Oysters. Bit like marmite. You either love'em or hate'em. But if you love them it's no ordinary love - it's an obsession. Since taking over posh chippy Geales, chef Gary Hollihead has made it his mission to find the finest bivalve available to man, which, in his mind, are the sweet and creamy Duchy of Cornwalls, served simply with merlot vinegar, shallots and lemon.

Just in season are French Prestige - get 'em while you can at Prunier & Caviar House - and good old Natives, which you could do worse than to feast on at Bentley's. The McManus Brothers - obviously taking a leaf from the Wright Brothers success at Borough Market - have recently set up a stall in Spitalfields devoted to the marvellous molluscs. And Carlo Spetale, owner of The Ebury, likes the slippery buggers so much he's just bought his own oyster farm in Devon and is serving a single Rock, opened at the table, with a guinness or champagne chaser as a complimentary appetiser.

Bedford & Strand swear by Walney Island oysters from Whitstable which are farmed using heat shock treatment - repeatedly changing the temperature of the water apparently makes the parent oysters more fertile - and of course Mr Blumenthal wouldn't think of serving up his without passionfruit jelly, horseradish and lavender.

Village East are going alla Americaine and deep-frying them in breadcrumbs - a bit like really superior chicken nuggets, with a soy dipping sauce - which works pretty well, but oysters will always bring out the purist in me and I like them as naked as the day they were born - or, rather, gobbled down my gullet.