TRAVEL MEMOIR
No bacon. Optional croûtons. ALEX MCCLINTOCK celebrates the salad days of Tijuana.
Caesar salad in Tijuana.
The frat boys and sailors who once trawled Tijuana’s main drag have long gone, scared away by the drug war. Now the drug war has drifted away from the city centre, too, leaving Avenida Revolución, with its shabby bars and seedy strip clubs, largely to the locals.
It’s seven in the evening and the touts look tired. So do the zonkeys – donkeys painted black and white to impersonate zebras for photo opportunities (a small fee, gracias, to the zonkey handler).
I’m feeling tired myself, when a pink stretch Humvee rolls past. Half a dozen teenagers in formal wear lean out of the sunroof, waving and hooting. They’re on their way to a quinceañera, the elaborate 15th-birthday celebration that marks a Mexican girl’s coming of age. I’m heading to something of a celebration myself, for Avenida Revolución is the unlikely birthplace of one of Mexico’s best-known culinary exports.
Though some snobs dismiss it as a middle-of-the-road buffet filler, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Caesar salad. I like the texture – crunchy in several different ways – and the rich and tangy flavour.
Though details are disputed, it’s generally accepted that Tijuana hotelier Caesar Cardini – and not the Roman emperor – threw together a salad of necessity using the few ingredients left after an influx of gringos cleared out his pantry at a Fourth of July party in 1924.
Cardini died in 1956, survived by his daughter Rosa, his salad and his restaurant. Sandwiched between a burger joint and a shopping arcade, Caesar’s has been renovated recently to evoke the salad days of the 1920s with chequerboard tiles, dark wood panelling and white tablecloths.
The lights are dim, the noise level genteel: soft jazz and the hum of conversation from besuited local businessmen. A large portrait of Cardini, tongs in hand, hangs near the entrance.
Like the décor, the menu is a calculated anachronism. Many dishes are named after long-ago people and places: shrimp Newburg, steak Chateaubriand, salmon Wellington, salad Caesar.
Said Caesar is always prepared tableside. A waiter wearing a waistcoat and tie approaches behind a timber trolley. Arranged before him, in ramekins and bottles, are the ingredients of the dressing, as well as an enormous wooden mixing bowl. Eggs, croûtons and lettuce live in the cabinet below.
With great solemnity, he presents each ingredient to the table before adding it to the bowl. In goes Dijon mustard, minced garlic and Worcestershire sauce. He pours olive oil, cracks pepper and sprinkles parmesan from a great height, whisking all the time. When the dressing is finally complete, he adds the leaves, tossing them with tenderness.
The elaborate ceremony takes some time, and I begin to wonder if the salad can possibly match its reputation. I’ve been disappointed by “iconic” dishes before: the absurd tower of pastrami at Katz’s Delicatessen, the lukewarm pie at Harry’s Café de Wheels, the overpriced torte at Café Sacher.
But the Caesar, when it’s finally served, is something else. It’s simple: lettuce with dressing. No bacon. No chicken. Plain croûtons, made from sliced baguette, are optional. The leaves, from the core of a fantastically fresh and flawless cos lettuce, are audibly crunchy. The emulsion is perfectly balanced, garlicky but not overwhelmingly so.
I want to lick my plate. I do lick my plate. Then I ask for a second serve, and watch, fascinated, as my waiter repeats the ritual. As the other legendary Caesar said: veni, vidi, vici.