I find a Caesar salad strangely comforting. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s so prolific across the world and can be good whether it’s homemade or out of a jar (I’ll fight you on this). I like a creamy Caesar with tiny croutons from a Harvester buffet; crunchy leaves drowned in Cardini’s dressing served with a supermarket rotisserie roast chicken; the on you get from M&S or the overpriced one you get at the airport; a fancy one served with Cacklebean eggs at Snackbar or with a homemade roast chicken at Towpath. There’s comfort to be found in the consistency of a parmesan-laden, anchovy-spiked dressing; the fact that it’s essentially a mayonnaise loosened by lemon juice and salty accoutrements. I asked my friend Joe if he likes a Caesar and he told me: “Yes, because it’s the only salad that feels like a meal. And if you have it with chips you can dip them in to the sauce at the end,” which feels like a genius move I hadn’t yet made. But sometimes I start making a Caesar and the egg yolk splits and I angrily throw it all down the sink; in those moments, I am grateful for tahini.
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