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Tuna Steak Salad -- Summer on a Plate, Grilled in the Midnight Sun

May. The Alaskan spring exploding — the birch trees leafing, the mountains shedding snow, the daylight hitting sixteen hours and climbing. The coastal trail is crowded with people who have survived winter and pandemic and are emerging into the light with the specific gratitude of moles leaving a tunnel, blinking, grateful, disoriented by the brightness. I walk the trail before my shifts. The inlet sparkles. The mountains are green at the bottom and white at the top. The eagles circle. Alaska in May is the apology for Alaska in January — the beauty so excessive it feels like compensation, the state saying: sorry for the darkness. Here. Have twenty hours of light.

The ER is settling into something approaching normal. Not pre-pandemic normal — that's gone, the way childhood is gone, you don't go back — but a new normal that includes the lessons of the pandemic without the acute terror. We wash hands more. We notice coughs. We carry the awareness of vulnerability that the pandemic installed in us, the permanent upgrade to our threat-detection systems. But the PPE is lighter. The break room is louder. Santos Station still runs on Tuesdays. Pete still eats three servings.

I made inihaw na bangus — grilled milkfish, the Filipino summer classic. I found bangus at the Asian market, frozen, the same market where Lourdes has been buying it since the '80s. I grilled it on the balcony at 9 PM in full sunlight, the charcoal glowing, the fish charring, the garlic and tomato stuffing fragrant in the warm air. Summer food. Outside food. The food of a woman who survived a pandemic and a winter and is standing on a balcony in the light, grilling fish, alive.

The bangus was the instinct — the specific fish of my specific memory — but what I keep coming back to is the impulse itself: fire, fish, open air, the smell of something charring while the sun refuses to set. If you don’t have access to an Asian market with frozen milkfish, this grilled tuna steak salad is the same spirit on a different plate: fast enough for a post-shift Tuesday, bright enough to taste like the season, and best made outside while there’s still light to cook by.

Tuna Steak Salad

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 25 min | Servings: 2

Ingredients

  • 2 fresh or thawed tuna steaks (about 6 oz each, 3/4 inch thick)
  • 2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
  • 1 teaspoon garlic powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
  • 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • 5 oz mixed salad greens
  • 1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
  • 1/2 cucumber, thinly sliced
  • 1/4 red onion, thinly sliced
  • 1/4 cup kalamata olives, halved
  • 2 tablespoons capers (optional)
  • 3 tablespoons lemon juice
  • 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
  • 1 teaspoon honey

Instructions

  1. Prepare the tuna. Pat tuna steaks dry with paper towels. Rub each steak with 1/2 tablespoon olive oil, then season both sides evenly with garlic powder, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper.
  2. Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, and honey until emulsified. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Set aside.
  3. Grill the tuna. Heat a grill or grill pan over high heat until very hot. Grill tuna steaks 2—3 minutes per side for medium-rare (or 4 minutes per side for fully cooked). Remove from heat and let rest 2 minutes before slicing.
  4. Assemble the salad. Arrange greens on two plates. Top with cherry tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, olives, and capers if using. Drizzle with dressing and toss lightly.
  5. Slice and serve. Cut tuna steaks against the grain into 1/2-inch slices. Fan over the salad. Finish with a squeeze of fresh lemon and serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 385 | Protein: 42g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 14g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 620mg

Grace Santos
About the cook who shared this
Grace Santos
Week 263 of Grace’s 30-year story · Anchorage, Alaska
Grace is a thirty-seven-year-old ER nurse in Anchorage, Alaska — Filipino-American, single, and the person her entire community calls when they need a hundred lumpia for a party or a shoulder to cry on after a hard shift. She cooks to cope with the things she sees in the emergency room, feeding her neighbors and her church and anyone who looks like they need a plate. Her adobo could bring peace to a warring nation. Her schedule could kill a lesser person.

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