for those who love my food posts: Gazpacho papito!!!

um texto maneirinho sobre o gazpacho. uma sopa fria de tomate muito comum na espanha. gazpacho is an Andalusian dish.

In my early 20s I attended a dinner party with some pretensions to grandeur, which kicked off with bowls of cold Happy Shopper tomato soup garnished with cucumber slices, cayenne pepper and the piece de resistance, a large green pepper of the sort all too familiar from the kebab van. "It's gazpacho," the host, freshly returned from a year in Spain, assured us proudly. "Great," the boy to my left replied. "Where's the microwave?" Us Brits have long been suspicious of chilled soups – they seem unnatural somehow, in a climate more suited to tartan vacuum flasks and steaming broths. But just as we've taken tapas to our hearts and embraced the pungent joys of goat's cheese and garlic, we've grudgingly come to see the virtues of a cool, liquid lunch in our occasional warm spells. Elizabeth David quotes the 19th century French writer Theodore Gautier on gazpacho: "At home, a dog of any breeding would refuse to sully its nose with such a compromising mixture." But the "hell-broth" works its magic even on this superior Parisian: "strange as it may seem the first time one tastes it," he continues, "one ends by getting used to it and even liking it." And so it is with us. The gazpacho is a classic of the genre: refreshing, and full of ripe, summery flavours, Lindsey Bareham's description of it as 'a salad soup' in A Celebration of Soup is absolutely spot on. It is, essentially, an Andalusian peasant dish designed to stretch cheap ingredients to their absolute limit. Early recipes call only for a mixture of bread, olive oil, garlic and water – tomatoes and peppers, imports from the New World, came much later to the party. As Lindsey wisely observes, like any good salad, it can be made with whatever happens to be ripe at the time, ripe being the operative word in this country – anaemic midwinter tomatoes or crunchy peppers just won't cut the mustard when they're the stars of the show. You really will have to seek out good ingredients to make this worth your while. The recipe for a classic gazpacho is fairly flexible, the main bone of contention being the inclusion of bread. Although a standard ingredient since the soup's medieval inception, Elizabeth David, in her Mediterranean Food, gives a recipe without bread although including a number of less common ingredients such as chopped olives and marjoram. Online, I even see the claim that a gazpacho with bread is properly known as a salmorejo, when in fact a salmorejo is a pared-down gazpacho, just garlic, vinegar, olive oil, tomatoes and bread – lots of it. I decide to test the old dragon by making a fairly standard, basic gazpacho, and then replicating it without the bread.

I crumble a slice of slightly stale, crusty white into 300g of ripe tomatoes, a third of a cucumber, a ripe red pepper, and a garlic clove, all chopped, and then blend until smooth. I then add 3tbsp of extra virgin olive oil, and 1tsbp sherry vinegar. A couple of tablespoons of cold water takes it to a soupy consistency which can be seasoned and chilled while I make the same soup without the bread. This one needs no added water. Having tested them both, I think the bread not only adds body, but a certain creaminess – without it, the soup feels more like a thin salsa. Having established that bread is an absolute must, I must decide when to add it. In her book The Real Taste of Spain, Jenny Chandler directs the cook to soak the bread in water before using it, an idea backed by no lesser person than the wife of the former Spanish Ambassador to London, Elena Meneses de Orozco, who suggests this should be for at least an hour. As one squeezes the water from the bread before mixing, the reasons for this are somewhat opaque: I can only assume it helps it to blend with the vegetables. I make another gazpacho using soaked bread, and try it against the first one I made, which used dry breadcrumbs. It needs less water to bring it to a soupy consistency, and seems to hold together better, so, although I can't quite fathom why, I decide soaking is a good thing. With the issue of bread dealt with, it's time to look at methods. Jenny Chandler instructs me to peel and deseed my tomatoes. Lindsey Bareham just wants me to peel them, and Senora Meneses simply specifies dicing the things. As the soup is passed through a sieve after blending anyway, the first two seem rather pointless, but I obediently score my tomatoes with a cross, drop them in boiling water for 20 seconds, and then peel and deseed them, while desperately hoping that all this effort will make no difference whatsoever. The finished soup passes through the sieve more easily, but there doesn't seem to be a significant different in flavour, so I abandon the idea with relief. Ingredients for the perfect gazpacho.

: Felicity Cloake Lindsey Bareham also suggests adding some tomato concentrate to the soup; a tablespoon for every 700g tomatoes (as does Gordon Ramsay). Although it feels like cheating, I try this, and am surprised to find it's not as obvious, or jarring an addition as I'd feared, although with tomatoes of this ripeness, I don't think it's really necessary. (And as we've established, there is no point in making it with anything other than obscenely ripe ingredients, so put the puree away.) Now for the tweaks – those little extras that can take a dish from good to blogworthy. I'm not talking about bits of lobster, or mango pickle, or any of the other crimes that have been perpetrated on this poor soup in the name of 'modern twists' – just additions that build upon the basic flavours already in there. Elena Meneses de Orozco's recipe calls for an equal mix of red and green peppers. They add a pleasing herbaceous edge to the recipe as a counterpoint to the sweetness of the red versions and the acidity of the tomatoes, so I decide to keep them in. Elizabeth David's black olives, however, muddy the flavour somehow – in a bowl of fresh, clean ingredients, their complex earthy character seems out of place. I decide to save them for my garnish. Many recipes call for onions of some sort – red, Spanish or spring. I try all three, but I don't like the results: they distract from the punchy, garlicky flavour which is so essential to a good gazpacho. Chilli, which I see recommended online, is another no-no – spice has no place in this essentially refreshing soup. I don't even like Elena's suggestion of cumin seeds: although the two flavours usually go well together, it just doesn't work here where freshness is the name of the game. The real secret to gazpacho, if we assume your ingredients are ripe and your fridge cold, is good olive oil, and lots of it. Meanness has no place here, unless you're a frugal peasant – pour it in in great glugs, and then add vinegar to taste – sherry is the best, as gazpacho is an Andalusian dish, but red wine vinegar will do at a pinch. Don't be tempted to chill the soup with ice cubes; you'll just dilute the flavours – make it well ahead instead, so it has time to chill before serving. Choose your garnishes with care – mint is deliciously refreshing, olives add a nicely rich, savoury element to the clean flavours of the vegetables – and please, insist that everyone tries it before they make their excuses about cold soup. Felicity's perfect gazpacho Perfect gazpacho.

Photograph: Felicity Cloake Serves 4 100g slightly stale crusty white bread, soaked in cold water for 20 mins 1kg very ripe tomatoes, diced 1 ripe red pepper and 1 green pepper, deseeded and diced 1 medium cucumber, peeled and diced 2 cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed 150ml extra virgin olive oil 2tbsp sherry vinegar Salt, to taste Garnishes – see below 1. Mix the diced tomatoes, peppers and cucumber with the crushed garlic and olive oil in the bowl of a food processor or blender. Squeeze out the bread, tear it roughly into chunks, and add to the mixture. 2. Blend until smooth, then add the salt and vinegar to taste and stir well. 3. Pass the mixture through a fine sieve, then cover and refrigerate until well chilled. 4. Serve with garnishes of your choice: I liked diced black olives, hard-boiled egg and small pieces of cucumber and pepper; mint or parsley also works well, and many people add spring onion, cubes of Spanish ham and so on.
 How do you feel about cold soup – a delight or an abomination of nature? What's your favourite recipe; does gazpacho rule the roost, or are you more inclined to vichyssoise? And lastly, has anyone ever made a good gazpacho with tinned tomatoes?
(stolen from the guardian, under no permition)

mais uma roubada da net:

Yield: 4 servings
Time: 10 minutes

2 pounds tomatoes, roughly chopped
1 medium red bell pepper, roughly chopped
½ medium cucumber, peeled and roughly chopped
½ red onion, roughly chopped
⅓ cup extra-virgin olive oil
⅓ cup almonds
One ½-inch slice white bread, torn into 1-inch pieces
3 tablespoons sherry vinegar
1 medium fresh jalapeño, seeded and roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves
Salt and black pepper
1 avocado, thinly sliced (optional)

1. Put the tomatoes, bell pepper, cucumber, onion, olive oil, almonds, bread, vinegar, jalapeño, and garlic in a blender; season with salt and pepper. Process until smooth, adding up to ½ cup water if necessary. (Work in batches if not all the ingredients fit in your blender at once.)

2. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Refrigerate for up to a few hours before serving or serve immediately, garnished with the avocado if desired.