Jack’s Oyster House was an Albany institution for over a hundred and ten years, frequented by governors, politicians and the great and the good. My parents took my brother and me there every Sunday after church and we always got the same warning: “Don’t fill up on rolls”. It was there, age five, I developed a taste for Shirley Temples, chopped chicken liver, shrimp cocktails, prime rib and parfaits. My father was indulgent, so one afternoon, my brother demanded a lobster from the murky tank and, when it arrived, the little boy screamed in terror. I still remember the looks on the faces of the bewildered patrons. To my young eyes, Jack’s seemed impossibly glamorous, what with starched tablecloths, finger bowls and waiters in white tunics. Our regular waiter did magic tricks with napkins involving limes secreted beneath the cloth; he created bunnies too. But one snowy Sunday, I witnessed a haunting interaction with a panhandler.
© 2024 John Oliver
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