Last night, at Universal Cafe in SF, I ordered "lettuces." The menu offered "lettuces." From a farm in Marin somewhere.
When the waiter quietly inquired, I ordered the lettuces with a measure of gravitas usually reserved for matters requiring careful deliberation; the tone used when indicating delicate procedures in crucial matters, much like a surgeon might say, "We will now tie off the aorta." Or, insofar as there was no eye contact between the waiter and me, the transaction around the lettuces was something akin to an assistant bringing me something to sign.
However, none of this occurred to me at the time I ordered the "lettuces." And so I ordered lettuces, not "lettuces."
I ate the lettuces, and to the extent that I thought about the lettuces further it was only to confirm that I enjoyed them, lightly tossed as they were with a bit of green apple and a vinaigrette of olive oil and an aged sherry vinegar. But then, upon leaving, I encountered a young colleague, SC, and her husband dining al fresco. And because we were at Universal, a little known but much honored cafe featuring local this and sustainable that, we naturally inquired of one another what well-considered choices we'd made from the menu.
We spoke reverentially, knowingly, in the celebrated specificities of the menu: ". . . Milo's farm chicken marinated in yogurt . . . grass-fed lamb sugo . . . belwether sheep's ricotta . . . catalan farm strawberries," et al.
Only then, when I stated I'd had the "lettuces," did I realize, "Wait, did I just say that I ate 'lettuces'?!!? Good Lord! Here . . . I’ll tell you what I really ate. I ate a salad! . . . accompanied by a ricotta tortellini with morels."
"PRETENTIOUS!" my young friend EC, fist up to her mouth, would cough scoffingly (though I heard no common-man protest when she scarfed the serving of olive oil cake with strawberries, a balsamic reduction, and creme fraiche).
Yes, yes, a salad is made up of lettuce and sometimes even lettuces, but the word "salad" has faithfully served to describe the dish since the late 14th century according to the OED. And while "lettuces" is soft and euphonious, it's also a bit comical in the plural with its staccato "-tuces" at the end.
"Salad," like "lettuces," shares the same or similar soft consonant sounds with an "s" sound, but by comparison with the comical "lettuces," "salad" seems elegant, even chic. George Clooney eats salads. Clowns eat "lettuces" . . . or rabbits do.
Does this mean I will risk opprobrium in culinary sacred spaces if I insist on ordering a "salad" when the menu celebrates local "lettuces"? Will the wait-staff bring ketchup, unsolicited, with my pommes frites instead of the preferred aioli? Or will they chuckle at me, knowing as they do that their feted restaurant wouldn't deign to carry ketchup though, my God, would it kill that great little bistro in Oakland, A Coté, to carry a bottle of ketchup? It's OAKLAND!!!
I do prefer ketchup.
