The first time that I had the opportunity to travel outside of the United States was during college when I signed up for a study abroad program in Seville, Spain, so it only seemed fitting that it would be the inspiration for my first Wayfarers’ post and recipe.
I had never traveled by myself, let alone to another country. It didn’t take long for me to experience the proverbial culture shock after landing at the airport as nobody that I tried to communicate with spoke English while I could barely piece together a sentence in Spanish. I found a taxi driver nonetheless and handed him a written note with the address to my host family’s home just in case he had a hard time understanding me. These were the days before Uber and Google maps, so I wanted to be sure I got to the right place. My new home for the next few months was in the Nervión barrio, about a ten minute walk from the city center and the Maria Luisa Park.
The complex was gated and required a code to enter, as most in Seville do. It was a large building, nine stories high, with rows of balconies along the front side, some of which were traditionally closed off by aluminum shutters at that time of day to keep the homes cool from the searing, afternoon Andalusian sun. The cab driver was an older gentleman who followed me, carrying my way too large of a suitcase, into the sprawling courtyard and through the building entrance. Inside was a small foyer with the tiniest elevator I had ever seen. As I was still disoriented from the flight and only understanding about 25% of what the cab driver was saying to me, he eventually just took my arm and put me in the elevator, wedged my suitcase beside me, pulled the elevator cage closed and and shut the exterior door. I could barely get my arm around the suitcase to press the button for the 9th floor.
Coming out of the elevator into a dark hall, I found the apartment to the left. The oversized brass doorknob was in the middle of the door as opposed to being on the right or left side like American doors. I would soon find out that it was the magical spot where freshly baked bread would be hanging each afternoon when I returned from class, delivered by a local bakery.
The apartment had a small kitchen with a table and three chairs, where we would eat in shifts since there were seven of us living there. It had a family room, three bedrooms and one bathroom. My host mother and her daughter shared the first bedroom, two Spanish students shared the second bedroom, another American student and I shared the third bedroom, and my host mother’s son would usually just crash on the couch after coming in at daybreak after being out all night. Our bedroom was complete with an armoire, two twin beds and a large picture of Seville’s celebrated Virgin Mary – The Virgin of Hope of Macarena, patroness of bullfighters and Spanish Gypsies. Looking down from my bedroom window into the interior courtyard were rows of clotheslines stretched across the building for each apartment, adorned with laundry that was masterfully hung with colorful clothespins.
Spaniards are notorious night owls. I would eat dinner around 10:00 PM before meeting up with friends and fellow students to hang out and get to know the city. The last bus to my neighborhood ran at 2:00 AM and I was usually on it. From the bus stop, I would have to walk another block back to my apartment, where I would pass a neighborhood bar nestled in a green space between apartment complexes. I remember being surprised the first night walking home from the bus to find children playing in the doorway of the smoke-filled bar while their parents (and even grandparents) were conversing with friends inside. Back home only twenty somethings were out past midnight, but the nightlife did not have an age limit in Seville.
Most nights, my host mother would still be up watching TV when I returned so I would sit with her and talk. These are some of my best memories of Spain. She would tell me stories about her family, the neighborhood, Spain’s history and more. We would also talk about regional cuisine. It was during one of those late-night talks that I asked her if she could teach me how to make gazpacho some day. I mostly ate at home because it was included in my room and board, but, luckily for me, my host mother was a great cook. Some of my favorite dishes that she would make were tortilla Española (the Spanish version of a frittata with egg, onion and potatoes), ham and tuna pizza (sounds weird but was oh so tasty!), and squid and potato stew.
I had first tried gazpacho one night at a little bar tucked in a narrow side street across from the Seville cathedral. Some friends and I were looking for a place to tapear (or eat tapas) and we found this quaint restaurant with everything you would expect of a bar menu in Southern Spain: ham croquetas, garlic potato salad, manchego cheese, Iberian ham, french fries, local olives and more. I had never had cold soup before but it was at the top of my list to try, especially since I love tomatoes. When the server brought it to me, I was really confused because it was in a drinking glass like I would use for water instead of a bowl, which I found to actually be more common. It was a wonderfully complex mixture of flavors: the acidity of red wine vinegar and tomatoes, the smoothness of local olive oil, the brightness of cucumber and green pepper, and the savoriness of garlic to round it out. If Andalucia had a taste, in my opinion it would be gazpacho.
One day, I came home from school and my host mother had all of the ingredients for gazpacho and was waiting to make it with me. She showed me how to blanch, peel and seed the tomatoes before carefully blending in each ingredient, tasting it, and then adding more of what it was lacking until she got it just right. Once it was perfect, she put it in the refrigerator to chill it for several hours.
As we were saying our goodbyes on my final day, she handed me a wrapped bundle of tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers and garlic cloves to take with me as a departing gift. I unfortunately had to leave them behind because they wouldn’t allow me to bring fresh produce on an international flight, but I was left with the sweetest note that she had included. She wrote how she enjoyed hosting me and other well wishes, but at the very end she made sure to include a P.S. with some reminders about how to make gazpacho. I have that note to this day and I still think about her every time that I make gazpacho more than twenty years later.
Watermelon Gazpacho
Toby and I like playing around with Hoosier food and ingredients while changing it up a little by using things that we have seen in our travels. The opposite is true with food we’ve seen while on the road – trying to make it a little more Indiana-like. A few years ago, I wanted to serve gazpacho at our restaurant, but I wasn’t sure how well it would be received. I had seen watermelon paired with tomato in dishes like Caprese because the sweet and the acid balance each other out perfectly. I decided to try putting some local watermelon in my gazpacho. It was enough to give it a little bit of sweetness but keep the classic taste of this Spanish staple. Every summer, it continues to be a highly anticipated addition to our menu.
- 2 green peppers, stemmed and seeded
- 2 English cucumbers, peeled
- 12 medium tomatoes, seeded
- 1/2 watermelon, seedless
- 1 Tbsp. fresh garlic, minced
- 3 Tbsp. salt
- 1 1/4 cup red wine vinegar
- 1 cup extra virgin olive oil (plus extra for garnish)
- 1/2 English cucumber, peeled and diced small (for garnish)
- 1/2 French bread loaf, diced small (for garnish)
- Cut green peppers, English cucumbers and tomatoes into large dice pieces (about 3/4″).
- Cut rind off watermelon and discard. Cut watermelon fruit into large dice pieces.
- Blend green peppers, English cucumbers, tomatoes, watermelon fruit, garlic, salt, and red wine vinegar in a blender or with an immersion blender until smooth.
- Slowly blend in extra virgin olive oil to incorporate the oil into the gazpacho. Taste gazpacho and add more salt and vinegar if necessary.
- Chill gazpacho for six hours. Serve with small dices of bread and cucumber and drizzle the top lightly with extra virgin olive oil.
Serving size: 8 ounces
Serves: 12
Note: Many recipes call for the tomatoes to be blanched and peeled as I had originally learned to make it. I don’t do this method because I don’t see much of a difference in the consistency since I use an immersion blender to puree the gazpacho thoroughly, but you can blanch and peel them if you prefer.
Note: Gazpacho can vary depending on the natural acidity of the tomatoes. That is why it is important to taste it and adjust the salt and red wine vinegar accordingly before chilling. ¡Buen Provecho!
Melanie is our daughter. She has encouraged us to visit Spain for years. Well this March we are going to Spain and visiting her beloved Seville Spain. Love her Watermelon Gazpacho.
I am so glad you and dad are going to get to experience the magic of Spain, especially Sevilla! I can’t wait to live vicariously through your trip next month.
This soup is so special to me too! When this was first introduced- I stopped by the restaurant for this delicious dish every day for a week or more and shared stories and laughs with lots of friends. My dear friends jokingly use “Watermelon Gazpacho” as a gauge of my love for other food experiences. This menu item has the extraordinary ability to conjure up so many beautiful memories. It truly equals love. ❤️
Aw, this makes me so happy! I love this recipe and what it means to me and I’m so glad to hear that you have such special memories associated with it, too! Thank you for sharing this 🙂
Loved your memories as much as I love your watermelon gazpacho! Thanks so much for sharing this.
Thank you, Diane! I’m so glad you enjoyed this blog – and our watermelon gazpacho 🙂