How Pilaf Became a SoCal Fish-House Staple

From the Persian Empire to the Armenian diaspora to.... the beach city fish shack? Here's the story. And a recipe.

When I was growing up in Southern California, my parents would occasionally treat the family to a special dinner of grilled fish by the beach. My dad’s favorite place was a funky place called Walt’s Wharf in Seal Beach, California, where you could get fresh fish grilled over charcoal, “Walt’s famous” clam chowder, vegetables, and rice pilaf. You’d select from among perhaps a dozen ocean fish- mahi-mahi, sea bass, swordfish, albacore, etc. - but they would all be cooked the same way: over sizzling charcoal on a big grill in the middle of the dining area. The fish was seasoned lightly and grilled until firm with a smoky, fresh aroma. It was served with a bunch of lemon wedges and a generous side of savory, golden rice pilaf.

The smoke from the grill and the fresh tang of the lemons smelled just like the beach to me, and was as much a part of a trip to the coast as the smell of salty air and the feel of sand on your feet. The grilled fish & rice pilaf combo was the classic pairing: one could not imagine a better starch to serve aside a beautiful piece of fish. To me, this was the quintessential fish restaurant meal- and fish was served this way up and down the Southern California coast at beachside restaurants: from Brophy Bros. on the Santa Barbara Pier to Fish House Vera Cruz in San Marcos, from Malibu Seafood to Honest Fish in Encinitas to the Fish Market in Del Mar. Fish and chips was definitely not on the menu at these places: they served lightly seasoned, fresh fish grilled over hot coals. They usually had a fish counter where you could buy impeccably fresh seafood to bring home, and delicious clam chowder. And they always, always, served rice pilaf.

It didn’t occur to me until last week- when I was craving grilled fish and pilaf- that this was not an obvious pairing. The SoCal fish-house culture was very surfy and beachy- the restaurants were decorated with nautical ephemera and fishing poles. These places were run by fishermen and were fairly puritanical- they had few non-fish options and no deep fryers. How on Earth did the exotic, middle-Eastern dish of pilaf get on the menu?

Let’s go back to the beginning. Like so many great foods (such as kebab, sherbet, and meatballs), the beginnings of pilaf are in Persia. Though the origin of the word is uncertain, the Persian word pilav (or pilaw) came to mean two things: 1. a way to cook rice that keeps each grain dry and separate (one historic source says “like peppercorns”) and 2. a dish that mixes and with other ingredients. Pilav dishes could mean either or both of those things. Polow and polo still carry these meanings in Iran- javaher polow is a memorable dish that mixes a kaleidoscope of nuts, fruits, and vegetables with rice and spices to create a complex and enjoyable main course, and albaloo polo is a pilaf made with sour cherries.

Albaloo polo, Iranian sour cherry pilaf. Photo by golisnow, CC 2.0

Pilav/pilaw spread in all directions from Persia, and became a part of innumerable cultural traditions. Many preserved some version of pilav/pilaw in the name of various adaptations of the dish: Uzbek plov, a giant party dish of rice, meats, and vegetables, Indian pulau, another mixed-rice dish, the saffron-seafood paella of Spain, etc.

The spread of pilav from Persia, including the many dishes with names descended from the word pilav or pilaw.

In Arabic-speaking countries, the name changed but the concept didn’t: pilav- style dishes proliferated in these cultures too. The most popular version of pilav in the cultures west of Iran became an interesting integration of rice- based culture and the wheat-based diet of the Mediterranean: in this pilav, the rice was mixed with broken up bits of Italian pasta. It’s a collision of two cuisines- a dish for noodle-eaters and rice-eaters alike. The technique couldn’t be simpler or more delicious: broken bits of very thin angel-hair type pasta are toasted in butter until brown, the rice is added and toasted a bit too, and finally both are simmered together in water or broth. This dish was called riz bi sh'arieh (rice with hair-pasta) in Arabia, pilav in Armenia and Turkey, pilafi in Greece, plov in Israel, etc. Elsewhere, it is called Arabic rice, Egyptian rice, vermicelli rice, or butter rice. But everywhere in the Eastern Mediterranean the dish is known and beloved. Pasta, rice, butter, and broth- what’s not to love? Armenia- historically nestled between Iran and Turkey- is right in the epicenter of pilav culture, including the rice-pasta kind.

Enter war, politics, and exile: after the Armenian genocide in the early 20th century, there was a significant influx of Armenian immigrants to the United States, especially to cities like Boston, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. They brought with them an affection for pilav, especially the pasta-rice version: it seems to be the ultimate comfort food to Armenian-Americans. And it was a great dish to introduce to their new countrymen: mild, buttery, and carbohydrate-rich. The turning point for pilav- often called “rice pilaf” in American English, was the introduction of boxed versions of the food in the late 1950s. This happened in two places at once. In San Francisco, the brothers who ran the Italian Macaroni Company were exposed to pilav by the Armenian expatriate Pailadzo Captanian. Recognizing its potential, they concocted a recipe of boxed rice and toasted pasta, along with a sachet of dried chicken broth- you just needed to mix with water and boil. Thinking pilav too foreign, they named the product “Rice-A-Roni” and marketed it as “The San Francisco Treat”. In 1962 in Worcester, MA, Armenian immigrant Hannah Kalajian invented a similar product, naming it “Near East Rice Pilaf”. Both were advertised as an ideal side dish and a fun change of pace (bored with potatoes? try Rice-a-Roni!) Rice pilaf was just exotic enough to be interesting but familiar enough to appeal to American palates. Soon, Americans were serving rice pilaf as an exotic side dish at home, and even venturing out to try the dish in Armenian, Greek, and Middle Eastern restaurants.

An ad for Near East Rice Pilaf, early 80s.

But, how did pilaf make it to the Southern California fish restaurant? The answer is one man: Bob Roubian. By all accounts a colorful character, Roubian returned from World War II and settled in Newport Beach, California. Bob supported himself as a carpenter, but immersed himself in beach culture- deep-sea fishing, making music, and living the good life. One of his carpentry jobs turned into an investment opportunity, and in 1951 Bob bought a struggling fish market called “Seafood Specialties” on Newport Blvd. He installed shellfish steamers out front, and the locals began calling it “the place with the crab cookers”. Roubian embraced the nickname, painted the building bright red, and rechristened it “The Crab Cooker”. Being a fisherman himself and something of a rebel, Bob rejected fish restaurant norms of the time: he didn’t serve fish and chips or fancy French fish preparations, he didn’t give out bread, and he didn’t serve dessert. He focused on his favorite way to cook fish: grilled over a hot fire. Bob set up grills fired with local mesquite, sprinkled his fish with Lawry’s seasoning, and served them simply with fresh chowder. He decorated the place with funky ephemera and homemade signs. As most restaurants do, the Crab Cooker struggled for its first few years, but fortune smiled on Bob: he wrote and performed a novelty song called “The Popcorn Song (Too Pooped to Pop)” which randomly became a jukebox hit in 1955. Proceeds from the record allowed Roubian to pay off his debts and expand the restaurant. Soon, the Crab Cooker developed a reputation among Southern Californians as a fun, casual, unpretentious way to eat dinner. The fish was fresh, simple, and inexpensive, the restaurant was inviting and fun. Bob was a natural restauranteur, and had a singular vision for his fish restaurant: his motto became “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.” And the main thing at the Crab Cooker was fresh fish, cooked simply. Oh, and I forgot to mention one other thing: Roubian was Armenian-American. And, in typical idiosyncratic Roubian style, he put his family-recipe “rice pilov” on the menu. No fries or rolls at this fish restaurant- try the rice pilov!

A plate of grilled seabass, pilaf, and slaw at the Crab Cooker.

The Crab Cooker’s fun, simple style became a sensation among the emerging Southern Californian beach culture of the late 1950s and early 1960s. Surfing, sailing, and fishing were cool, the California lifestyle was sun-drenched and healthy, and mesquite-grilled mahi-mahi and a decent glass of wine seemed like an absolutely perfect meal for an evening on the coast. Soon, the Crab Cooker had imitators. Many of these weren’t opened by restauranteurs seeking to get in on a new craze, but local fishermen seeking to find a way to sell their fresh catch. The mesquite-grilled fish house, often with a fish market in the front, became a fixture in beach towns up and down the coast. And they all took a cue from the Crab Cooker and put rice pilaf on the menu.

The Crab Cooker and several imitators, all classic Southern California fish-and-pilaf joints.

By the time I was a kid in the 70s, the California mesquite-grilled fish place was an established institution, and rice pilaf was just a part of the tradition. It had lost its Armenian identity and exotic Middle-Eastern mystique, but had gained a spot in the improvised, creative beach culture of my beloved Southern California coast. After a while, people didn’t even notice that an Armenian side dish was on their surf-city menu, and pilaf became a completely assimilated into the cuisine of the Fish House. Ain’t that America?

The interior of the Crab Cooker, present day.

Here’s my super-simple pilaf recipe that I make when grilling fish (or kebabs) at home.

Rice Pilaf

1 1/2 cups long-grain rice

about 1/2 cup broken up thin pasta (I use angel hair, thin spaghetti, filini, or the pasta sold as ‘vermicelli’ in Middle Eastern groceries)

3 tablespoons butter

3 cups chicken broth (water will work too)

1 teaspoon salt

Break up the thin pasta into roughly 1-inch lengths. add to a saucepan with the butter, and set the heat to medium. The hot melted butter will begin to toast the pasta and turn it brown. Watch it carefully- this will only take 2 or 3 minutes- and when the pasta has reached the color of cinnamon, add the rice to the pan. Saute for another minute or two, until you can smell the rice toasting. Then add the broth and salt, lower the heat, and cover. Simmer for 20 minutes until all the broth is absorbed. Stir, fluff, and serve alongside grilled fish or pretty much anything. Serves 4.