RALEIGH, N.C. — You can't roast oysters without one piece of essential equipment: a pint of beer.

RALEIGH, N.C. — You can't roast oysters without one piece of essential equipment: a pint of beer.

That's the first lesson I learned from award-winning cookbook authors Matt and Ted Lee, who let me persuade them to show me how to throw an oyster roast.

Oyster roasts are a culinary tradition in South Carolina's Lowcountry, where the Lee brothers grew up. The Lees were in town on a recent swing through North Carolina promoting their latest cookbook, "The Lee Bros. Charleston Kitchen."

Before they arrived, they gave strict instructions about everything to have on hand to ensure a successful roast: a stack of firewood, four cinder blocks, a 4-by-6-foot sheet of steel, a shovel, burlap sacks soaking in water, a bushel of oysters, and, of course, plenty of beer to drink.

And so, on a recent Thursday in March, the Lee brothers, a few friends and I, each with a pint of beer, gathered under a large maple tree in my backyard. The brothers scoped out a flat place in the grass. Matt stood the cinder blocks upright, creating a rectangle on which to lay the sheet of metal.

Once the metal was laid on top of the bricks, Ted asked, "Is it level?"

Matt poured some beer out of his pint glass onto the metal sheet. The golden ale pooled in the center. Matt declared: "It's pretty darn level."

When it comes to oyster roasts, the brothers speak from experience. In the high season from October to March, they said, they might get invited to an oyster roast a week for any occasion, including birthdays, sporting events and pre-wedding celebrations. A Thursday night oyster roast has become a traditional preamble to a Saturday wedding among Charleston couples.

But roasting oysters dates much farther back, as the brothers learned while researching their new cookbook. Mounds of oyster shells dating to prehistoric times have been found on Edisto Island, south of Charleston.

"The oyster roast is the one thing that ties together the pre-European settlers to the tourists," Matt said. "The thing we like to remind ourselves is: It really hasn't changed at all for thousands of years."

And really, Ted said, not much has changed in the modern era. At most, all that is required is four cinder blocks and a sheet of metal.

In my backyard, a fire was soon lit. Using a hose, Matt rinsed the mud off the oysters.

"This separates a bad oyster roast from a good one," Ted explained.

"Let's see how hot our griddle is," Matt said before spraying it with water. The droplets bounced and hissed as steam rose from the surface.

A shovel-full of oysters was laid out on the hot metal. The mollusks were covered with a wet burlap sack. Within five minutes, Matt removed the burlap and shoveled the first batch of steamed oysters onto a nearby table covered with newspaper. Soon all that could be heard was the popping of shells and the slurping of oysters. The brothers declared the first batch a tad overdone. The next batch came out right: just barely cooked.

"Practice makes perfect," Matt said.

Twelve dozen oysters later, Matt wrestled with a large oyster that refused to open. He had put the oyster back on the fire several times to see if it would open on its own. "I'm not letting this oyster beat me," Matt said.

Finally, the shell popped and Matt savored his last oyster: "It wasn't the very best of the day but it still felt good to be the victor."

Among the many lessons I learned that afternoon was this: Roasting oysters isn't an exact science.

It may take several attempts to perfectly roast an oyster or to pry a stubborn one from its shell. Even an overdone or troublesome oyster can't ruin a spring afternoon spent outside with friends under a maple tree with the smell of wood smoke all around and a pint of beer in your hand.