When being a locavore goes too far

The Hub and I ended a trip to Alaska by sampling beers at an alehouse in Anchorage – nothing but Alaskan-made beers, of course – where shorts-clad locals gleefully told us that the 68-degree day that we were experiencing was a heat wave.

We passed up the reindeer sausage nachos and pounced on a menu special: Alaskan oysters on the half shell.

We wondered if they’d be different from the North Carolina or Louisiana oysters we usually eat, and they were. The shells were beige and tan on the outside, along with being ridged and cupped. I know because I picked them up and examined them. Everyone in the place was watching soccer on the big screens and didn’t notice me staring at the bottom of an oyster shell with the intensity of a medical examiner.

The oysters themselves were as big as my two thumbs and practically sparkled against the white interior of the shell. Between slurps, Hub and I tried to agree on the right adjectives to describe their flavor.

“Briny?” I said.

“Yes, I’d say briny,” Hub said.

“But not salty. Salty is briny not in a good way,” I said.

Hub agreed. “A nice taste.”

“A clean flavor. Clean and briny,” I said. “But saying oysters are clean is kind of like the low bar, isn’t it?”

The baby-faced server who’d delivered the oysters stopped to see how we were doing. I asked the obvious question, the one thing that those of my ilk crave to know wherever we go: “Where did these oysters come from?”

He looked at me the way he must look at his parents when they ask, for the hundredth time, how to download a phone app.

Then he answered: “The ocean.”

He quickly walked away. Hub and I fell onto the table laughing. We were still howling when our entrees arrived: sesame salmon on greens and halibut fish and chips. (By the way, the person you think ordered the salad didn’t. Stop being sexist.)

Fresh salmon, fresh halibut – both of which we can only get frozen at home. I didn’t ask where they came from. I assume it was a body of water.

Our sassy server reminded me that it’s OK to just enjoy the food, no questions asked.

Before you cancel my CSA membership and revoke my locavore card for saying that, we all know the myriad of good reasons for eating food obtained as close to your house as possible, from economic to ecological ones. The biggest point that I make when talking about the issue is that locally produced vegetables, meats and fish are fresher and simply taste better. Flavor is always a winning argument.

I guess that sometimes, with all good intentions, I can sound a little pretentious. I’m fairly certain that I was the only person in that alehouse who was looking at the ridges on the bottom of oyster shells instead of European soccer. The oysters were so plump and moist, it was obvious that they had made a very short trip to our plate. Did I really need to know the original address?

I’ve encountered people immersed in the eat-local philosophy who have nearly become parodies, and it’s hard for me to resist a comedic skewer – or two or three. But creeping toward the extreme can make the movement seem elitist, and that serves no one.

I think it’s a good idea to remember that it’s all about food for everyone that tastes good.

However, I have some standards: Do not hand me a PBR and tell me it’s underappreciated. It’s alcoholic water in a can and I’ll stand by that opinion.

(Note to my accountant: Does this mean I can deduct the trip?)

This story was originally published August 2, 2016 at 10:21 AM with the headline "When being a locavore goes too far."