A Simple Gazpacho
- jonashton
- Jun 24
- 7 min read
It’s a soup, it’s a salad, it’s a glass of vegetables wearing a summer hat
A love letter to summer in a bowl, a glass, or—if you're feeling adventurous—a jar drunk in the garden with the sun on your face.
Ask 20 cooks how to make a classic dish, and you’ll get 20 answers—each one, in its author’s eyes, the definitive truth. Some will insist their way is not just better, but the only way, and a few seem to have built entire careers on such declarations.
So it is with gazpacho—that cool, crimson bowl of summer, a balm for parched afternoons and sun-warmed skin. Spanish friends and families alike will argue (and argue with love) over its ideal composition: the precise ratio of tomato to cucumber, the necessity or otherwise of bread, whether modern riffs are delightful or downright sacrilegious. Even the texture provokes opinionated sighs.
I’ve never been a kitchen pedant. There is something comforting, even beautiful, in the idea that there are countless local and familial variations of a classic dish. It means food lives and breathes. Not all gazpacho is even red, for that matter. Ajo blanco, the white gazpacho of Málaga, is a different sort of seduction altogether—elegant and faintly mysterious. You begin with shelled almonds, garlic, and salt—pounded to a fragrant paste, chalky and warm. Then comes bread, soaked and squeezed till it resembles something between silk and sponge. Olive oil is streamed in—its perfume grassy and round—followed by a flick of vinegar, cool water, and the surprise of a few green grapes. The result: a bowl of creamy ivory, pale as antique linen and every bit as refined. I like it barely adorned—just a thread of olive oil on the surface like sunlight caught in silk—but others drop in toasted cubes of bread, little islands of crunch in an otherwise still sea.
Now, as for texture—this is where things become properly contentious. Most gazpachos tiptoe the line between soup and purée. Blitz them to oblivion, and they risk losing their soul. Over-chop, and you’re left with something closer to salsa. I’m particularly fond of a compromise: purée two-thirds of your mixture until smooth, and then fold in the final third, coarsely chopped, so that each spoonful carries the memory of the raw vegetables it once was. There’s something rather lovely in the contrast—the velvet of tomato mingling with the occasional crunch of cucumber or pepper. A textural whisper amid the hush. In Spain, gazpacho might arrive at your table in a chilled glass rather than a bowl. A quick glug between bites of tortilla, perhaps, or taken like medicine, prescribed for heatstroke and mild ennui. I rather like mine chunky, especially when there are golden croutons bobbing about like little rafts.
You can chop everything finely, if you have the patience, but do expect the chopping board to weep juice and look as though it’s been the site of a small but glorious vegetable massacre. A food processor gives a head start without stripping the ingredients of their character. And if you go down the hand-chopped route, bless you. You’ll hear the knife against the wood, the gentle thunk of tomato yielding, the crisp crackle of cucumber skin splitting under the blade.
Vinegar is essential—red wine or, better still, a good sherry vinegar, mellow and nutty, with just the right cut of acidity. Add it by the spoonful and taste as you go. Let your tongue guide you. Sugar—well, sugar is the kind of addition that provokes raised eyebrows and occasional gasps. But if your tomatoes are sulking and not quite at their sun-ripened peak, a teaspoon or two is no crime. Consider it encouragement rather than cheating.
And then there’s bread. Some swear by it; others swear at it. Spanish friends of mine rarely include it, but others insist it’s the only path to that elusive, velvety texture. Personally, I find it unnecessary—but if you have a few slices of stale loaf knocking about, and expensive tomatoes to stretch, then by all means, tear it in, soak it gently, and wring it out like a well-washed dishcloth before folding it into the blender.
In the end, there is no singular, definitive gazpacho. There is only your gazpacho. The one that suits your day, your tomatoes, your temperament. And isn’t that the very best sort of recipe?
What Is Gazpacho? A Chilled Bowl of Summer
Gazpacho is that rare and glorious thing: a soup that doesn’t ask to be warmed, stirred, or hovered over. No, it asks only that you have a blender and a heatwave.
Imagine this: you’ve come in from the garden, sticky from the sun, with grass stuck to your ankles and the scent of basil lingering on your fingertips. And there it is in the fridge—a pitcher of gazpacho, chilled like a secret, glowing red and waiting to revive you.
It’s Spanish in origin, Andalusian to be precise, and made with ripe tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, olive oil, vinegar, and garlic. But like any beloved classic, it comes with endless variations—and opinions. Oh, the opinions.
The History of Gazpacho: From Peasant Fare to Culinary Icon
Gazpacho didn’t start as a tomato-based beauty. In fact, tomatoes didn’t even exist in Europe until the 16th century. The original gazpacho—ajo blanco—was a humble mixture of bread, garlic, vinegar, olive oil, and almonds. A sort of peasant’s survival soup, cooling and nourishing under the Andalusian sun.
It was only after Spain’s rendezvous with the New World that tomatoes and peppers arrived on the scene. The result? That bold, ruddy version of gazpacho we now know and adore. And while once it was pounded by hand with a mortar and pestle (with perhaps a bit of curse-laced flair), today we press a button and watch it whirl into velvet.
Why Chefs Love Gazpacho: Simplicity, Seasonality, and a Touch of Drama
Ask any chef about gazpacho and they’ll get misty-eyed (or mildly combative). It’s a celebration of fresh seasonal produce, a canvas for creativity, and the closest thing to edible sunshine.
No cooking required – just chop, blend, chill, and serve.
Flavour fireworks – the acidity of vinegar, the sweetness of ripe tomatoes, the gentle bite of garlic… all dancing on your tongue like they’ve been rehearsing all year.
Versatility – it can be a starter, a main, a drink, or a dare if you accidentally double the garlic.
And, for chefs, it’s a bit of theatre too. Serve it in a martini glass with a basil oil swirl, or let it arrive in a jug, ceremoniously poured at the table like molten rubies.
Why Guests Love Gazpacho: Refreshing, Light, and Surprisingly Addictive
Guests adore gazpacho for the same reason they adore hammocks and chilled rosé: it feels like a holiday.
There’s the cool silkiness on the tongue, the freshness that makes your taste buds applaud, and the knowledge that you’re eating something healthy while feeling ever-so-slightly indulgent. It’s a spa day in soup form.
Plus, it’s gloriously customizable. Fancy toppings? Add croutons, diced avocado, or even a swirl of crème fraîche. Going rustic? Just hand over a spoon and call it good.
Top Gazpacho Cooking Tips: How to Make It Right Every Time
Use ripe, in-season tomatoesGazpacho is only as good as its tomatoes. If they don’t smell like sunshine and taste like summer, wait a week.
Don’t fear the olive oil It emulsifies the soup and gives it that luxurious mouthfeel. Go for a fruity extra-virgin.
Chill thoroughly. A minimum of 6 hours in the fridge is non-negotiable. Warm gazpacho is... not gazpacho. It’s an accident.
Blend in batches if needed, and don’t be afraid to strain for a silkier finish. But leave some texture if you like crunch.
Adjust with vinegar and salt after chilling. Flavors mellow in the cold, so wait until it’s properly chilled before making your final tweaks.
Gazpacho Variations: More Than Just Red Soup
Ajo Blanco – the white gazpacho with almonds and grapes. Delicate, hauntingly good, and not a tomato in sight.
Green Gazpacho – made with cucumber, green herbs, and the kind of pep that could wake up a napper.
Watermelon Gazpacho – slightly sweet, utterly refreshing, and a hit at garden parties (especially with a splash of gin).
Final Thoughts: Gazpacho, the Soup That Sings of Summer
So why do I love gazpacho? Because it’s bold and honest, like a good friend. Because it takes the simplest ingredients and transforms them into something you might actually write poetry about. Because it tastes like a garden in bloom, feels like a breeze on a sunburn, and lets vegetables be their best selves, with no need for heat, fuss, or fanfare.
If you’ve never made it, make it. If you’ve made it before, try it with yellow tomatoes. Or add watermelon. Or go back to almonds. Or don’t. That’s the beauty—it’s yours to play with.
Ingredients:
About 2 pounds ripe, red tomatoes, cored and roughly chopped
1 Italian frying (Cubanelle) pepper—or another long, pale green variety such as Anaheim—cored, seeded, and chopped
1 cucumber (about 8 inches long), peeled and chopped
1 small mild onion (white or red), peeled and roughly chopped
1 clove garlic
2 teaspoons sherry vinegar, or more to taste
Salt and pepper
Extra virgin olive oil for drizzling.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Tumble the tomatoes, pepper, cucumber, onion, and garlic into a blender—or a deep bowl if you’re using a stick blender. If your vessel groans under the volume, work in batches. Blend at high speed until everything is utterly smooth—no less than 2 minutes, scraping down the sides as needed. You’re after something that feels like silk on the tongue.
With the motor running, pour in the vinegar and add about 2 teaspoons of salt. Then, in a slow, steady trickle, drizzle in the olive oil. As the oil emulsifies with the vegetables, the mixture will shift from ruddy red to a luscious, creamy coral. If it still feels too thin, a touch more oil will coax it into richness.
Pass the mixture through a fine strainer or food mill, gently pushing it through with a spatula or the back of a ladle. This is not a time for shortcuts; what remains behind is but the roughage, the fibrous echoes of summer. What passes through is liquid gold.
Transfer to a glass pitcher—there’s something rather honest and pretty about being able to see the soup through the vessel—and chill thoroughly for at least 6 hours, or overnight if you can bear the wait.
Just before serving, taste and adjust: a flick more vinegar if it lacks brightness, a pinch of salt if it tastes shy. If it’s grown too thick in the chill, loosen it with a splash of ice-cold water. Pour into glasses (over ice, if you like), or ladle into bowls. A few droplets of olive oil on top will glisten like sunlit dew.
I love gazpacho soup. It’s a taste of summer. So delicious. I bought a Vitamix just for making it. The tomatoes in Spain are incomparable but heirlooms are amazing. Thanks I have to try your recipe next time