I attended a swanky dinner party on an early summer night when the weather was still cool enough to ward off mosquitoes and invite indulgent feasting. It was at an architect’s house, and everything down to the wine glasses was so discerningly chosen and handmade that I had the same fluttering feeling I sometimes get in museums. I also felt irrationally annoyed that I, a 24-year-old journalist, did not have the means to similarly consummate my good taste.
We began in the garden, for apéro hour. The host made a pitcher of Cappelletti spritz and garnished each glass with a blood orange slice. One couple, a psychiatrist and his French husband, both wearing linen pants and chunky knit sweaters, brought two dozen Wellfleet oysters, which they fanned out on an actual silver platter. I squeezed lemon over one, gracelessly vacuumed it into my mouth, and, for that moment, was certain that my purpose in life was to eat such beautiful food.
One man, boyishly handsome with floppy hair, assembled a platter of cheeses whose names I could not pronounce. We cleaned our palates with an endive salad, and then there were luscious cuts of meat, meat, meat. Someone opened a bottle of murky and effervescent orange wine. It tasted like antiquity.
For dessert, a fashionably bespectacled man brought out prunes, which he had stewed in red wine. They were almost perversely juicy, and he spooned them over a pillow of mascarpone. I took a bite; I felt both depraved and holy. Amidst the gaggle of gay men, there was one straight couple in attendance. They brought potato salad.
It was, in retrospect, my favorite part of the meal. Sometime during the meat course, I had become fatigued by all the decadence. I couldn’t take any more of it. I was just a boy, and my legs were sore from standing on ceremony. Eating that potato salad, I felt delivered, like I had arrived at home from a night at Gatsby’s mansion. My body relaxed.
There’s beautiful food and then there’s comfort food, I realized. And it became clear to me that to strike a balance between the two was to live life well.
With the Fourth of July around the corner, I’ve been thinking a lot about that potato salad. For the past three years, I’ve done the holiday in what some might consider the P’town way: a speedo at Boy Beach, small talk about pop divas at tea, a reservation at a fancy restaurant, dancing in a crush of impossibly muscular men at the A-House, praying, while standing in line at Spiritus, that the hot guy holding the pepperoni slice is into height-challenged blonds.
For the past three years, I have not seen fireworks or eaten a hot dog or stained my face with the sticky sauce of buffalo wings or smelled the chemical sweetness of bug spray or roasted marshmallows or listened to Bruce Springsteen. I have not shoveled forkfuls of potato salad into my mouth. These are the staples of the July Fourths of my childhood, and they’re the things I am longing for right now.
What I’m trying to say is this: I’m straight. Kidding, kidding. But I do think my old neighborhood was onto something with the whole backyard barbecue and fireworks thing. Maybe I want to eat American pie and I want to listen to “American Pie.” I want to be in bed by 11 p.m. I want to hear about your new truck.
I’m not sure where I’ll be this year for the Fourth — I have never been a planner. I might be here, in Provincetown, being exhaustingly gay. Or maybe I’ll return to the South Shore, for a barbecue hosted by one or another of my aunts, a yard full of the more than 40 cousins I have in my large Irish Catholic family, among whom I stand out as the quippy unicorn. But either way, I will be eating potato salad.
This recipe, adapted from one by Alison Roman, strikes a balance between decadence and comfort. It’ll do for whatever kind of party you’re invited to. This potato salad, my friends, is our great unifier. Oh, and it’s vegan! Though there are probably some parties where it’s best not to mention that. Made with a whole lemon, vinegar, and mustard seed, this potato salad packs a tangy punch. And topped with lots of parsley and dill, it feels somehow really refined. It’s a not-so-straight-up potato salad, but it is a potato salad, nonetheless.
NOT-SO-STRAIGHT-UP POTATO SALAD
2 lbs. small yellow potatoes*
Big pinch kosher salt for the cooking water
4 Tbsp. olive oil
1 whole lemon, zested and juiced
4 to 6 scallions, coarsely chopped
2 Tbsp. white wine vinegar
5 Tbsp. whole-grain mustard
½ cup chives, coarsely chopped
1 cup parsley, coarsely chopped
1 cup dill, coarsely chopped
Flaky salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
- Boil potatoes in salted water until they’re almost falling apart when pierced with a fork, 15-20 minutes. Drain and immediately transfer back to pot. Drizzle the potatoes with the olive oil while they’re still piping hot. Let cool.
- Combine potatoes with the lemon zest and juice, the scallions, vinegar, mustard, and chives. Top with flaky salt and pepper to taste. Toss vigorously to coat. As you do, the potatoes will start to crumble and fall apart — that’s good, let it be.
- Taste a potato and adjust salt and pepper as needed. Just before serving, garnish with parsley and dill.
*Yukon or similar yellow-fleshed potatoes are more starchy, and so, more comforting, though the red ones might be better if you’re wooing someone.
