Living next to the coast is a very fine thing. Living next to the coast with neighbors who sling bait morning, noon and night is the kind of situation that makes me think that in my last incarnation, I lived a very good and virtuous life.

My neighbors, Claude & Dallas, slay the fish a few times a week. They go places that I never heard of, like "the drain," and come back with the most delicious fish, their box brimming with tautog, sea bass and flounder and spot, enough to stockpile for their annual fish fry and feed themselves and to share. (That's Dallas in the picture, with her citation 5-pound sea bass, thankyouverymuch.)

Here's how it went last Saturday evening:

Brrring. My cell rings.

"Hi Dal-Pal," I say.

"Hi Lo-Pal," she says. "I've made some ceviche and I'd like to bring some down for you to have for a before-dinner nibble. Is that OK?"

See what I mean? Somewhere in my youth, or childhood, I must have done something good (as someone once sang.)

The ceviche (pronounced sa-vee-chay or sa-vee-chee) left me and Joe thinking that we could be happy eating just raw fish for the rest of our lives. OK, we'd require some wine with that fish, and maybe a bit of chocolate and perhaps a steak every now and then, cooked rare on a charcol grill . . . .

Anyway, I'm adding it to the "cooler food" lineup (see yesterday's post) and sharing Dallas' recipe with you. Another great thing about this is that you never have face the stove.

Ceviche My Style