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COLONIZE A BEACH CLUB I didn’t know you could go to the beach without hoisting two NPR giveaway totes stuffed with Kettle chips and bruised apples and a small lunch cooler carrying your human dignity as you trek over molten sand like refugees from suburban excess. That is, until I went to Italy and started behaving like an aristocrat. Because in Europe there are these things called beach clubs: part beach, part café. They have chaise longues, towels, adorable little changing rooms complete with simple outdoor showers. They serve wine right at your chair or at the little restaurant. And you’re not eating a sweaty bologna sandwich that could be balled up and stuck to a lifeguard chair, you’re eating motherfucking spaghetti alle vongole! You’re eating salade niçoise made by people from Nice!
KISS THAT DAMP RESORT BUFFET
GOODBYE!
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↑ Grilled fish at Elkano, outside San Sebastián. ↓ A lobster dish at nearby Arzak. Sebastián
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O K AY, Y E A H. You’ve probably heard of San Sebastián. Maybe because it has three of the best restaurants in the world within Ubering distance. (That’d be Elkano, Mugaritz, and Arzak.) Shack up at nearby Hotel Iturregi and, if you’re really hungry, take a day trip across the border into France. Biarritz is San Sebastián’s less fawned over but equally attractive cousin.
—DEVIN FRIEDMAN
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St. Ives, England
Or partake in the latest food revolution... A N Y B E A C H you can get to by London sleeper train has a dash of Ian Fleming: Just crash into your bunk and awake to Cornish cerulean water, white-cliffy beach, and surfing-happy British hipsters. The only
mystery, Meesta Bond, will be where to eat. The food renaissance in this “subtropical” English vacation spot is well overdue, given that Cornwall’s cheese, produce, and fish are what supply London’s
top dining establishments. Pop-up beachside suppers of freshly hauled mussels and fish abound, piled on end-to-end tables under string lights—like those at Hidden Hut, a whitetablecloth situation on Porthcurnick Beach. J U L Y
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