Long before “girl dinner” became the internet’s shorthand for a hodgepodge of olives, cheese, and vibes, there was the Caesar salad—my original comfort meal in disguise. Back in high school, when a coveted off-campus lunch pass felt like a golden ticket, my friends and I would pile into someone’s hand-me-down car and head straight to Brighams’, our suburban Massachusetts haven. There, we’d order the usual: frosty black-and-white milkshakes, a round of Diet Cokes, a shared basket of fries and onion rings, and—most sacred of all—towering Caesar salads. Cold, crisp, creamy, garlicky, and showered in shaved Parmesan, they were our not-so-subtle initiation into adulthood. Light enough to feel classy, but rich enough to feel like a splurge, it was the dish that made us feel like women-in-the-making.
Looking back, we didn’t know much about the salad’s roots or its cultural clout. What we did know? Caesar salad never missed.
The Taste That Keeps on Winning
It’s almost too easy to overlook the Caesar salad these days. It’s everywhere—from steakhouses to airport kiosks, from school cafeterias to upscale wine bars. With its seemingly bulletproof combination of crunchy romaine, sharp Parmesan, garlicky croutons, and that silky umami bomb of a dressing, it’s hard to imagine a world where the Caesar isn’t a go-to. But behind that staying power lies a remarkable story of migration, invention, and adaptability—one that mirrors the shape-shifting nature of American cuisine itself.
The Caesar isn’t some ancient Roman relic, despite the imperial name. It’s an immigrant success story, born not in Italy, but in 1920s Tijuana. Italian brothers Cesare (or “Caesar”) and Alessandro Cardini, who had been living and cooking in California, moved south to Mexico during Prohibition, opening restaurants just across the border. Their timing was impeccable. While Americans were legally dry at home, they flocked to Tijuana for cocktails, casinos, and the novelty of a sophisticated night out. Enter: the Caesar salad.
Accounts vary slightly, but the generally accepted origin story goes like this—on a particularly busy Fourth of July weekend, Caesar Cardini found himself running low on supplies. Ever the showman, he improvised a tableside salad using what he had: romaine lettuce, raw egg, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, olive oil, and Parmesan. He tossed it in front of diners with a theatrical flair, and just like that, a legend was born.
The Everyman’s Fancy Salad
For all its swank beginnings, the Caesar quickly became the people’s salad. Maybe it’s because its appeal is so instinctive. There’s that crunchy-soft balance, the richness of the dressing balanced by the watery snap of romaine, the deeply savory backbone of anchovy (whether declared or smuggled in via Worcestershire), and the always-welcome crunch of croutons. It’s indulgent without being heavy. Accessible, yet sophisticated.
But perhaps the real genius of the Caesar lies in how gracefully it’s evolved. It’s endlessly riffable. Chefs can add grilled chicken, seared shrimp, or crispy tofu without disrupting its DNA. They can swap romaine for kale, watercress, or little gems. They can deconstruct it, reconstruct it, and foam it if they must. Even a vegetarian Caesar—anchovy-free but packed with miso or nutritional yeast—still captures the spirit of the original.
And while the dressing might seem fussy, it’s been endlessly democratized—from blender versions to bottled ones, from mayo-based shortcuts to anchovy-packed purist takes. No matter the variation, Caesar remains a safe harbor for the American palate. It’s the kind of dish that can ease people into bolder flavors: raw egg, anchovy, the funk of real Parmesan. It flirts with complexity without ever being pretentious.
A Salad That Grew With Us
What makes the Caesar salad special isn’t just its history—it’s how deeply it’s embedded itself into our cultural memory. For me, it was the gateway salad—the first one that didn’t feel like a pile of health food, the one that felt grown-up. It’s a dish many of us graduated to as kids, when we were ready to move beyond ranch dressing and iceberg lettuce but not quite ready for frisée and fig vinaigrette.
That emotional tie is powerful. Whether eaten in a white-tablecloth restaurant or with plastic cutlery in a takeout container, a Caesar can still feel like an event. It has the reliability of a best friend and the flexibility of a trendsetter. It adapts to the moment, but it never loses its essence.
The Future Is Still Caesar
In a world of fleeting food fads and TikTok recipes that disappear as fast as they arrive, the Caesar stands tall. It’s survived nearly a century of changing tastes, dietary trends, and even geographical displacement. It started in a prohibition-era border town and ended up as a staple in everything from wedding banquets to Wednesday night dinners. That kind of staying power isn’t just nostalgia—it’s proof that some flavors are timeless.
So here’s to the Caesar salad—an enduring classic, a canvas for creativity, and, for some of us, the first dish that made us feel like we belonged in the adult world of ordering for ourselves. It may not have been born in Rome, but it sure made a conquest of our hearts.
