The Lobster Place. A fish shop so clean and unfishy and tempting that I would be happy to move in. I'd sleep on a little cot in the corner, well swaddled. It's chilly, in there. We were at the Chelsea Market, the cave-like series of food shops and kitchen stores beneath the Food Network empire on a long block of West 16th Street and 9th Avenue, to look for a new chopping board and espresso maker. On the way out, loaded with the former but not the latter, we wandered in here on a whim, and wandered out with a sackful of shaved ice and two bags of oysters, still tightly zipped. We rode back to Brooklyn with them on the subway.
I unzipped them at home. I nearly gave up with the first three. How on earth...? Then got the hang of it. Less brute force than leverage.
Oysters. You either do, or you don't.