On a recent Friday in San Francisco I consumed 18 oysters and half of a Dungeness crab for breakfast. I enjoy oysters but don’t crave them, and I think it might be that I like the cities and restaurants where oysters are served as much as the mollusks themselves. In this case I was at Swan Oyster Depot, which is little more than an 18-seat marble counter behind which six or eight energetic, fish-focused men slice salmon, assemble seafood salads, crack crab and shuck oysters. The same guy will do all that and then serve you. Despite Swan’s gritty appearance they have a sophisticated little wine list, and to a man they know how to pronounce “Muscadet.”

Swan opens at 8; I arrived around 8:15 to find only a couple of stools vacant. If you get there much later there will be a line—there were a couple dozen people waiting when I left at 9:30—and if you arrive after noon, there’s a good chance you won’t make it in before they close at 2.

As I slurped my oysters, which came from Tomales Bay, an hour north of San Francisco, I remembered the first ones I ever ate. It was the fall of 1970 in San Antonio. I was nine.

The Kangaroo Court restaurant sat a couple of blocks from the Alamo and below street level, on the so-called River Walk. My parents and brother, and my grandparents in from Houston, sat outdoors.

This was a lunch of firsts. I’d never heard of gazpacho but ordered it, possibly believing I was getting something akin to Campbell’s Cream of Tomato soup. It certainly wasn’t that but I liked it.

And then came Oysters Mornay. I knew very little about oysters but when I heard that Oysters Mornay involved cheese sauce I was sold. I probably would have been happy with a wadded-up paper towel in cheese sauce. And the oysters didn’t disappoint, but maybe it was just as well for that first ride that I could taste more cheese than oyster. And what do you know, a pearl! In the very first one! It was barely bigger than a BB but everyone expressed delight for me nonetheless. These days I’d be more worried about breaking a tooth than happy to find the pearl.

It was a great gift my folks gave me—letting me be adventurous when it came to restaurant menus—though maybe Mama’s dislike of, and lack of talent for, cooking contributed to their generosity. Mama didn’t much care what I ate as long as she didn’t have to cook it, and Daddy was happy not to be eating Mama’s food. He probably suspected that I shared his sentiment.

The meal wasn’t over, as I was allowed a piece of New York-style cheesecake. I enjoyed some familiarity by then with the plain Sara Lee version but I didn’t know what “New York-style” meant; the exotic sound must have drawn me in. This luscious wedge of magnificence came smothered in strawberries, and I was hooked. A fine repast indeed.

Over the years I’ve consumed raw oysters in several states and countries. In Paris it’s not uncommon for a restaurant to offer 20 varieties and sizes. In Louisiana, where I spend a lot of time, there are oysters, oysters everywhere, from plump, just-off-the-dock raw ones the size of a baby’s shoe to the fancified baked ones. I had the Oysters Rockefeller at Antoine’s in 1972 and remember liking them. Be sure to check your teeth after you eat Oysters Rockefeller is what I always say.

I hesitate over raw Gulf oysters, having read a bit about a pesky warm-water parasite called Vibrio vulnificus, who can kill you if he has a mind to. With around a dozen deaths from the critter so far this year on the Gulf Coast (none in the western U.S.), the risk is there.

What I will have on the Gulf is another Louisiana specialty: chargrilled oysters. You put oysters-on-the-halfshell on a hot grill, spoon over them some butter, garlic, herbs and parmesan or romano cheese, and let the flames begin. At once meaty, juicy, briny, buttery and smoky, that’s about all I can ask for.

Chargrilled oysters appear on menus across Louisiana and they rarely disappoint. But at one restaurant the memory of which I’ve tried to suppress, they used mozzarella on top and the result was a blasphemous mess. My favorite place for these delicious gems is Harbor Seafood, in Kenner, La., only minutes from the New Orleans airport. I arrange travel in or out of the airport to give myself time for a Harbor visit. Except for the fishnets draped artfully behind the bar, Harbor could easily pass for a middling Mexican or Chinese restaurant, or the kind of place whose neon sign on the front flashes “Best Steaks in Town.” Décor is not Harbor’s strong suit but the food makes up.

Within just the past several days I found myself yet again in San Francisco, where I managed to down more oysters.

First, at Zuni Cafe, came some Humboldt Bay Kumamotos. The freshly grated horseradish was an elegant touch. At lunch the next day, at the seafood bar at Hog Island Oyster Company in the Ferry Building, I gobbled a dozen goodies from Tomales Bay.

I don’t like fried oysters, oyster stew or oyster stuffing, and definitely not the little smoked ones in the flat cans. I have a jar of oyster sauce in my refrigerator.