Eastside Road, March 15, 2013—THE OTHER DAY, I don't recall where but I suppose we could look it up, I had some smoked salmon somewhere, and it wasn't to my taste. It was, well, a little fishy, and dull, and thuddish, and tired, and all those things that just made me think — and then, forgetting that it would get me nowhere, actually say — though only to my patient companion, fortunately — that
I really don't like smoked salmon.
There. I've said it.
But then, tonight, Lindsey spread some smoked salmon on bread, which she'd previously spread with a teeny thin layer of that delicious Dutch mayonnaise she buys in tubes when we're there,and put those thin-sliced raw onions on top, and it was delicious. Simply delicious.
The smoked salmon came from Dave the Fish Guy at the Sebastopol Farm Market. He smokes King salmon, I guess, over hickory wood. I asked him where he got the wood: Home Depot, he said, I got an account there. Simple enough.
Afterward, another bowl of the soup from a couple or three days ago. Good stuff: I'm a lucky guy.
Cheap Pinot grigio; cheap Barbera d'Asti