140 GOURMET TRAVELLER
Travel memoir
ILLUSTRATION LIZ ROWLAND/ILLUSTRATION ROOM.T
he 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 elaborate15th-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.●Hail, Caesar
UNPACKING
No bacon. Optional croûtons.ALEX MCCLINTOCK
celebrates the salad days of Tijuana.