Po’ boy virgin no longer

How did I manage to live three and half decades without eating a po’ boy? This I ask myself, after having one of the great sandwiches of my life, the fried oyster po’ boy at Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station. For a mere $8.25, you get huge, succulent fried oysters with shredded lettuce on a hollowed out baguette, slathered in tartar sauce. I squeezed some fresh lemon juice over innards and set to. The oysters were insanely tender – you could nip them in two with your front teeth – hot and very juicy. Each time I bit into the sandwich, a rivulet of oyster and tartar sauce would flow from the other end of the fresh baguette, forcing me to suck my fingers and mop my lips in an unseemly way. Did I mention that I was doing my wolfing underground, in the crowded Bryant Park subway station? I’m normally not a proponent of eating on the subway, and I’m sure I didn’t win any new friends with my animalistic chomping (like a lion savaging a fresh kill) , but there was NO way that I was waiting to get home to eat that bad boy. I was so blissed out after my meal, I didn’t even react to the hare krishna who made a snide comment after I ignored his attempts to engage me in a discussion about “Indian philosophy.” My own private nirvana trumped whatever he was selling.