I recently attended a dinner here in Paris, at a well-known hotel, where the first course was Caesar Salad.
That was the Caesar Salad.
Yes, it has lettuce.
And anchovies (speared around skewers).
But, like, what is with those batter-fried Chinese shrimp?
Who gave the ok to put batter-fried shrimp on a Caesar Salad?
Mon Deui, what is so friggin’ hard about making American food?
Take Caesar Salad, for example. It’s simply torn leaves of Romain lettuce with a mustardy dressing seasoned with anchovies and a touch of worcestershire sauce. All balanced so no ingredient dominates the other. A handful of croûtons get tossed in, some Parmesan grated over the top, and voila!
That, ladies and gentleman, is a Caesar Salad.
Will someone please explain how hard that is to me?
Unlike French food, American food has few fancy sauces and is really pretty straightforward. While admittedly a lot of American food isn’t spectacular, I fail to understand why it’s so impossible to replicate. I’ve had the best cassoulet of my life in Berkeley, amazing Lebanese food in Mexico, marvelous French desserts in Tokyo, superb Moroccan food in France, and terrific Japanese food in Hawaii. So why is it so hard to make American food anywhere else but in America?
While I didn’t move to Paris expecting hamburgers and pizza, I fail to understand what possesses any rational person to spoon canned corn over a pizza. (Why would a country that shuns corn on the cob embrace its frozen kernel-y counterpart?)
Who the heck gave anyone permission to top a hamburger (or pizza) with a runny fried egg?
And if I get one more Salade Niçoise with a big scoop of white rice on top, I’m going to drag the chef down to Nice, force him to stand in the center of town holding their Salade Niçoise avec du riz in hand, and invite the townsfolk for a look-see.
And stand back.
It’s like those insane people, worldwide, that put cream in their pesto sauce.
For the love of humanity: Please stop!
Thanks. I feel better now.