The Legend of Chicken Jack
A brief meeting, a lifelong lesson, and oysters
The Tiki Hut guest chef, Chicken Jack, shared his colorful life story with Phil Perkins and his wife. He also showed them the proper way to eat oysters. They’ve been eating his words ever since.
My wife Sandi and I are fortunate to have a second home on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Before we bought it, we had visited the beautiful island many times on vacation and occasionally stayed at a Holiday Inn in a tourist area called Coligny Beach. Adjacent to the hotel was a tiki hut called (go figure) “The Tiki Hut.” We wrapped up our days at the beach having a cold beverage there almost daily. This story is set nearly 40 years ago and, believe it or not, the bar is still there, having just been named the third best beach bar in the United States by USA Today. But I digress.
One evening the Tiki Hut was sponsoring an oyster roast. They had brought in an expert roaster for the evening who was advertised as one “Chicken Jack.” You had to wonder why they hired a guy with the word chicken in his name to roast their oysters, but I’m sure there was a story there. Chicken Jack looked every bit the wizened sea captain you might hope to be cooking up the traditional seafood specialty. At the time, we were in our 20s and we figured he was in his late 40s or even early 50s. But he wore every year of life on his face like a complex story waiting to be told. His gray stubble of a beard and shaggy salt and pepper hair completed the look and invited questions.
Truth be told, Sandi and I had never even tried oysters at that point in our lives. It never occurred to us even though we visited seafood restaurants with some frequency. Soon enough we tried a plate of roasted oysters and ended up enjoying them more than expected. Even though there was a small crowd around Jack, we decided to walk over and show some appreciation.
“The oysters are delicious!” I ventured as the crowd began to disperse.
“Thanks, but you’re doing it all wrong,” he replied in a gravelly voice right out of central casting.
“Excuse me?”
“You look like adventurous young people. The proper way to eat oysters is raw,” Chicken Jack said, showing no sign that he was kidding.
Sandi and I looked at each other in revulsion.
“I’m going to take a break in a few minutes. Go have a seat and I’ll come join you. If you buy me a beer, I’ll explain.”
Figuring we had nothing to lose but the cost of a beer we returned to our table. Before the oyster cook joined us, Sandi reminded me that raw oysters weren’t that unusual. After all, in her New England family she admitted they used to dig clams out of the sand and eat them live! Apparently a very common custom in that part of the country. Yuck!
Soon Jack ambled over and sat down. I bought a round for the table the man began virtually telling us the story of his life, or at least his professional life. It seems he was a trained chef. Michelin chef even. He traveled from resort to resort seasonally and ran the kitchens in some high-end restaurants and, “just for fun,” roasted oysters on the side. He said he really loved the smell of the ocean and didn’t mind a little girl-watching while he worked.
Finally, we got down to discussing the oysters. We admitted to him that the thought of eating the creatures raw was at best off-putting, but he assured us that once you tried the delicacy you would be hooked for life.
“Are you willing to at least try one or two?”
We looked at each other for a moment but finally agreed.
Jack returned to his cooking area and retrieved a few items from a cooler there. When he returned, he had a tin plate with six ice-cold raw oysters (at least appearing to be deceased) and two small cups of what turned out to be cocktail sauce and tartar sauce. There were also three small forks.
Without hesitation Jack took one of the forks, scooped up a tiny bit of cocktail sauce and put it on one of the oysters. He then picked up the oyster, put it to his lips and let the slimy little critter just slide into his mouth.
We both just sat there transfixed but soon heard Jack saying, “Your turn.”
We picked up our forks and slowly, very slowly mimicked his actions. I have to admit that when the shell touched my lips, I hesitated but then made good on the promise.
Suffice it to say (yep you guessed it) … we’ve been hooked ever since. We even have favorite variations: James River, of course (no, not kidding), Blue Point, Chesapeake, Long Island. But we go for a dozen raw at least once a week whether we are on the island or in Richmond.
But here’s the odd part of the story. We spent a bit more time talking with Chicken Jack that day but never saw him again. And I mean never. Since the advent of the internet, I’ve spent a good bit of time trying to locate him. Nada. It’s as if he never existed.
So, who knows if his story was true? Who knows if his name was really Chicken Jack? But whoever you are, if you’re still out there, CJ, thanks for teaching us how to eat oysters properly!
Your turn!
Read more like Phil Perkins’ beach memories and other contributions from Boomer readers in our
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