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Merimbula
by Donna Demaio
Merimbula - Passionate foodie and occasional comic John Cleese recently turned up unannounced at Zanzibar Cafe on Merimbula’s Main Street...
With one solidly good meal under my everexpanding belt, the next day was dedicated to the oyster-hunt proper. An obvious start was Wheelers Oyster Farm where tour guide Matt Dick held my attention for an entire hour with witty insights into a fisherman’s life. He spoke of more efficient techniques leading to better economies for farmer and consumer, namely the timber sticks, on which oysters cement themselves and grow, are slowly being replaced by cheaper and more readily available plastic slats, while grand grading machines are replacing the human eye. The affable Matt wrapped up the tour, swiftly changed shirts and as head waiter at Wheelers Seafood Restaurant began taking lunch orders. Pan-seared prawns, salt and pepper calamari and a mountain of mussels soaked in chunky chilli tomato were all delicious. The oysters natural were also pretty darn good. But were they perfect?
Merimbula Lake boardwalk was my next stop where I lapped up long stretches of tranquillity. A casual stroll in the picturesque setting was as good as a relaxation massage. I was mesmerised by colourful tiny crabs scurrying along the lake’s edge at low tide. A lone fisherman entrusted me with some sacred local knowledge. He threw his line into the water, turned to me and uttered two words. I kicked off my thongs, dangled my feet over the edge of a rickety jetty and repeated the treasured words: Pambula Lake.
The next morning it took a handful of minutes to reach Pambula Lake, where oyster farmer Andy Baker was cleaning crusty shells just plucked from the water. The bad news was that the tiny shop at the lake is closed on Sundays. (Yes, it was Sunday). The good news was that Baker caught my look of desperation and began shucking his recent haul. “Do you mind the plastic plate?” he asked. Certainly not. “Do you mind there is no lemon?” Definitely not. A dozen oystersappeared in rapid succession and disappeared down my gullet. Each salty, delicious bi-valve mollusc squelched past my taste buds with ease. There was not even a drop of Tabasco in sight. Out of the blue, a buddy ran up to Baker shouting, “Your youngsters have tipped over.” Baker explained his oyster racks were in strife, so he rushed off to the rescue, apologising as he went.
I retired to my fancily appointed apartment. I had a swim. I read for a while. I even vaguely considered finding a tennis partner before opting to chill on the balcony. I lugged on a schooner at the Cantina Tapas Bar on Market Street where the octopus fritters and prawns in salsa were divine. But my thoughts returned to the oysters at Pambula Lake. The next morning I resolved to make a last stop before departing. I convinced myself it would be rude not to stop by and say, “See ya later and thanks” to Baker. I purchased three-dozen perfect oysters, which I duly shucked that same night, in my kitchen. As I reflected on pretty Merimbula and its surrounds, the words of my tour guide returned. “Not bad for a country town, huh?”