There is a particular kind of hunger that only a toddler and a beach can produce. By the time we made it to Wild Fish on a recent Friday evening in Pacific Grove, he had spent the better part of the afternoon wading through the cold shallows of Lovers Point Beach, fistfuls of sand disappearing into his pockets, refusing every attempt to be toweled off and coaxed toward dinner. We arrived at the restaurant, a short drive from the water, thoroughly starved and more than a little sandy ourselves. It turned out to be exactly the right kind of hunger to have.
We settled into an outdoor table just after six, the evening still holding its light, and ordered what the whole table wanted most: the salmon ceviche. It is, by any measure, the dish of the moment here; not for novelty, but for its triumphant return. The salmon comes from Monterey Bay, and after years off the menu, it's finally back where it belongs. There is something quietly wonderful about eating fish that local, dressed simply enough to let that proximity speak for itself: bright, clean, and entirely unfussy.
What followed unfolded with the easy rhythm of a meal that knows exactly what it's doing. A butter lettuce salad, crisp and cold, arrived alongside popovers so good they demanded to be torn into immediately, manners be damned. Our toddler, deep in the particular pickiness of his age, found his own favorite in the salmon's crispy skin, drawn to its crackle with the same single-minded focus he usually reserves for sand. The fish entrée that followed carried a surprising thread of lemongrass through it — a small twist that felt less like a flourish and more like confidence, the kind of choice a kitchen makes when it trusts a dish enough to let it wander just slightly from expectation.
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| Sablefish entree at Wild Fish |
At half past six, a jazz trio struck up on the patio. It is, we learned, a standing Friday tradition here that turned dinner into something closer to an occasion. And guess who happily clapped along like a seasoned concertgoer? Our toddler, wide-eyed, seeing a guitar up close for the very first time. We closed the night with a crème brûlée, its burnt-sugar shell cracking cleanly under the spoon sweet, simple, and exactly how a final course should feel.
There's a version of this evening that could have gone very differently: a fussy toddler, a long wait, a kitchen unequipped for the beautiful chaos small children bring to a dining room. Instead, Wild Fish welcomed all of it, sand and all, and sent us home full, happy, and already planning our return. For a restaurant so close to the water, it seems only fitting that its best dish is the one that came straight from it.
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