Consider the Oyster Bar

You could, in theory, have a full meal at Zig Zag. There are a few sizable plates, most notably a half chicken. The kitchen’s electrical oven roasts them during the daytime; they’re then chilled and served cold, with hot sauce, a ramekin of mayonnaise, and a pile of pickle spears. This is a dish that is perhaps too clever for its own good: eating it is satisfying, in a desultory, picking-at-leftovers kind of way, but that’s not generally the feeling I’m hoping to summon when I’ve put an effort into actually leaving the house. More pleasing—even more so, I’ll bet, once the swampy summer weather starts to break—is a dish of boiled potatoes swimming in a horseradish vinaigrette, which pairs unexpectedly well with a platter of country-ham slivers and whisper-thin mortadella ribbons. But, on the whole, Zig Zag is a place for concerted tasting more than chowing down: the nibbled crab-dipped cracker, the picky-bits pleasure of a forkful of lentil salad or a daily special of oil-poached tuna with summer tomatoes. This is oyster eating, even if you’re not eating oysters.

The best accessories to oyster eating are those that amplify the bivalve’s puckery, oceanic qualities rather than counterbalancing them. Condiments should be sharp—a savory jolt of mignonette or vinegary hot sauce, an austere spritz of lemon—and the same goes for drinks. I suppose this is a large part of why oysters are indelibly attached to the Martini, to the point of cliché; loving oysters and Martinis is as inevitable as loving cake and ice cream, or a slice of pizza and an ice-cold Coke. Zig Zag offers a tight, crisp Martini, gin-based, with a splash of orange bitters, but I’m drawn to some of the list’s less predictable companions to a dozen on the half shell: a spicy Bloody Mary, say, or the Citrus, a non-alcoholic take on a Daiquiri that’s tart and bracing.

So how are the oysters? That’s the thing. For all their infinite variation—kelpy and ferric Wellfleets, pearly Moonstones, saline Glidden Points, melon-sweet Beausoleils, brawny Malpeques, a thousand more—an oyster is really a binary proposition: it’s good or, God help us, it isn’t. The offerings of any decent oyster shucker will change according to the seasons and the tides and the shoals and the shipping lines and the harbor freight and the rush-hour traffic on the interstate. It’s whatever seems best and is best at hand, so there’s rarely any point in walking through the door with a plan. Zig Zag, tidy and efficient, offers just a couple of options at a time. Just show up, and trust them. ♦