IT was a summer day like most summer days on the coast in California; gray skies, no sun. We had planned on an early, early rendezvous, Chef Rudy and I, something around 7:00am. In reality he was in my driveway more towards 8:00. I packed my board in the back of his Tacoma and squeezed in with Peter and Nathan, who came down from SF to shoot some film. The drive to San Onofre State Beach is an at speed commute after rush hour, which is right around the time we left the market laden with veggies, seafood, eggs, rice, and of course beer for a couple dishes Rudy was going to throw together between surf sessions.
The line was quick in; weekday crowd. We found a parking spot toward the end of the lot between two outcroppings of high foliage that blocked off on both ends our section of beach that we shared with six or seven cars and two motorhomes; head-in parking and as luck would have it, Rudy backed the Tacoma into the one free space in front of the cabana-covered picnic table.
There was a cold gray sky still, which made me glad that I brought my wetsuit top as we leashed up and waded into the gray water slowly, trying not to slip on the cobblestones. Then it was the long paddle out to the lineup. The waves were chest-high maybe even head-high on some of the sets, but mushy, mushy, mushy. Those of us that brought shortboards silently regretted it. Soon enough the our arms turned slack and our stomachs woke up with a grumble. The sun slowly woke too and burned through the clouds.
We party-waved in, us shortboards scratching and pumping as the longboards lumbered down the line all the way into the shore, and started to prep breakfast. Rudy got the fire going in the adjacent concrete pit as the rest of the motley crew chopped onion, peppers, cilantro, garlic. With a good enough bed of coals burned down, chef whipped the eggs quick and set the pan; first the onions, peppers, and garlic, then the eggs, and finally the choppped cilantro and some sprigs of rosemary on top before daftly scooting the whole concoction from the table to the fire pit smoothly and resting it thoughfully on the charred logs.
Four famished street dogs, we were. Once the fritatta had cooked through and chef brought it back to the table, the thing didn’t last more five minutes. Nothing plated. We ate straight from the cast iron, scraping up even the charred bottom bits with the last few bites and washing it all down with Coors Banquet before heading back out into the now sun-soaked lineup, fiending for a few more tasty waves.
