Wednesday, October 25, 2023

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It's Time to Admit That Iceberg Is a Superior Lettuce - The New Yorker   

One of a variety of cabbage-like lettuces called crisphead, iceberg is distinguished by thick interior leaves that are forced, as they grow, into fractal labyrinths, which fold over and back on themselves until they are a self-supporting mass. It was developed by W. Atlee Burpee & Company in the late eighteen-hundreds, and for the next three quarters of a century was the undisputed queen of American salad greens. (The common story of its name—that it refers to the beds of ice in which the lettuce was shipped in the twenties and thirties—is pure American horseshit, a myth likely originating with Bruce Church, a Depression-era farmer and formidable salesman who founded what is now Fresh Express, one of the country’s largest lettuce distributors.) Despite falling out of favor beginning in the nineteen-seventies, as other alternatives were successfully marketed as both more nutritional and less banal, it has remained America’s most-consumed lettuce, withstanding hearty challenges from arugula, mesclun mix, and—most formidably—romaine and kale, which have largely supplanted it as the greens of choice for homemade salads. (Even if romaine, the Caesar standby, has been felled this year by an outbreak of E. coli.) Iceberg’s structural rigidity means that its crunch can be preserved under even the most extreme conditions, such as beneath a spackle of guacamole inside a taco shell, or within the steamy, ketchupy confines of a hamburger bun.

A wedge is a brash used-car salesman of a salad, a primal dish—a rare thing for a plate of raw greens to be. I’ll order one at any opportunity, especially with a tart buttermilk dressing, crumbles of Maytag blue, chewy bacon lardons, and dice-size cubes of firm, ripe tomato (enough already with the fussy halved cherry tomatoes skidding around a slippery plate). But iceberg’s textural vigor and subtle flavor deserve broader applications. The lettuce can be sliced into dramatic circular coasters, lightly oiled, and grilled to a char; it can be chiffonaded into noodle-like ribbons and wilted in broth; it can be braised in butter, like endives or leeks, as the Japanese chef Shinsuke Nakatani has done at his namesake restaurant in Paris; it can be torn into bite-size pieces and stir-fried with scallions and garlic—a Cantonese classic often served for Chinese New Year.

Lately, my favorite thing to do with iceberg is pickle it. Most of the greens we’re accustomed to eating raw are bred for softness and delicacy, which means that pickling can go horribly wrong; last year, at a beloved Brooklyn restaurant, I ordered a special of “pickled baby gems” that arrived looking, and tasting, like yesterday’s salad after a night in the fridge, a drab mess of wilt and slime and faded vinaigrette. There’s no such risk with the pale-green heart of an iceberg: that gloriously rigid geometry is made for a brine bath; as with cucumbers, onions, or pole beans, a day or two of pickling magically crisps things up even more, and adds a ravishingly salty bite. Use pickled iceberg anywhere you’d employ pickled onions or cucumbers: on sandwiches, burgers, hot dogs, and tacos, adding a bracing jolt of vinegar to a summer salad, or piled up alongside grilled meats.

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