On Salads

I detest the way some restaurants insist upon bringing a salad to the table with the various ingredients segregated into different corners of the platter. Olives at one corner, green peppers in another, and the poor tomatoes squeezed into yet another as if they'd been warned that the olives were gun-toting terrorists. Call me old-fashioned, but for $12.95, I don't believe I should have to toss my own salad.

I have a stock response to this occurrence, which is to look over my sunglasses when the plate arrives and very loudly announce to a startled waiter: "I was against segregation then, and I am against segregation now." I then ask to speak with a manager, and in a firm but well-meaning tone I tell him (or nowadays it might even be a "her") that if I'd planned on participating in the preparation of my own meal I would have worn an apron, rubber gloves and a hair-net into the establishment. I really let them have it for a good 10 to 15 minutes. After that I back off and more often than not, my drinks are on the house, as a gesture to smooth things over. It's certainly not necessary for a restaurant to comp my drinks when this happens, but I think what separates us from the animal kingdom is the ability to apologize for culinary inadequacies via small monetary gestures.

Speaking of salad, I must brag finally, that I'm famous among a small group of former friends, for my coleslaw. The basic ingredients are shaved cabbage, green peppers, finely chopped pimento, carrots, almonds and pineapple. Over this goes a heavy dressing of mayonnaise, a liberal helping of both dry and prepared mustard, the juice of eleven lemons, olive oil, cider vinegar, four teaspoons of vodka, hot peppers, and a magic mixture of spices and herbs that I buy from a restaurant in downtown Savannah called "Lady and The Tramps", if I recall correctly.