I was recently in a café that promoted its salads as being served with ‘low-fat dressing’. I couldn’t possibly imagine what that might be: no olive oil? That stuff you spray on the pan when on some god-awful calorie-controlled diet? It turned out to be bottled – bought in from a supermarket – and contained lots of yoghurt, vegetable oil and dried herbs. I ordered a ham sandwich.
The very basis of any salad dressing is a good-quality, fruity, preferably first-press or at least virgin olive oil. All the other ingredients are up for grabs, and can even be the subject of fairly robust arguments – at least in my house. My partner Harriet was first taught how to dress a salad by her father, during a holiday in Italy. Take Tuscan olive oil, blend with a little balsamic vinegar (my thoughts on which have been documented in these pages) or lemon juice, and add salt and pepper.
One of the reasons we have not split up over salad dressing is that she also dislikes balsamic – but my word, she is a big fan of lemon juice. Her dressing would make a robot wince, and we often end up making separate batches if we are eating together. She has a very precise method: two parts olive oil to 1.5 part freshly squeezed lemon juice, a half-teaspoon of Dijon mustard, a good shake of Aromat seasoning and a little drizzle of light soy sauce. Shake it all together, and it’s a winning formula – at least according to her.
I beg to differ. Although I recognise that lemon is by far the best acid on a green salad, it absolutely does not work for other types, such as one of my favourites: blue cheese, pear, walnut and endive. Lemon does not, in my opinion, work with cheese. It has to be a fairly robust red wine (or perhaps raspberry) vinegar. When it comes to a herb salad, with flat parsley, basil, coriander, mint leaves and basil, all you need is a slick of light olive oil and a dash of white wine vinegar – nothing else.
A good dressing is crucial because you are using it on humble, simple ingredients. A lot can go wrong. The balance is absolutely crucial, and this is what causes the argument in our house. I think too much strong citrus flavour obscures the likes of butter lettuce leaves, too delicate for a drowning. And it’s not true that the oil is merely for texture. It has to stand out, which is why you must only use the very best, keeping it hidden away in the cupboard so that no one accidentally cooks with it.
For a Caesar salad – which I adore partly because of the anchovies – I ignore the hideous shop-bought rubbish and make my own. In this one I do allow a little lemon juice, though only as a background note, because although the combination of lemon and cheese is generally a no-no for me, Parmigiano can hold its own against it.
She’s like one of those blind tasters, and can spot a conspiracy a mile away
On a crunchy raw vegetable salad featuring robust flavours – think kale, rocket, shaved sprouts – sherry vinegar and olive oil work beautifully. This also works really well with a tomato and fennel salad, and if you add any citrus fruit such as oranges, the counterbalance is delicious. I use finely chopped shallots, a minced clove of garlic, sherry vinegar, a little English mustard and a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. It works a treat, particularly if you add chopped hazelnuts to the salad.
To return to our civil war at home, I’ve tried everything to disguise the fact that Harriet’s sacred recipe has been tampered with. I’ve tried adding a little more Aromat and a little less lemon. I’ve messed with the olive oil ratio, and I’ve tried slipping a little garlic in to counteract the acid – but it is all to no avail. She’s like one of those blind tasters, and can spot a conspiracy a mile away. But there is one thing we both agree on, and it is the thing that holds our relationship together: never ever, in any circumstances, add honey.
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