Oysters rockefeller entered my life when I was nine, at a restaurant in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The dish had been ordered for me, and it appeared on a plate with six round indentations, each holding a large half shell filled with a plump oyster embedded in spinach and covered with a layer of bacon-studded cream sauce. I adored the combination of velvety cream and salty oyster, the likes of which had never before passed my prepubescent lips. At home, when I told the kids at the playground that oysters rockefeller was my favorite food, none of them knew what I was talking about. And, apparently, neither did I.