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Sidedish

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I thought I was pretty knowledgeable about tomatoes until I showed up at the TomatoFest in Carmel Valley a couple of weeks ago. After all, I''ve been buying organic heirlooms from North Carolina farmers'' markets for several years now. I knew how a tomato worth its salt should taste.

Gary Ibsen, founder of the TomatoFest and author of The Great Tomato Book, says the question people ask him most often is "Why don''t tomatoes taste like they used to?"

The problem is that the flavorful tomatoes most people remember came straight from the garden. Today, the orange tennis balls that most stores call "tomatoes" are hybrids that are easy to harvest, resistant to disease and have a long shelf life. Taste is not a consideration. But there is a movement afoot to revive the tomatoes of our past; those delicious juicy vegetables (or fruits, if you prefer) that taste like, well, a tomato.

So, when I heard about the Tomato-Fest, I knew I had to go. As a newcomer to the area, I was looking forward to trying tomato creations prepared by local chefs paired with Monterey County wines. But I quickly realized that the stars of the event were the tomatoes.

You couldn''t miss the tomato tasting tent. There were so many people crowded under it that you couldn''t see the dozen-or-so tables covered with plates. It looked like a potluck dinner at the Baptist church. But instead of squash casserole, ham biscuits and congealed salad, there were well over 200 varieties of tomatoes. Each variety was diced for tasting with a sample whole tomato perched in the center of the plate.

This was the Miss America contest of tomatoes. The tasters were judged for "best looking," "sweetest tasting" and "biggest tomatoey taste." I stepped in line, grabbed a toothpick and a ballot and started tasting. I was amazed by the flavor of tomatoes like Kellogg''s Breakfast and Great White--the yellow varieties I''ve tried in the past have been bland compared to their red cousins.

Next, I discovered the Farmers'' Market tent where you could pick out your own peck basket of tomatoes for $10. I knew this was a deal. Just the week before I had selected three lovely heirlooms at the market and was startled when the grower asked for $7.50. Even at that price, they were well worth it. But $10 for a whole basket was a steal.

I have to admit that I cheated. Each basket was lined with straw, which I discreetly tossed, leaving more room for tomatoes. Then I watched the other shoppers'' strategies. The most proficient were selecting large, handsome varieties and filling in the spaces with cherry tomatoes. They were carefully balancing tomatoes around the brim. Obviously some people got carried away, because the path to the parking lot was marked by stray Sungolds and Black Princes.

I feasted on my basket of tomatoes all week. I made a fresh tomato basil sauce with fettuccini; enjoyed sliced red, yellow and black tomatoes with mozzarella; and of course, munched chips and salsa. But I have to admit that my favorite way to eat tomatoes is the way my mother used to fix them. I selected my biggest, juiciest, reddest tomato (a Blue Ridge Mountain), sliced, salted, peppered, and placed it between two mayo-slathered slices of Wonder Bread (I swear it''s been decades since I bought a loaf). The Wonder Bread was so pale and airy that it immediately turned pink from the tomato juice. There''s only one way to eat this delicacy, and that''s standing over the sink. I wiped the juice dripping from my chin. Now that''s how tomatoes used to taste.