Tasting Tomatoes

Earlier this week, my beloved and I celebrated our anniversary. It was a lovely, lazy day. We took the day off—really off. We left our phones and computers behind and went for a long walk in the park, lunched at a lovely little French bistro and then settled in a sweet corner booth in San Francisco's Aqua for dinner. It was the last evening of Aqua's summer tasting menu ... 7 courses of tomatoes. By the time I'd read the menu's 2nd course, the Black Prince Tomato & Yellow Doll Watermelon Tartare with Dungeness Crab and Red Shiso, my decision was made. I'd rather have tomatoes, perfectly ripe just-picked tomatoes, than almost anything. I could eat platters-full of them.

Not so very long ago, I lived in Texas, and summer's tomatoes were inevitably grainy and hard. The summer sear is just too much for them. Poor things, they were picked too early and had to spend hours, days moving from vine to market. They could never ripen properly. Texas has spring and fall tomato seasons. But here, in the Bay Area … oh my, summer’s tomatoes begin in late May and delight us though the fall. They are simply sublime, aren’t they? Out here, folks complain about too many of them. Not me. Not ever.

This thing with tomatoes … it’s all grandpa’s fault. Wiley Martin was born and raised in Texas, but he lived in North Hollywood, Hesperia, Fresno, and Capitola. In all of those places he grew tomatoes. Little yellow pear tomatoes, big red beefsteak, Romas and cherry tomatoes. Back then, we'd eat tomatoes the way some people eat apples. Pop 'em off the vine, blow the dust off (we’d only ever brush the dust off if it was really stuck on), and take a bite. He taught us to lean forward and step back all at once, so the seedy, dribbly mess would spatter the ground rather than clothes.

When I think about Grandpa eating tomatoes, I think about late afternoons on the patio, the picnic table and its tidy plastic cloth. With a colander full of cherry and pear tomatoes, and thin green onions, freshly pulled, peeled and barely rinsed on a paper plate arranged just so, he’d sprinkle salt on the plate and there he’d sit enjoying those treasures. We could always tell when it was really good. He’d close his eyes and inhale then slowly exhale--such a delicious pleasure.

Mom was well versed in the routine, but my brother and I, well, we were still learning. We’d really just imitate. We’d peel back a bit of the tomato’s skin and dip it into the salt, just like he did. We’d take a bite of the onion then dip the end of that into the salt, too, just like he did. We’d close our eyes and taste, breathing in the smells to complement the flavors, just like he did.

While he taught us, I was always too busy eating to ask what he loved about all of that. Sometimes I think it was the tomatoes and onions; other times, I think it was us. Likely, it was all of it, food he grew and kids he loved.

Tell me, won't you? Tell me about eating something so perfect with someone you loved …