MY FIRST GAZPACHO
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First thing I do every morning is walk outside to scrutinize my tomatoes. I’ve got four different varieties growing in galvanized tubs in a sunny spot at the back of the house. Each day the little green guys grow larger and now they’re almost ready for my favorite summer treat. Yaay!
I’ll never forget my first gazpacho.
In early July, 1963, Mom, my sister Robin and I walked down the gangplank of the U.S.S. Constitution after a week-long passage across the Atlantic from New York. “Back then” most people left for Europe on ocean liners, steaming down the Hudson River, then out to sea past the Statue of Liberty.
I remember sitting in those uncomfortable wooden deck chairs, sipping hot bullion in the brisk sea air, and watching an endless expanse of ocean. I recall another day having lunch in the First Class Dining Room when a woman walked in wearing big pink rollers in her hair. Mom whispered, “WHERE could she possibly be going?”
After docking at the Spanish port of Algeciras, we met our mustachio-d driver Mateo who tied our suitcases onto the top of a black Renault and held the back door open for us. “Are you hungry, Senoras? I know a spot for lunch.”
We sat at an umbrella-topped table at a sidewalk cantina, gazing at menus featuring “pescado” and “carne.” I asked Mateo, “What should I order?”
“Gazpacho!” he said. “It’s a cold soup and perfect for a hot afternoon like today.” Within minutes we were all ladling our spoons into a tangy red tomato broth topped with diced cucumbers, green peppers and bread crumbs. I’d never tasted anything like it.
That night at dinner, I again ordered gazpacho. In that restaurant, the tangy soup was a thick puree’d green broth sprinkled with minced parsley. To die for!
Two days later in Granada, we toured the Alhambra where limp red geraniums drooped in the hot dry air, and then ordered lunch at an open-air restaurant where I inhaled a white-broth gazpacho topped with shredded basil.
When we arrived in Seville, we stayed at the magnificent Alfonso XIII Hotel. Every morning as we left to tour the city, two young boys in white linen suits standing next to the wide entrance doors, bowed as we walked by. Each evening in the hotel dining room, I again ordered gazpacho. The Aflonso XIII’s version was pale yellow, laced with pulverized almonds, then drizzled with olive oil.
By the time Mateo dropped us at our Madrid hotel for our final days in Spain, I’d tasted eight different versions of the Spanish soup. The capital city added two more. At lunch near the Prado, my gazpacho was pale green, a brothy mixture of grapes and cucumbers. Another day I wanted to order seconds of a mango-orange gazpacho appetizer.
All too soon our Spanish sojourn came to an end. When we returned to the States, Mom and I combed her cookbooks for “gazpacho.” Nada! So from memory we created our signature recipe which I use to this day.
It’s a delicious combination of minced garlic, lemon juice, chopped tomatoes and cucumbers and onions, a hint of tabasco, a hefty shot of olive oil, lots of chives and parsley, all swimming in tomato juice.
Over the years I’ve fiddled with the flavor, sometimes adding red wine vinegar, V-8 or Clamato juice, maybe a heaping of horseradish, even sliced shallots. Here in Maine I typically add picked lobster.
My gazpacho is always delicious. But what I especially enjoy is the memory of being 20 years old, traveling through a wonderfully peaceful part of Europe when the dollar was so strong, and when my only worry, perhaps, was whether the restaurant we chose to dine in that day served my favorite soup.
