Jones furthered, “Some people shuck them, and they don’t look pretty. I believe they really have to look pretty when you open them. I like the high they give me. There’s nothing like an oyster high.”
