Fried Oyster’s at Cindy’s

by Helen Chappell

It was a brave man who ate the first oyster.

~ Dr. Samuel Johnson

At lunchtime on a weekday, Cindy’s Kitchen Restaurant is standing room only as hungry patrons jam the former corner store on Aireys Road east of Cambridge.

Hungry watermen, farmers, hunters and guides fill the busy place, and the biggest sound you’ll hear is that of men eating and talking man talk. Carhartt, denim and boots fill the place, whether at the counter or the dozen or so tables. Cindy Slacum Bayless, her daughters, Hanna, Danielle and Kayla, and the kitchen staff are hopping, trying to keep everyone fed. These are men and some women with appetites, and this is where they come.

People who look down on anything less than the four-star eateries of Easton wouldn’t be com -

Cindy's

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fortable here, but for someone who likes good fried oysters and men who work with their hands, this is home.

For an old hand at covering the waterfront, which is what I am, this is like home. I cut my journalist’s teeth living among and writing about people like this. Watching Cindy, serious and competent, move like a queen among her customers is great, and she's been at it for 22 years.

One of my lunch companions

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Cindy's

tells me Cindy used to own a place downtown near Maryland Avenue before she moved out here east of town. She’s got her regulars and her followers, and I can see why. She and her daughters have built a place where knowledgeable locals can grab a good meal at a reasonable price.

The fried oysters have just a bit of heat in the batter, an unexpected surprise that really pops. Likewise the kale, with just a bit of butter. This is good stuff. This is the stuff I have missed for years.

My experience with oysters goes back to my childhood, when my fa -

Cindy's

ther’s patients used to bring him cans of them, already shucked and ready to go.

Then we’d have oyster stew. It was traditional and very simple. Heat a cast iron skillet, add the oysters, wait until they curled at the edges, then add milk and butter and just a little salt and pepper. Just before it went on the boil, my mother would take it off the stove and dole it out into steaming bowls. At first, I just spooned in that broth, but later I started to really enjoy the texture of those oysters, soft and kind of chewy with a burst of fish and salt. Oyster stew is still on my menu on a couple of cold winter nights every year, but I’ve started to experiment with herbs and spices. I refuse to spoil my oysters by adding chopped onions and potatoes and making a chowder, but if that suits you, be my guest.

My mother would serve it with Old Trenton Oyster Crackers, a kind of commercially produced beaten biscuit that we cracked up by hand and scattered into the broth. If you look at the fish stores, you might still find Old Trentons.

Or, better yet, you can go down to Corner Market in Cambridge and buy yourself some real homemade beaten biscuits, which are the subject of another story for another time, an authentic Eastern Shore delicacy not to be missed. I was raised on Old Trentons, and I will clutch them as the hill I want to die on. Everyone needs something to bring back their childhood happy memories once in a while.

Back in the day, I had a friend who was a waterman on Tilghman.

Cindy's

ries. And I was a good listener. I could almost make myself invisible when leaning into the flatbed of a truck down at the cove with the guys while they talked guy talk and waterman talk.

The walls at Cindy’s are covered with signs like “There will be a $5 charge for Whining,” and “No Sniveling,” and “My kid beat up your Honor Student.”

And through him, I met other watermen who sort of treated me as a cross between their secretary and a mascot: a little more intelligent than a Lab, but able to take notes about their stories and write up their complaints to the fish cops or Annapolis or their lawyer or whatever. A journalist—I wasn’t quite a girl to them, which suited me just fine. In the hyper-macho world of Dogwood Cove, women stay home and take care of the kids.

“This is ma friend H’en,” the boys would say at Dodge City, a former bar now a trendy restaurant, when we’d had a couple. “She speaks French. Say sumpin in French, H’ln.”

It was as if they’d been waiting for someone to tell their sto -

In return, I got to have adventures not just on land, but out on the water. Crabbing in the summer, patent tonging in the winter. There’s just something about getting up at three a.m., getting to blast the horn so the bridge tender can open the jaws of the old counterweight at Knapp’s Narrows and dawn just cracking on the horizon as you head out into the Bay to do a day’s work.

The swells were about nine feet this one day we went patent tonging. It was the captain, the culler and me, and it was so bloody cold out there my eyelashes were frozen, but hey. You hang out with the boys, and you get oysters to take home.

The smell of the fuel and the sway of the patent dredge made it interesting, as I mostly had to avoid getting seasick or getting smashed in the head by the swinging rig, but when those first oysters spilled out on the culling

15.9

ST. MICHAELS o ering a combination of open elds, woodland and marsh. Cove and wetlands abound with waterfowl and other wildlife. SW exposure o ers spectacular sunsets. Owner was preparing to build: new driveway, underground utilities to building envelope. Perc approved for 4 BRs, plat on le. Room for outbuildings, pool, etc. Neavitt community is scheduled to have sewer within a few years. Public landing is nearby. Subdivision potential. $715,000

BLACKWATER LANDING One if the largest homes in this popular community. Located on a corner lot, across from dedicated open space, this was the original builder’s model and features many upgrades throughout. Generous living areas include living room, dining room, family room w/ gas fireplace, casual dining off kitchen, office/studio. 3 bedrooms with large primary suite, private deck, fenced yard and attached 2 car garage. $350,000 board and I learned how to shuck and eat an oyster right then and there, it was magic. That oyster was probably a standard, but it tasted so good and so salty I was thrilled.

I’m still not much of a shucker. I have the scars on my hand to prove my incompetence. But oh, I do love oysters.

The late Edwina Murphy, my adopted second mother, taught me how to cook them. My oyster fritters will never equal hers. She always said I had a heavy, heavy hand with pastry, but I will still order them at every fire hall and lodge supper that serves them. Some people make them with pancake batter. Some people make them with cornmeal mix. Doesn’t matter to me, I’ll eat them.

My aunt taught me how to make an oyster pie, which you don’t see much around these parts, but it’s popular around Philadelphia and New York. It’s saltine crackers, butter, a dash of red pepper and cream in a casserole dish. You can jazz it up, as my aunt did, with crabmeat and cheese and use it as a covered dish offering at a potluck. She never took home anything but an empty dish.

I’ll happily eat Oysters Rockefeller. Why not? As long as someone else makes them.

A friend was recently horrified to watch me and another friend shuck and eat raw oysters right over the sink. He was dead certain we were going to die that very night from some pollution disease, I forget which one. I figured we’d drunk enough vodka to kill any lingering bacteria, and I was lucky enough to be right. But the hangover from the Stoli made me wish I was dead the next day. I’d be a terrible alcoholic.

Now that the oyster season is closing, with the last of the R months, I’m going to get down to Cindy’s for my last half-dozen fried oysters before crabcake season starts.

Helen Chappell is the creator of the Sam and Hollis mystery series and the Oysterback stories, as well as The Chesapeake Book of the Dead . Under her pen names, Rebecca Baldwin and Caroline Brooks, she has published a number of historical novels.