“Hey there, where do these clams come from?” I asked the extraordinarily deft shucker at a Coney Island food stall. “Right here.” he replied. His grey bushy moustache barely moved as he spoke, while his hands continued with graceful and swift motion.

In each smooth gesture he took a clam from the pile of crushed ice, opened it with the knife, glided the blade underneath its flesh separating the meat from the shell, then placed an entire clam, one after another, on a plastic plate. I looked over to the ocean on my left and silently questioned its cleanliness. “Do you know Brooklyn?” he asked. “Born and live here.” I replied without hiding my pride. “They come from Gowanus actually.”– Anyone who knows anything about Brooklyn knows the waters of Gowanus are as toxic as they come. I looked at him with my best, “I don’t believe you” expression. “No, they’re shipped fresh from Rhode Island,” he conceded with a visible smile.

“You’re a master at shucking these clams.” I continued. “My two cousins are neurosurgeons.” he replied. His hands never stopped moving. “Well, dexterity runs in your blood. If you ever get tired of this, you can always join them.” I said. “Yeah, I’ll just need to go to medical school.”

We chatted about Coney Island. He spoke of the must-sees, never diverting his attention from his work. But I had taken enough of his time and wished him well. “Next time, give the clams a try. They’re really delicious.”

I have no doubt I will, and they are.