On a good night, Hollywood and his band of fellow shuckers open 1,000 oysters apiece, maybe a few more. Come New Year's Eve or Mardi Gras, the number reaches 2,000. But after all these years—and all those oysters—the mechanics are rote, the shell count unimportant.
Even among shuckers who consider themselves to be as good or better, Hollywood has earned a grudging respect. He's the shucker that other restaurant owners turn to when they're scouting for new talent. He's the man to call when you want to hire a crew for a private party. And this past fall, in concert with the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, he began teaching shucker certification classes at Nicholls State University, in nearby Thibodaux. Hollywood's coworkers were quick to dub the enterprise Shuck U, eliding the first syllable in a blatant effort to exploit the double entendre.
And now, the jive:
"When I was little, my mama used to tell me that I talked too much," says Thomas Stewart, the opener at Pascal's Manale, a 1913-vintage, Italian-Creole restaurant set on an Uptown side street. "She was right. I do like to talk. The thing is, I found a way to make a living at it."
Thomas works alone at a sloping, white marble bar in the front room, just inside the door. The wall behind him is plastered with black-and-white photographs of prizefighters. Above hang wagon-wheel chandeliers.
Twelve years into his tenure, Thomas has worked his way up from dishwasher to chief shucker. "When I started out, there was no one to show me how," he says, scooping a pail of cubed iced into the bar bin. "So I just snatched a few oysters and a butter knife and sat down on a slop bucket to teach myself. Now I'm the man. The "I-Pop-'Em-Until-You-Drop-'Em Man." A violent swivel and bump of the hips accent this last linguistic flourish.
If Hollywood is, at heart, a steely-eyed technician, then Thomas is his alter ego, with a style best described as an amalgam of the flamboyance of Little Richard and the zealotry of Ron Popeil. He is also handy with a knife. "I don't believe in serving chippies," says the 39-year-old. "No chipped shells. My hustle is my hands. Without a good set of hands, I'm nobody." But that's not what keeps his regulars coming back.
On a recent Friday night, as the cocktail hour gives way to dinner, the crowd at Pascal's Manale turns as thick and boisterous as a rugby scrum. Orders for oysters pour in, dozen upon dozen upon dozen. Just when Thomas is on the verge of losing it, he hits a groove. His knife work slows, his voice drops a register. And he goes skittering back and forth across the duckboards, trading jibes here, slinging shucked platters there. When he catches sight of a regular leaning in close, waving a ten-spot, Thomas stops dead in his tracks, tosses an imaginary cape across his shoulders, and leaps for the bill, calling out in his best imitation of Mighty Mouse, "Here I come to save the day!" His voice rings clarion, a basso profundo worthy of an opera star weaned on cartoons.
At a little before eight, a young couple walks in. The boy makes a beeline for the bar, but the girl hangs back. She looks anxious. The boy orders a dozen. "I got big ole good-uns and good ole big-uns," says Thomas. "Which you gonna have?" The girl cracks the barest of smiles and sidles up alongside her date. The boy introduces himself. "Howdy, chief," replies Thomas. "What's slappin', captain?" And then he attempts to answer his own question in a singsong rap: "Ain't nothing shakin' but the eggs and the bacon and the beans on the grill. Ain't nothing shakin' but the peas in the pot till the water get hot."
"Better make that two dozen," allows the boy. Thomas fishes the first oyster from the bin and plunges his knife in to the hilt. "If I can get 'em smiling," he says to no one in particular, "I can get 'em swallowing."
Acme Oyster House
724 Iberville Street
504-522-5973
Pascal's Manale
1838 Napoleon Avenue
504-895-4877
Chef's Secret
From Michael "Hollywood" Broadway: To be sure that an oyster is alive and well before it's shucked, tap the shell with an oyster knife—a hollow report means the creature inside is dead and should be discarded.
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