Wild Atlantic Oysters is located in an old farmhouse on the grounds of Sligo Airport in Ireland. You actually have to cross the runway to get to it, and it's surrounded by open ocean and roughly chiseled hills. You might say it's one of the best places to have an oyster.
So, sitting on the end of a short, stony pier with half of a White Hag Irish Dry Stout, I work up the courage. See, the last time I had an oyster, it was covered in Tabasco and served up at a seafood buffet in central London. That oyster had traveled quite a ways to reach me. But this one was plucked from the sea just hours before, as fresh as the spray from the rising tide. I slip it back, relishing in the smooth, silky texture and textbook salinity.
Our host, a slight and soft-spoken farmer named Glenn Hunter, is telling our group that his oysters gain a smoky edge from the water that filters through peat rather than rock before reaching the estuary. As he drops knowledge, the four of us suck at shells, searching for that elusive peat in the salty finish.
