Oysters come up out of the winter sea. Anamizu sits on an inlet of Noto, a quiet, sheltered bay where the waves stay low and the water runs thick with plankton, and in that calm the oysters fatten slowly through the cold. It is the slowness that does it; the shellfish take their time, and the time goes into the meat. In February the town holds its oyster festival. Grills are set over charcoal, the oysters laid on in their shells, and you wait for the steam to rise and the shell to crack open of its own accord, then tip the hot flesh straight into your mouth. The taste of the sea, concentrated. The colder the day, the sweeter the oyster—locals will tell you the best of them are eaten while snow is falling. This is also a coast that was struck by earthquake. The bay was damaged, the rafts where the oysters are raised were thrown into disorder, and for a while it was not clear the harvest would return. But the sea came back, and the oysters grew again, and people grill them and eat them once more—not as a triumph, just as the ordinary business of a Noto winter.