Amuse bouche... Beach Picnic

Muffaletta is not a rude word,” Barbara snapped at her near-hysterical family, “and anyway, it’s not a

muffaletta. This is a pan bagnat. It’s similar, but not the same as a muffaletta.”

“Muuuum!” her son Ben exclaimed, barely able to speak for laughing. “Stop saying that word!” His sister Beth was actually rolling around with laughter on the beach.

“No, but really,” said Barbara’s husband, Barry. “What is a muffaletta?”

Barbara glowered at Ben, then Barry and then Beth. She dared them to laugh. They got the message and remained straight-faced. Sort of.

“It’s a kind of sandwich,” Barbara replied. “Stuffed with meat and cheese and sort of pickled veg, and marinated.”

The three others looked at each other. It was their first beach picnic of the year.

“But that’s not what we’re having,” Barbara added, “because most of the online recipes had celery in them. I know none of you will eat celery.”

“Rewind there a second, Barbara,” said Barry. “I mean, thanks a million on the celery front; but marinated? A marinated sandwich, what’s the story there?”

“And if you didn’t make the muffle-thing,” said Beth. “What the hell is that monster of a sandwich in the cooler bag?”

“It’s a pan bagnat,” said Barbara, defensively. “It’s a pressed Nicoise sandwich. Also, well, yeah, also sort of marinated. Like, made up and then weighed down with a Neven Maguire cookbook in the fridge for 24 hours.”

“You made our picnic yesterday?” said Ben. “Could we not have bought fresh bread today?”

“You’re very funny,” said Barbara, hurt.

She’d made a big effort. She’d roasted the peppers herself. And layered all the ingredients so carefully — the tuna, the leaves, the hard-boiled egg, the olives. Barry could pick out the olives if he wanted to. She wouldn’t tell him they were there.

“No,” said Barry, her dear and darling husband. “You’re very funny. I don’t see any coleslaw in here.”

“You don’t have coleslaw with this,” said Barbara. “It’s complete in itself.”

“Ah, it’s completely soggy, Barbara,” Barry said, poking at the loaded loaf.

“It’s supposed to be,” Barbara said, barely audibly. “The name means bathed bread.”

“Hmm,” Barry said. “I saw a corner shop with a hot-food counter down the road. Will I go and get some southern-fried chicken?”

Ben and Beth stopped laughing.

“Yeah,” said Ben, “and I’d bet they have fresh bread, too.”