I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a huge fan of seafood. Unless it’s battered, fried, and served in a basket with hush puppies, coleslaw, and French fries, you typically won’t find it on my plate. And I wouldn’t call myself a picky eater either. I’m no Andrew Zimmern, but I’m game to try most things at least once (I draw the line at reptiles, insects, and arachnids). As for less exotic fare, let’s just say I’m a little squeamish about eating mollusks: clams, oysters, mussels, snails, octopus, squid. You get the picture. If it lives in a shell or has tentacles, I’m usually out. Oysters were no exception. Until New Orleans.