We had been talking about it all summer–digging our toes into the cold Santa Monica sand while listening to the echo of the bands strumming atop the pier. Every Wednesday we’d attempt to gather a group, and every Thursday the Santa Monica pier concert would pass, a reminder of summer’s fierce escape.
Finally on a recent Thursday evening, twelve of my closest friends and I made it out to the west side to attend the pier concert. We plotted a sandy spot near the water, close enough to smell the ocean brine; close enough to watch the neon lights of the Ferris wheel seemingly sync up with the rhythm of the music. Then we bundled up on a spread of blankets and unpacked our bags. Out came a round of camembert and wedges of manchego and brie. Sliced sopressata, chewy raisin crisps, and a lightly dressed Arabic salad. We uncorked a crisp French white and a delicate rosé, and as the sun sunk into the horizon, those bottles gave way to heartier Pinots and Cabernets.
It was my childhood friend, Matt, however, that made the most delightful contribution to our spread. He arrived with fresh handfuls of buffalo mozzarella, Cherokee purple heirloom tomatoes, and sliced Italian prosciutto di parma, shaved into paper-thin gossamer sheets. When he pulled out a loaf of freshly baked Italian white bread, which he cut himself, and a head of butter lettuce, he began assembling a sandwich. “Just throw all of this on the bread and pour this over it,” he instructed while passing me bottles of sun-dried infused olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. I forgot all about the evening’s entertainment once I bit into that sandwich–the gamey salt of the prosciutto against the creaminess of mozzarella, elevated by the juicy heirloom tomatoes and finishing with the vinegar snap. It was the perfect gourmet picnic item. Market fresh, portable, and substantial.
Then Matt handed me a tub of white Japanese rice, sheets of “nori” seaweed, and a container of Hawaiian “poke,” chunks of ahi, sliced white and green onions, dressed in a garlic chili soy sauce. “Make yourself a sushi roll,” Matt suggested. So I did. I held the strip of seaweed in my hand and topped it with rice and a spoonful of poke. Then I rolled it into a fat cigar and devoured it.
What I love so much about summer in LA is the infinite opportunity to picnic: the pier concerts, the cemetery screenings, the Hollywood Bowl, the Greek, and the evening Farmers Markets, just to name a few. And being in a city like LA, we have easy access to quality ingredients, such as locally-sourced charcuterie, heirloom everything, and some of the finest and most pungent cheeses ever made. Summer picnics grant us the chance to get out of the sweltering heat of the kitchen and get creative with outdoor meals. We have the rest of the year to sit at a dinner table, but summer? Summer is for feeling the earth beneath your feet as you build sandwiches and share them with friends.
I was in the middle of these pleasant musings when an ex of mine wandered by our group. It must have been the summer bliss, because I instinctively shouted his name and waved cheerfully. He stopped in his tracks, slightly jarred. I jogged over and hugged him.
“I’m sorry I kind of disappeared,” he frowned.
“Don’t worry about it,” I smiled. “I kind of disappeared too.”
“Everything good?” he asked.
I looked over at my friends. They were laughing, pouring wine, pointing out constellations, and rolling poke sushi. One of them caught my eye and smiled.
“Everything is great,” I replied. And I meant it.
Filed under: Love Grub Recipes
