The Caesar? Are you certain? No, of course it's a good choice sir. Everyone just loves the Caesar Salad. I mean how could you not like that lettuce and those croutons and that dressing. May I ask, sir, that you at least consider the house salad? It is oh-so-often overlooked by many a distinguished patron such as yourself. Now, I don't blame you, sir, for naturally gravitating towards the Caesar. In many a restaurant it is the clear choice. The so-called "house" salad at those restaruants is nothing but a shank of iceburg with a pitiful smattering of unripe tomato and two, maybe three, ringlets of flavorless white onion, all drowning in industrial-strength Italian dressing. Sure, in those restaurants the Caesar is truly emperor of the salad. But, please understand sir, that in the land of the blind, even a retard can be emperor. Here, sir, it is different.
You look like a man with discerning tastes. I can tell by your Tommy Bahama silk shirt and your attractive wife. I beg your pardon, sir. Attractive sister. At any rate, you are clearly a man who appreciates the finer things in life, and while our Caesar salad is indeed delicious, for the sake of the underdog, please permit me to at least give the house salad a fair trial.
First, we use two types of lettuce: Iceburg and Bibb lettuce. The latter has a loose buttery texture that compliments the crispness of the iceburg. Perhaps you've been to the grocery store, sir, and seen the flavorless abominations of fruit known as "salad tomatoes?" Well, sir, I assure you the tomatoes in our house salad are not of such simplistic garden variety. Ours are heirloom Roma tomatoes grown by local farmers who deliver them fresh every hour. The utmost care goes into slicing them. I assure you we are not like those butchers over at Red Lobster. Our onions do not spring from humble origins, either. We use a variety known as the Russian Red. Its mellow spice and savory aroma makes those tearjerking yellow onions look like a pack of sluts.
And do you know what truly sets our house salad apart, sir? Olives. Delicious black olives. Nothing fancy, you know, that's what the tomatoes are for. These olives are plump and scrumptious, just like they should be.
But the clencher, sir, the pièce de résistance, is without a doubt our dressing. We have devised a sublime emulsion of vinegarette and aioli that would make the richest kings of Europe stab their mothers from sheer culinary pleasure. Not too light, not too powerful, this dressing serves as the flagship for our entire restaurant. Not even our peanut satay swordfish steak tops our house salad dressing in exultance at this establishment, sir. Sir, the formidable Paul Newman has called every day for six weeks begging for this very dressing recipe, but we wouldn't sell it for even a million dollars, sir. That's how much we care.
So what do you say, sir? Have I persuaded you? Care to give it a try?
I see. Allergies. Very well, then. The Caesar is a terrific choice, sir. I'll get that right out to you.