European Travel & Life, March 1990

Letter from Galway
by Jonathan Futrell

According to my dear friend who is a dab hand at collecting useless gems of society gossip, "Anyone who is anyone in Ireland will be at the Oyster Festival Dinner." It is an intriguing thought: the hoi polloi of Gaelic oysterfolk. But my dinner jacket will have to wait until tomorrow night for that pleasure because today I'm leaving Galway city for another oyster capital, Clarinbridge, some twelve miles south.......

....This tiny village is in fact the home of the original oyster festival, which got started in 1961. As the festival's popularity and notoriety grew and spread beyond Ireland to the Continent and America, Galway City decided that an oyster festival would be just the thing for its 1984 quincentennial, and has hosted its own ever since. Though the Clarinbridge folk claim that theirs is still the more popular of the two, there is no ill feeling, no competition. It is just another excuse, as if they needed one, to have a parade, sink a few beers, and down some more oysters. Judging from the photographs it was good crack.

The most famous bar in this region is Moran's Oyster Cottage, on the estuary a short drive from Paddy Burke's. Six generations of Morans have worked and lived on these premises, "and if I have my way," crackles Willie Moran, "there'll be a seventh, too." Willie is a former world oyster-opening champion, but it's his barman, Vincent Graham, who'll be representing Moran's and Ireland in tomorrow night's championships in Galway.

Willie tells me that in the early part of this century, before the advent of lorries, peat boats from Connemara unloaded at his quayside. In those days, what are now the bar's snug rooms were the Moran family bedrooms. All the original tiny bar had to offer was bottled beer, port and whiskey.

With the advent of lorries, the peat barges stopped coming and the two other bars on the quayside subsequently closed down. Moran's would have closed, too, short of trade and needing a license from Guinness to stock its brew, but for a munificent twist of fate. Some years earlier Willie's father Michael had given a hungry young man a whole fresh salmon. This man turned out to be a representative from the Guinness brewery, who repaid that kindness by providing a barrel of the precious black mild to keep the Moran family in business and help to set up a new, improved, and bigger bar.

I slip inside Willie's Toyota and test its suspension on the bumpy ride to the beach, overlooking the 700 acres of Galway oyster beds, where he keeps his tasty bivalves submerged and fresh for the table. Willie is wearing his waders, and with one foot in the brine and the other in a bed of oysters he breaks one open, carefully frees the soft light brown flesh from the shell and slips the contents into his mouth. "I love 'em," he says with a smile, and tosses the empty shell over his left shoulder. He passes me the next, direct from the sea. It is delicious, saline, and bittersweet. If I am called now I consider my life has been worthwhile.

Back in Galway City the next evening, the festival is shaping up to be all my social friend had promised and more. The pennants are flying and young boys in blue and gray uniforms are collecting for a brass band. The mayor and civic dignitaries from all over Ireland, and some from Boston and New York, assemble to officially open the weekend. There is a group of young Swedes with dazzling blond hair sporting their official oyster-opening team colours, and a party of drunken Englishmen with ruddy faces, "Get 'em in, get 'em in, get 'em in."

The first indication I have that this Saturday is to be different from any other in Galway is a 12-foot-high papier-mâché teapot, staggering as if intoxicated with a brew stronger than infused leaves at the westerly end of Eyre Square. Nobody else seems to notice. The bystanders are more interested in the smartly turned-out folk with chains of office and fancy hairdos gathering outside the Great Southern Hotel. There is a coach and horses, a red carpet, and a fleet of expensive cars.....

......There are oysters everywhere. I tear off the appropriate portion of my ticket and receive a paper plate with six on it. I polish these off and head back for another six. This is not greed, it's lust - and my entitlement. There is seafood chowder, too, and a platter with salmon and crab, and Irish coffee for afters.

The oyster-opening contest is far from frenzied, but it is as close as anything the Irish could ever organise to being hectic. The Swede is tall and blond, the German pugnacious, the Frenchman is elegant, the Swiss a barrel under a funny hat, the young American well-groomed and steely-eyed, the English entrant a swarthy Spaniard, and finally, for Ireland, the quietly confident Irish contender Vincent Graham. Willie Moran is there, too, cheering his boy on. While we await the judge's decision, Vince tells me he is pleased: "Not one breakage, it looks good."

Trays of Guinness are ferried to the judges to lubricate their assessments and help the old oyster codgers cogitate. To keep the pace alive, other awards are given. Mrs. Deirdre Kelly, "very beautifully garbed" in a twin-set with gilt filigree work, is the "most elegant lady." All around me the peahens in their festival finery pinch their cheeks and narrow their eyes at the result. I think Mrs. Kelly is a good choice, and she carries her mantle well.

I knew from the expression on Willie Moran's face that his boy has won. The young Swede has cut himself in his haste and is covered in blood, and the American from Captain Curt's Oyster Bar in Sarasota, Florida, is impassive at finishing second, but the usually imperturbable and composed Vincent Graham is liable to have a seizure at any moment: His eyeballs are on stalks and his face is perspiring with joy. I take my turn to shake his hand and duck the amateur video cameras swooping in to record this momentous occasion for posterity.

You could not buy a black bow tie in Galway for love nor money this weekend. I think I bought the last, and I was especially pleased with the way my other half tied it. I need to look my best for "anyone who is anyone in Ireland." Not that they stand on ceremony in Galway for long. After the champagne, cocktails, all pretense of decorum is discarded. The Friendship Band from Northern Ireland is pumping out the favourites, and within minutes of being in the cavernous dining room of the Great Southern Hotel for the final banquet, we are standing on our chairs, waving our serviettes and clinking our glasses with teaspoons. Everyone has eaten enough oysters to keep their libidos fueled until next September, so we dine upon steak instead.

Meanwhile, deep beneath the waves of Galway Bay, millions of oysters rest easy and prepare themselves for another party, another year.

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