Oysters

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• February 5, 2026

In the before times (pre COVID), it was rather easy to find dollar oysters during happy hours. In fact, I had a list of places on my phone. Few things in this life bring me more satisfaction than reduced price drinks and dollar oysters. Yes, eating anything raw comes with a warning. But oysters are a packed with nutrients, like B12, zinc, iron, selenium— all things to are great for your heart, thyroid and immune system. Oysters are a super food.

“The Walrus and the Carpenter,” is a poem inside “Through the Looking Glass,” where a walrus comes across a nursery of oysters. He persuades them to follow him, promising shoes and other things. The young oysters follow, despite their mother’s warning and they are eaten. This poem is said to be a warning about politicians, or perhaps even religious figures, whose promises aren’t just empty, but dangerous.

Right on Lewers Street where I stay in Hawaii, there is a place called Oyster Hale by Crush. It’s owned by a male and female non romantic business duo originally from Japan. They are both in their 50s, I would guess, but my ability to guess ages has frequently been off. He is the chef. Like a small sushi den, there is a small bar area and few seats. It has, what I imagine, an authentic Japanese feel though I’m even less of an expert on what it’s like in Japan as I am at guessing people’s ages. He is tall and has glasses and speaks broken English. He has a curly black hair that is starting to grey in areas. It’s a great head of hair, actually. It’s rare you see curly hair on asians, and he wore it well.

The woman is petite. Smaller than me. She acts as the hostess/waitress and does most of the talking or translating. She told me she once used to live in New York as she used to be a model. Despite her wrinkles, it was obvious she was still quite beautiful. It wasn’t just her face that was attractive, she had a welcoming smile. She seemed like the type of person who could be happy doing almost anything. I admired those types of people. Too many people who relied on their looks for attention grew bitter as they aged, but this was not the case with this woman.

Naturally, the last time I was in Hawaii, I had gone to Oyster Hale more than once even though the oysters are not cheap. There is no such thing as a cheap oyster in Hawaii. I was told all the oysters you eat in Hawaii are imported from the west coast of America or Japan, so it makes sense that even finding an oyster for three dollars is a hell of a bargain.

They did not remember me, nor did I expect them too. But I raved, half drunk, about how they had the best oysters on the island, even though I had been to only about half the places that serve oysters. But I seriously doubt you’ll find a better oyster spot. They also have baked oysters, oyster soup, but the best oysters are raw or oyster shooters made with salmon roe. I’m salivating just thinking about it. Their sushi is also top tier. Hawaii has lots of great sushi because you’ll never have fresher fish than what is caught, cut up and served that day.

Anyway, this place is a dangerous place to be a block away from where I call home on Oahu. If ever I’m coming home and somewhat under the influence I was drawn to a night cap there like a crack head or horny man stopping at a brothel. This little oyster spot with these two Japanese characters was my brothel and served my crack. The Oyster Lovers special serves three chef choice oysters and three oyster shooters. The plum wine is what I order  to drink because it’s the cheapest drink on the menu. The lady asks me if I want it on ice or served with soda. I ask which is better. She thinks and goes, “do you like strong.” “Yes,” I said with the most confidence I’ve ever said anything. Chef smiles and nods, “she does strong,” he says, softly, and we all laugh. She tells me that this plum wine is only available in Japan and I’ve had plum wine plenty of times, but it was as delicious as anything I’ve ever had.

There was only one other couple in there and we all got to talking. Everyone laughs at whatever jokes I make, even the Chef, who I’m not sure really understood my jokes but that’s okay. I’m never this friendly in New York. Hawaii had a way of bringing out another side of me.

The next time I stop in was also not planned. I was simply walking home and the fiscal responsible side of me said, “walk right by, Lori, you don’t have money for this,” the drinking existential part of me said, “you never know if this place will even exist when you return to Hawaii, live your life! And give them all your money so they continue to exist.” America isn’t a true free country. There is no such thing. But it is a choose your own master country. And by god, I was a happy to be a slave to oysters and booze.

This time, they recognize me immediately like we’re very old friends. There is a small table of people and a lonesome black guy from Chicago at the bar, around my age, also obsessed with oysters. He was actually on an oyster crawl. I tell him he’ll find no better place. It’s turning into the oyster version of Cheers at Oyster Hale, as other regulars come and go. I’m introduced as a writer from New York. The duo that sat next to me started buying me drinks and since I’m a lush, I stayed even though I had plans to wake up early and surf. They were also Japanese. The woman was younger than myself and the hostess at a Omakase place that I was dying to try out (I’m obsessed with omakase sushi places) and the man who was older was the executive chef of multiple high end restaurants in Waikiki. They made a point to tell me they weren’t together romantically. Neither of them were great at English, but enough that we could converse. It was my impression that Japanese culture valued personal space. Though these two were touchy feely. Not in a way I felt violated, to be clear. After an hour, we were behaving like old chums with our arms around each other, laughing about things I’m certain a sober Lori would roll her eyes at.

It occurred to my drinking brain that maybe he was using her as bait to try to sleep with me. But then it also felt like maybe she was trying to sleep with me? I was always somewhat lousy at social clues, perhaps to the point of being on the spectrum. The girl and I swapped Instagram info and he gave me a card and they both said they wanted to “show me a good time.” They said they wanted any guests of Hawaii to have the best time possible. “My friends,” I said, “I surfed today, looked sea turtles in the eye, and now I’m eating oysters and drinking with you fine people, life doesn’t get better than this,” I swigged my drink and then quoted Roxy Music, “you know there’s nothing more than this.”

I believed it then, and I believe it now. Shucking oysters at the beach is peak life. It could only have been better if my mom was with me, or one of friends from home whom I missed. I drank for them too.

No, I did not sleep with anyone from Oyster Hale. Not the touchy feely Japanese people, nor the former model or Chef with great hair.  Sorry to disappoint any readers hoping for this story to get salacious, but sexual rendezvous are relatively rare when I travel. This is not because I’m a prude or morally adverse to what Erica Jong would call a “zipless fuck,” but my deep seeded trust issues kept me from being truly vulnerable or intimate. I relished in being a poetic mysterious surfer girl from New York, making people from all over the world question why I wasn’t married. As a younger woman, people questioned the men in the world. As a not so young woman, people were starting to question me. Personally, I thought it was wise to question everyone and the world, at the same time. Thinking this way will make you crazy. Though I tended to quite enjoy being an insane person, chasing highs in waves and oyster bars.

Oyster Hale is a pearl of a place. Pun intended. A man who I suspect was in love with me, and while a good man, the feelings were not mutual (such is the way, I never was in love with those in love with me, and those I fell in love with didn’t reciprocate either) gave me a black pearl necklace. A sweet gesture, but truly not my style (only my ex Craig got me the best piece of jewelry I’ve ever received and I still treasure it). I had brought the pearl necklace with me in case I needed some quick cash, I figured Hawaii would be a good place to pawn because there are pearl places all over. Hawaii is home of Pearl City after all. Given my addiction to oyster bars, of course I was running low on cash. So I went to several jewelers in hopes to sell the necklace. No one was interested. In fact, a pearl expert told me that the necklace was made from fresh water manufactured pearls in China and dyed to be “black pearls.” It wasn’t worthless, but wasn’t really worth anything either. It was the equivalent of a lab grown diamond.

Some days later, I found a small, empty tequila bottle. It wasn’t Patron, but it had the same type of shape. The pirate in me had an idea. Treasure obsessed, I decided to make a treasure. I put the necklace in the bottle and sunk it near a popular beach where people snorkel and paddle out to surf. Some day, someone will happen on this small bottle, filled with pearls. It was no trick, like the walrus in Carroll’s poem, only a treat. They’ll be so excited by the find, they’ll hardly care they aren’t ocean pearls. My unmarked treasure. A little gift for a strange goonie to uncover on a low tide. This is our secret, my dear reader. It’s a tale I won’t speak of again… until, perhaps, I’ve stumbled upon an oyster spot with a buzz enough to run my mouth off, confessing to fast made friends whom I’ll likely never see again.