Courage, Grease, and Missing Politicians

If a man wishes to learn the true character of Virginia City, he should attend its festivals. Parades will show you its pride, saloons will show you its honesty, and its cooking competitions will show you what it’s willing to eat when nobody is watching.

Virginia City proved this point again at the annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry, which is a celebration of Irish cheer, culinary bravery, and the long-standing Western tradition of frying anything that once had a pulse, particularly if it once belonged to a bull.

Now the name “Rocky Mountain oyster” has fooled many a tenderfoot into expecting seafood. The poor souls arrive thinking sessile bivalve mollusks, but get presented with something that once lived under a steer and had its ambitions abruptly canceled during calving season.

History shows that Americans have never been fond of wasting anything that can be battered and dropped in hot grease. Thus was born the Rocky Mountain oyster, a delicacy that began life as a ranching inconvenience and matured into a festival attraction.

This year, over a dozen cooks gathered in Virginia City to prove that, with enough imagination and seasoning, even a bull’s misfortune can become a prize-winning entrée. Crowds wandered the wooden sidewalks sampling the offerings, some with courage and others with expressions that suggested they had been tricked into it by friends they would no longer trust.

While the tasting went on, the St. Patrick’s Day parade marched through town around noon, followed by an all-day saloon crawl, an arrangement widely believed to improve both the courage of the tasters and the reputation of the oysters.

Of course, no Virginia City Oyster Fry would be complete without the famous egg rolls from the booth bearing the inspirational slogan: “Nut Up or Shut Up.”

The chefs maintain that anyone can enjoy the event with an open mind. It is likely true, though it helps considerably if one’s mouth is also open and one is not thinking too hard about ranching practices.

Curiously absent from the tasting tables were most of our local politicians, who are otherwise known for attending any event that includes a camera, a microphone, or free food. Yet when confronted with a platter of fried testicles, they vanished like snow in June.

It is a strange thing to witness. These are men and women who will confidently lecture a crowd, regulate a town, and promise to fix the future, but ask them to eat a single Rocky Mountain oyster, and their courage becomes a scarce commodity.

A pity, really.

For a town built on mining grit and frontier nerve, Virginia City still knows how to celebrate both. And if a man can’t muster the backbone to try a deep-fried bull’s misfortune once a year, he probably shouldn’t be trusted to run anything more complicated than a lemonade stand.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were on C Street, celebrating St. Patrick’s Day the proper Western way, watching the parade, raising a glass, telling each other lies about politicians, and proving that courage sometimes comes battered, salted, and served with dipping sauce.