Caeser Season

I love Caesar salad. For as long as I can remember it’s been my favorite. From a slimy airport special with cheese that could have passed for grated plastic to tableside service at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara and everything in between, this iconic dish seems to embed itself no matter where I am in life.

There was the relationship where anything but Cardini’s Dressing and Kraft Parmesan cheese was on par with Joan Crawford’s wire hangers. Needless to say both were awful. My redemption came while working in the kitchen of Wheeler Hot Springs restaurant in the Ojai Valley of southern California. I was the salad girl. My daily job was to prep both the house and Caesar salads.

The house salad was made with a variety baby greens grown at the same farm which also grows peppers for Sriracha sauce.  Dressed in simple oil and vinegar dressing made with an assortment of fresh herbs from gardens on the terraces next to the outdoor dining area, I liked to grace each plate with edible flowers. It was an easy salad.

But the Caesar—what a beast! The recipe was in Spanish, stained with olive oil which smeared the ink. I had to follow it exactly and if it was a busy service multiple batches had to be individually made—no doubling or tripling the recipe. And since it was made from scratch, including the raw egg yolks, it was also illegal. California had begun to crack down on consumers of undercooked eggs, issuing $125 fines to waitresses at breakfast joints serving sunny side ups. On the menu it was listed only as Classic Caesar. I worked in fear that a man would walk into the kitchen while I was mixing the dressing and whip out a thermometer, but it never happened.

There was no mistaking anchoa on the recipe and I made a gagging motion the first time I picked salted filets out of the tin. Fortunately, the chef took the time to explain the importance of the only fish my family would not eat. “The anchovy is the true flavor of a Caesar Salad,” he told me.

The Romain lettuce had to have the large ribs removed from each leaf by hand. Knife cuts were verboten. After tearing, the lettuce was soaked in ice water before being removed and spun dry for each order. The pièce de résistance was the croutons which were made from commercial square loaves of sourdough with the crusts cut off and each slice cut into four pieces. The squares were dipped into a container of olive oil infused with fresh garlic and rosemary, laid out on a baking sheet, and topped with shaved Asiago cheese before being toasted to a crispy, golden crouton. Each salad got three, but patrons often asked for extra. Any that came back into the kitchen on a plate was eaten by the bus boys who were scavengers of the worst kind.  

It was this Caesar that set the bar for all others for several years until I met Nancy. The first time I saw her make a Caesar salad I cringed. She slathered mayonnaise on the bottom of a bowl, squeezed in all the juice from a lemon straight from a tree in her yard, grated cheese by hand from a brand of pyramid-shaped hard cheese I’d never seen before and crushed a few cloves of fresh garlic on top. There was no anchovy, no Worcestershire, not even a dash of olive oil. The croutons came out of a box. Worst of all, she cut her lettuce before tossing it all in the bowl, putting on the lid and shaking until mixed. Despite my misgivings, her salads were fantastic, especially when her husband snuck in a few more cloves of garlic to make everyone spit fire. “It’s the garlic that makes this salad,” he would always say.

After moving back east I let go of Caesars except when dining out. By now everyone had their own interpretation of Caesar including grilled Romaine. Few made their own croutons. At market I looked longingly at the hand-turned bowls that reminded me of memorable tableside Caesar services over the years, always in stunning bowls. If I had my own Caesar bowl I would make them again I thought to myself, but it never manifested.

A few weeks ago one of my fellow vendors showed up with these adorable heads of Romaine about the size of my hand. Their leaves were tender yet had crisp. They begged me to make Caesar out of them so I did using a mashup of all the methods of a lifetime (sans the Cardini & Kraft). I smeared mayo in a bowl and spiked it with anchovy paste and last season’s olio nuevo. There was a chunk of Pecorino in the fridge I grated into feathery whisps. I had to settle for a sprinkling of lemon juice from a bottle. Living alone has it advantages and lots of garlic is one of them. In the essence of time, I cut the leaves. {Don’t judge.} The croutons were whatever stale bread there was tossed in olive oil and toasted in my grandmother’s vintage toaster oven—perfect for single serving summer cooking. The best ones so far have been challah dusted with Za'atar.

Now I can’t stop. Romaine season is in full swing and I’m trying all of the different types of Romaine lettuces showing up at the market. I’ve thrown off the cloak of a purist and gone wild adding tomatoes one day, steamed green beans the next. Caesar with poached salmon, even Caesar in tacos! I still have nightmares about a Caesar chicken wrap on Amtrak so I think I’ll pass on reliving that memory. As long as Romaine season holds out I know what will be on my menu, especially when all the fresh garlic starts showing up at market in the coming weeks.