There’s something delicate yet grotesque about an oyster. There’s a hint of dare involved, too. If someone refuses, I judge them. If someone suggests only half a dozen rather than the full dozen between a group at lunch, they too will be judged. As with all good things we consume in this world, it’s a fight for who's at the top - pleasure or status? Complex and unique, raw and glamorous, seasonal and location dependent. A moment to be shared, to be quickly devoured and to almost forget it ever happened, the proof only in the remaining shell and the salt on your lips. Delicate to the palette, brutally schucked to enable the flesh to touch your tongue. A symbol of acquired taste, of eating for the activity rather than the fuel, of decadence and adventure. Of telling someone wordlessly that you indulge in seawater when served correctly. Celebratory, indulgent, slightly sexual and a little dangerous. When a rogue oyster is offered at a market or on the streets of Istanbul, is the risk of a night spent head buried in the porcelain throne worth the reward of a quick slug? (Full story in Visa Issues) Usually, the answer is no, but today it is yes. Today, I tell you to lose yourself in pleasure, in wetness, in a fresh appetiser that will not satiate hunger, but it will position you into your higher self. ‘Tis the season of overindulgence, of course.