A Good Salad For Two
"A Good Salad For Two"
I’m standing in line behind a man with a really bad comb over. Looking at the back of his head I can see what he probably can’t—has maybe never seen—the three-inch horizontal part that runs along the middle of the back of his head. I touch the back of my head and feel where the skull stops—the place where a massage feels best. I’m guessing that’s where he starts the comb on its journey toward his forehead.
I guess he’s about forty. Give or take. Forty-years-old with a comb-over. I guess that happens. But then I look at his groceries on the conveyor-belt: two baguettes, a head of green-leaf lettuce, package of blackberries, and some feta cheese. That will be a pretty good salad. And somehow my opinion of him changes.
Now he’s a forty-year-old guy with a bad comb-over who’s going home to fix a really nice salad. I wonder what kind of dressing he’ll use. With the berries, I’d say something with balsamic vinegar. A little sweet, a little tart—which would complement the blackberries well. If the blackberries are ripe—where they’re just as sweet as can be, not tart at all—then I’d go with a nice, light, lemon and champagne-vinegar vinaigrette. That would be so, so good—but the blackberries would have to be perfect.
The man turns around and I’m surprised; he’s a young, good-looking guy—maybe twenty-five. He’s a little chubby, but that sort of adds to the boyish quality. Why the comb-over, I think? You’re not old enough, buddy. But I picture him with the alternative—the close-cropped buzz that makes no bones about the lack on top, and I’m not sure about that, either—at least for this guy.
He looks at the groceries I’m loading onto the conveyor belt and spots the Feta cheese that I have, as well. “This stuff any good?”
“Yeah,” I say. But now I’m hesitating. “You making a salad?”
“I guess that’s what she’s doing.”
Now I know—he’s just buying the groceries. Someone else is dreaming of this salad.
I start thinking about the Feta—that it’s a very particular taste; and certainly not to everyone’s liking. This guy has never had it, and I wonder if he’ll like it. I wonder if, when the salad arrives, and he takes the first bite, what he’ll be thinking—and in turn, what he’ll say to “she.” I can easily imagine that he’ll hate it; but of course, that’s not what he’ll say. “Mm. Pretty good.” [Grimace].
I imagine that maybe the “she” has picked up a new cookbook, has maybe been watching Rachael Ray or Bobbie Flay or Iron Chef and decided that trying new things would be good for them. And so she’s decided on the old greens with berries and cheese—a mad-lib salad that is almost impossible to get wrong: Spinach, walnuts and Roquefort; Mesculin, piñon nuts and raspberries; Butter lettuce, spiced almonds and Maytag Blue. It’s a great move—interesting salads—for anyone who wants dinner to be something, “a little extra.”
But Feta—I wonder. I wonder if, when he does sit down to eat, and takes that first bite, if he’ll remember me and silently curse my name, thinking: “What the fuck was that guy talking about?”
The man’s groceries are rung up and then there’s a little commotion, and from what I can gather, the man was supposed to get blueberries instead of blackberries. My inclination is to tell him that the blackberries will probably be better—but then I remember the man sitting there, cursing me for telling him, “yeah, it’s good,” and meanwhile “she” is saying, “you would have liked it if you’d just bought the damn blueberries instead of listening to some asshole in line.” And then the man would curse me doubly.
So I say nothing. I think of the salad that I’m making—just a simple Greek salad that my wife and I will eat with some bowtie pasta with a simple marinara, some spiced turkey sausage, and a bottle of red. Sounds good.
I’m standing in line behind a man with a really bad comb over. Looking at the back of his head I can see what he probably can’t—has maybe never seen—the three-inch horizontal part that runs along the middle of the back of his head. I touch the back of my head and feel where the skull stops—the place where a massage feels best. I’m guessing that’s where he starts the comb on its journey toward his forehead.
I guess he’s about forty. Give or take. Forty-years-old with a comb-over. I guess that happens. But then I look at his groceries on the conveyor-belt: two baguettes, a head of green-leaf lettuce, package of blackberries, and some feta cheese. That will be a pretty good salad. And somehow my opinion of him changes.
Now he’s a forty-year-old guy with a bad comb-over who’s going home to fix a really nice salad. I wonder what kind of dressing he’ll use. With the berries, I’d say something with balsamic vinegar. A little sweet, a little tart—which would complement the blackberries well. If the blackberries are ripe—where they’re just as sweet as can be, not tart at all—then I’d go with a nice, light, lemon and champagne-vinegar vinaigrette. That would be so, so good—but the blackberries would have to be perfect.
The man turns around and I’m surprised; he’s a young, good-looking guy—maybe twenty-five. He’s a little chubby, but that sort of adds to the boyish quality. Why the comb-over, I think? You’re not old enough, buddy. But I picture him with the alternative—the close-cropped buzz that makes no bones about the lack on top, and I’m not sure about that, either—at least for this guy.
He looks at the groceries I’m loading onto the conveyor belt and spots the Feta cheese that I have, as well. “This stuff any good?”
“Yeah,” I say. But now I’m hesitating. “You making a salad?”
“I guess that’s what she’s doing.”
Now I know—he’s just buying the groceries. Someone else is dreaming of this salad.
I start thinking about the Feta—that it’s a very particular taste; and certainly not to everyone’s liking. This guy has never had it, and I wonder if he’ll like it. I wonder if, when the salad arrives, and he takes the first bite, what he’ll be thinking—and in turn, what he’ll say to “she.” I can easily imagine that he’ll hate it; but of course, that’s not what he’ll say. “Mm. Pretty good.” [Grimace].
I imagine that maybe the “she” has picked up a new cookbook, has maybe been watching Rachael Ray or Bobbie Flay or Iron Chef and decided that trying new things would be good for them. And so she’s decided on the old greens with berries and cheese—a mad-lib salad that is almost impossible to get wrong: Spinach, walnuts and Roquefort; Mesculin, piñon nuts and raspberries; Butter lettuce, spiced almonds and Maytag Blue. It’s a great move—interesting salads—for anyone who wants dinner to be something, “a little extra.”
But Feta—I wonder. I wonder if, when he does sit down to eat, and takes that first bite, if he’ll remember me and silently curse my name, thinking: “What the fuck was that guy talking about?”
The man’s groceries are rung up and then there’s a little commotion, and from what I can gather, the man was supposed to get blueberries instead of blackberries. My inclination is to tell him that the blackberries will probably be better—but then I remember the man sitting there, cursing me for telling him, “yeah, it’s good,” and meanwhile “she” is saying, “you would have liked it if you’d just bought the damn blueberries instead of listening to some asshole in line.” And then the man would curse me doubly.
So I say nothing. I think of the salad that I’m making—just a simple Greek salad that my wife and I will eat with some bowtie pasta with a simple marinara, some spiced turkey sausage, and a bottle of red. Sounds good.
posted by tippstein at 9:47 AM
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