For a long time, wedge salad was the only salad for me. Maybe that’s because iceberg was one of the few pieces of produce my parents kept in the house (my mom, a Midwesterner, grew up with it; my dad, a vegetable skeptic, tolerated it). Or because my dad, who worked at a Manhattan ad agency and often ate at steakhouses where the wedge was standard fare, introduced me to it at a young age. Now I realize that this brash ensemble—a brawny chunk of roughage trimmed with smoky bacon; tangy tomatoes; and rich, pungent blue cheese dressing—is just undeniably appealing.
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Not everyone cherishes the salad (particularly its “glacial” foundation) like I do, though. Iceberg was practically synonymous with lettuce in this country during the first three-quarters of the 20th century, and so the wedge became America’s salad: a fixture in restaurants and home kitchens of every stripe. But when darker, bolder, allegedly more refined greens unceremoniously dethroned iceberg around the turn of the last century, the wedge toppled, too, and evangelists like me have been stumping for it ever since.
In Defense of Iceberg
It’s been dubbed “the polyester of lettuce.” Maligned for its lack of flavor, nutrients, and verdancy. And panned by culinary luminaries such as Alice Waters and Craig Claiborne, who denounce its lack of seasonality and terroir. But breaking through the noise is an increasingly vocal minority (myself included) who believe that iceberg is misunderstood and that the naysayers don’t know what they’re missing. For one thing, the cabbagey-looking head wasn’t bred for nuance or delicacy like other salad greens. Its “remarkable solidity and crisp, crystalline appearance,” as advertised by W. Atlee Burpee & Co. when the seed company introduced iceberg (a variety of crisphead lettuce) at the end of the 19th century, were—and still are—its defining features. At the time, its sturdiness made iceberg valuable as a crop that could withstand coast-to-coast train transport and long-term storage, but cooks all over the world have since embraced its unparalleled juicy crunch and crystal-clean flavor in myriad ways.
No other salad green can take lashings of thick, creamy dressing without wilting, nor is there a more refreshing leaf to slip between the folds of a BLT. Shred and pile it on a fried chicken sandwich, tuck it alongside oily spiced meat in a taco, or mound it under salt and pepper shrimp as a respite from the Sichuan peppercorns’ tingly buzz. As for iceberg’s allegedly poor nutritional value, health experts agree that’s an overstatement. While not chock-full of folate like darker leafy greens, it does contain valuable vitamins and nutrients.
Here’s why: A proper wedge has the power to charm and comfort its nostalgic fanbase and has also inspired a new generation of forward-thinking cooks to riff on its brilliant contrast. And, frankly, who among us can resist its whimsy and drama? Its imposing (borderline comical) architecture.
The drenching pour of dressing that cascades down the iceberg’s cold, rippling facade. The satisfying crunch of a knife severing its tightly packed leaves, and the explosion of chew, tang, crunch, and palate-coating richness you experience in each bite. It’s pure joy.
So this is my ode to the classic: I’ve taken it apart; polished up each component with thoughtful, highly impassioned tweaks; and reassembled it to capture every bit of this icon’s glory. With any luck, this will be the version that unites rather than drives a wedge (sorry) between us.
The Iceberg
A mountainous wedge of iceberg isn’t just for show or name. Sliced this way, the lettuce’s core remains intact and its leaves hold together in a tight stack, maximizing the salad’s dramatic height as well as the refreshing crunch that’s critical for breaking up the richness, salt, and funk of the other elements.
(Slicing the lettuce into platter-like slabs, as some modern interpretations do, causes the leaves to loosen and separate, dulling those effects.) Keeping the iceberg fridge-cold until serving time enhances its invigorating bite.
The Alliums
I find raw onion’s heat and pungency overwhelming in a wedge salad, but a little allium savor is nice. Enter quick-pickled shallots and fresh chives: Both are off script, but the pickle’s tang and crunch complement the classic components, and chives (cut into elegant lengths) add subtle bite and streaks of vivid green color.
The Tomatoes
This isn’t the salad for big, juicy slicing tomatoes or for cherries, which either roll haphazardly like marbles or teeter unsteadily when halved. What you want are plum tomatoes: They’re easy to dice into pieces that cling to the dressed wedge so you get pops of savory, fruity brightness in each bite. Plus, they’ve got a higher ratio of meaty flesh to seeds and juice than round and cherry tomatoes, so they don’t sog out the salad.
The Dressing
Blue cheese dressing—a wedge salad standard, and in my opinion a must over alternatives such as ranch and thousand-island—should be very thick, sharp, and pungent enough to balance a mouthful of watery iceberg. Roquefort is ideal: Made from raw sheep’s milk and aged for several months, it’s ripe with barnyardy tang, peppery, salty, silky-smooth, and strewn with big pockets of assertive blue-green mold. I mash a third of the crumbles to a paste with a fork (the tines of a whisk trap the cheese) before combining it with mayonnaise, sour cream, lemon juice, red wine vinegar (each brings unique acidity), a dash of hot sauce, and plenty of freshly cracked pepper.
The result will seem too thick, but that’s deliberate: Its viscosity helps the dressing grip the iceberg and the other components, and as it seeps into the wedge’s nooks and crannies, moisture from the lettuce dilutes and thins it to a velvety consistency. Meanwhile, the other two-thirds of the cheese is for scattering over the top; keep the crumbles large so that they pop with creamy bite. Both the dressing and the cheese should be chilled until serving.
The Bacon
No shade to all the crispy bacon devotees out there, but if I’m eating bacon, I want to sink my teeth into it—especially when it’s going into a wedge salad, where I like it to mimic the meaty bite of lardons. Hence I use thick-cut strips, the lean, meaty portion of which doesn’t dehydrate as fully as regular-cut bacon and thus retains moisture and satisfying chew even after it’s cooked long enough to render most of the fat.
Cutting the strips crosswise into half-inch pieces ensures that they are substantial, and slow-cooking them over moderately low heat gives them time to become thoroughly rendered and browned.
The Bowl
A generously topped wedge such as this demands particular serveware—a fork and steak knife for breaking down the iceberg while keeping its structure intact, as well as a shallow bowl that allows you to access the food while corralling the components and encouraging them to commingle as you eat. Chilling the bowl keeps everything refreshingly cold for longer.
The Ultimate Wedge Salad
Rich yet refreshing, simple but unapologetically dramatic, this classic American steakhouse salad is the ultimate study in contrasts. Here's my love letter to it.
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