Citizens... They say... this salad was born in Mexico. They say it is named after a hotelier. But look at it... It is Roman. It is sparse... It is disciplined... It is sharp. So... I accept the tribute. First... The Leaf. Romaine... Cos Lettuce. Do not bring me Iceberg... Iceberg is frozen water... It is weakness. We need the Heart... The Crunch. It must stand up... like a soldier on parade. Wash it... Dry it. If the leaf is wet... the dressing slides off... like rain on armor. That... is a tactical failure. The Dressing... This is the Weapon. Garlic... Lemon... Egg Yolk. And... The Anchovy. Do not cringe... If you fear the fish... you are not ready for the Glory. Mash the anchovy... into a paste. Whisk it with the oil. It must be thick... Creamy... Aggressive. It should not taste "nice"... It should taste... of the Sea... and Victory. Toss the leaves by hand. Every leaf... must be coated. The Hardware. Croutons. Do not buy them in a bag... Those are rocks. Take old bread... Tear it. Fry it... in olive oil... and garlic. They should be rough... Gold... jagged. And the Cheese. Parmesan. Do not use the dust from the green shaker... That is sawdust. Shave it. We want shards... We want sheets of cheese. Now... The Protein. The Chicken. Listen to me... Do not boil it. Do not steam it. We are not feeding an invalid. Grill it. Char the skin. Season it heavily... Salt... Pepper... Lemon. Slice it while it is hot. Lay the hot bird... on the cold leaf. The contrast... Hot and Cold... Crunch and Cream... This is the strategy. Plate it. Add one final squeeze of lemon. Eat it with a fork... no knife required. Et Tu, Bruté? Pass the bowl. Carry on.
