Romaine, where has all your flavor gone? Time to try these lettuces
Twenty years ago, when I first returned to my native California from New York City, I tapped out a letter to the Food editor of this newspaper instructing her in no uncertain terms what exactly was what when it came to a classic Caesar salad.
The letter had to do with whether to chop the leaves or not. Not! I insisted. Tap, tap, tap. I was correcting the paper with confidence and conviction. The romaine lettuce had to be left whole, except the floppy ends, which would need to be chopped off. The fact that the lettuce had to be romaine was, I figured, a given. But that was then.
Recently I started to wonder if my attachment to tradition, and to romaine specifically, was holding me back.
For me, the Caesar is more than a salad, it’s family. My dad — who had worked at the Hotel Caesar, where the salad was born — came to Christmas one year and showed me how to make the authentic version.
I asked my friend, chef Jonathan Waxman, also a California native and lover of vegetables whose kale salad marked the beginning of a two-decades-long-and-running trend, if I should stick with romaine or use Little Gems, a smaller, tighter French cousin instead.
“They both suck!” he answered. “The new romaine is flavorless, and Gems are waterlogged. See if one of the farmers has the old, bitter stuff.” He reminisced about the “sturdy, bitter, royal green-blue romaine” of yore, and although I don’t remember it exactly, I do remember a time when I didn’t pick up a lettuce leaf that was so watery as to be nearly translucent and wonder: Where has all the flavor gone?
“I seriously believe that it is about how the lettuce is grown!” Alice Waters replied when I asked her that question. “Organic regenerative soil is what gives the lettuce taste. The industrial lettuce has neither taste nor nutrition.”
When I’m in my hometown of San Diego, I’m lucky enough to have access to the beautiful heads of delicious and nutritious romaine varieties that have the deep color and flavor Waxman waxed on about and that are grown in such regenerative soil at the legendary Chino family farm.
“Commercial growers grow for maximum production and for a particular size,” Tom Chino says. “Not for flavor.” The Chinos, by contrast, experiment with different varieties, looking not for those that will last the longest on the shelf but for varieties such as those they’re currently growing — Carlo, Dragoon and Chalupa — that will yield the best texture and the most taste.
For those who can’t get farm-fresh lettuce varieties like those the Chinos grow, there is a solution. Namely: chicories! Chicories refers to a family of winter lettuces (luckily, today, many are available year-round, though their characteristic bitter flavor won’t be as intense) that includes endive (white and red), frisée (a variety of endive), radicchio (there are many kinds), escarole (more commonly enjoyed cooked) and puntarelle (best known as the base of an iconic Roman salad coated, interestingly, in a heavy anchovy-garlic dressing).
This Caesar salad recipe is a family heirloom, passed down from father (who worked at the Hotel Caesar in Tijuana, where the salad was born) to daughter.
At her Italian steakhouse, Chi Spacca, Nancy Silverton dispenses with romaine altogether; the Spacca Caesar consists of a mountain of thinly shaved cauliflower and hearts of escarole tossed in a tangy emulsified Caesar dressing and embellished with fried Italian parsley leaves and Silverton’s signature torn croutons, these doused in anchovies, garlic, olive oil and butter. (Mine are based on hers.) This is one of three Caesar salads she serves at her three restaurants on Melrose and Highland; the closest to the classic, ironically, goes by the name tri-colore and is made exclusively of chicories: radicchio, endive and frisée.
At Jar, chef Suzanne Tracht uses Little Gems for her Caesar, but around the time I was tapping out that letter, she made her Caesar with crunchy spears of red and white endive. It made an impression on me because it was so much in the spirit of the classic Caesar despite there being no romaine involved. Not unlike my most recent favorite Caesar, one I had last year at Hugo, a wine bar in Mexico City, that consists of whole radicchio leaves coated in Caesar dressing and breadcrumbs, tightly nestled together in a small bowl.
Could a salad made with radicchio really be a Caesar? Twenty years ago, I would have said no. But I’ve loosened my traditionalist, hometown grip. Today, the Caesar is everyone’s salad. And as for what makes a Caesar a Caesar, it’s purely in the eye of the creator.
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