NOTHING STARTS UP summer like a fat, sun-ripened tomato. And nothings says summer in the city like three pounds of ravishing, multicolored tomatoes that are split, squashed, and swimming in juice by the time they get from the market table to your kitchen counter. Chosen for taste, not durability, and picked ripe instead of rock-hard, lovely local tomatoes have just one drawback: it's nearly impossible to get them home in one piece, especially if you're taking Muni. What's good for the environment – public transit, biodiversity, eating locally – is, alas, tough on appearances, at least if you want to serve salad, not soup.

The answer, of course, is to make gazpacho, the salad that eats like a soup. When your tomatoes are already turned to pulp at the bottom of your market bag, half the work's already done. With the possible exception of lime Popsicles, no summer taste is more refreshing. Born in Andalusia, in the baking-hot southern plain of Spain, this cool soup comes in myriad forms, from a creamy white Middle Eastern version based on almonds and white grapes to a thick, suave puree buzzed through an electric blender. Originally made with a mortar and pestle, gazpacho began almost like a salad dressing: garlic, salt, vinegar, and olive oil were crushed together into a rough paste. Slowly, fresh tomatoes and stale bread were added (the bread adding body and just enough thickening to turn the mixture into an actual meal), followed by fresh green herbs and a bit of raw purple onion. Cool water was poured in, and the soup could then be chilled, or passed through a sieve for extra smoothness. After the soup was set aside in a shady place to mellow, a scattering of raw vegetables, particularly cucumbers and red or green peppers, would be added for crunch just before serving.

Notice the absence of canned tomato juice in this method. This is the difference between a sparkling summer quencher and something that tastes like a vodkaless Bloody Mary. Once processed, tomato juice coats the tongue, leaving a slightly metallic furriness that needs the sharp jolt of alcohol – or at least horseradish or Tabasco – to clear it. What leaks out of a fresh tomato is more tomato water than tomato juice: clear, easily swigged, neatly poised between acidity and sweetness.

Since gazpacho, like sangria, is less a recipe than an easy concept, it's just as easy to start nudging the recipe in another equally Latin direction. There's a wonderful, fruit-based "Mangospacho" in Steven Raichlen's excellent, Cuban-Caribbean Florida cookbook Miami Spice. Having lived for years just a couple of blocks from Mission Street, I found it natural to send my gazpacho down to Mexico, adding cumin, lime juice, and sweet corn. There's a bit of heat from the cumin, a pungent edge of road dust to prickle against the cooling lime and sweet corn. Tomatillos can substitute for some of the tomatoes, or you can toss in a couple of unripe green tomatoes for extra tartness. For color, I like to use Green Zebra or other naturally green (when ripe) tomatoes, whose jade color sings against the deep green cilantro, lavender onions, and pale green avocados.

Besides being the best way to rescue squashed tomatoes, gazpacho is also every barbecuer's friend. Since every burger-and-beer party is doomed to an hour (at least!) of meatless waiting around while the grill heats up, a punch bowl of ice cube-laced gazpacho keeps everyone happy (and staves off the need for a another Sierra Nevada run by at least an hour.)

It's not absolutely necessary to peel the tomatoes, but it promotes a silkier texture and takes just a few extra minutes. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Score an X in the skin on the bottom of each tomato. When water is boiling, drop in the tomatoes, turn off the heat, and let stand for a minute. Fish out a tomato and quickly run it under cold water. If it peels easily, remove the rest of the tomatoes to a colander, rinse them in cold water, and peel. If the peel sticks, let the tomatoes rest in the hot water for another minute.

Mexican Gazpacho

1 tsp whole cumin seeds, or 1/2 tsp ground cumin

2 cloves garlic

4 Tbs fresh lime juice

¼ cup olive oil

2-3 tsp salt, or to taste

5 large ripe tomatoes, peeled and chopped

1 slice of day-old country bread, crust removed

Water

1 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and diced

1 red onion, peeled and diced

Kernels from two ears of corn

2 firm-ripe avocados, peeled, pitted, and cubed

6 or 7 sprigs of fresh cilantro, stems removed

Place cumin seeds in a small pan and toast over medium heat until fragrant and just beginning to brown. Remove from heat and crush with a mortar and pestle or the back of spoon. Using a mortar and pestle or a food processor, mash cumin, garlic, lime juice, olive oil, and salt together. Add tomatoes and bread and puree. Pour into a tall pitcher or large bowl. Add water to taste – you want a soup, not a salsa. Stir in corn kernels, avocado cubes, cucumber, and red onion. Taste and add lime juice, olive oil, or salt as necessary. Chill. Just before serving, add cilantro.