I am an indulge-er. I enjoy doing nothing in the most profound way. I like lolling around in bed way longer than is decent. I like shopping. I like eating. I like kissing. Nudge me and I’ll crack open a bottle of champagne for breakfast. It takes very little for me to walk into the front door of the middle school, announce that my son or daughter has a surprise doctor’s appointment, then whisk them away to an afternoon at the movies. Very little to get me to stay and drink coffee with you for hours. Very little to get me to nap, or sit in the sun, spend too much on shoes, or take a bath.
I indulge. Arrest me.
Indulgence is at its very finest at Swan’s Oyster Depot in San Francisco. I am nearly breathless as my husband and I decide to call in sick (like who would I call anyway?), make a U-ie off the highway, turn south past the Golden Gate Bridge toward the hole-in-the-wall-cum-oyster-palace on Polk Street.
Part of the indulgence is that the lunch line for Swan’s eighteen coveted seats is so damn long that you need to go either very early or very late to stand a chance. If you’ve ever experienced the heart-pumping effects of protein pounding dozens of oysters and chasing them down with a pint of beer or two all before 11:00 a.m., then you know what I mean. You start giggling like Sheryl Crow until the sun comes up on Santa Monica Boulevard. You’re drunk. You’re full. It’s still sunny.
Lunch at Swan’s (whatever time it occurs) means giving in to the desire to do nothing but celebrate the day. A dozen-and-a-half oysters. Six cherrystone clams. A sea urchin if they have it. A couple of Anchor Steams. Salmon sashimi if they’re mixing some up. Crab guts that only the Japanese customers (and I) eat. A couple of (top secret) tumblers of private stash tequila. Louie Salad.
And a few stolen kisses.
Take your boots off before you come in here!