One week ago today I arrived in New York for my semi-annual visit to that city. As usual, my son, his partner, and I met for dinner at Grand Central Terminal’s Oyster Bar. It’s become a tradition every time I — a confirmed seafood lover — come to town, but you don’t have to like flaky fish or shellfish to appreciate this restaurant.
It’s the culinary jewel of the famous terminal, which was recently saved from demolition and then renovated with verve. There is a food court just outside the doors to the Oyster Bar, but anybody who knows anything about Grand Central simply walks past. The best is in the corner of the lower level, where it has held court like King Neptune for ninety years. The Oyster Bar is not cheap, but then quality never is. That, plus the fact that you’re dining in an historical context, whether it’s on the National Register of Historic Places or not, makes for a special experience regardless of the occasion.
Last week, we started with a variety of raw oysters, culled from a list of two dozen varieties or more. We left it up to our server to pick the best. Maybe she chose the most expensive, since she worked for the establishment and not for us, but what she chose were wonderful if you like oysters. If you don’t, this particular assortment was meant to change your mind. Then we moved on to entrees. I had monkfish, something that is near impossible to find where I live most of the year. It was cooked just enough, it was succulent, and it was generous of portion. My dinner partners had other fish, but both were satisfied with their choices.
It’s not just the food, however, that draws me to the Oyster Bar. My grandparents lived in New York for many years in the first half of the last century. For a couple years, I lived with them when I was a child. I don’t believe they ever brought me to the Oyster Bar, but for some reason this restaurant has become a symbol of those times and those memories. For that reason, may it never close.
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