The other day, I finally visited my sister in her new neighbourhood. Not super hungry, when the question of feeding ourselves came up I suggested we go somewhere she could get a meal and I could get a — you guessed it — Caesar salad. After online menu-stalking (and rejecting one ridiculously overpriced option) we ended up at Burger Town, a very short walk from her building.

• Lettuce: Good degree of crunch.
• Bacon: Inoffensive.
• Cheese: What sort of cheese is this? It’s sure as hell not parm. At some point during our conversation, noticing my facial expression, my sister asked “What’s wrong?” My reply, “It’s the cheese again,” speaks volumes.
• Croutons: Woefully naked. Could we not do a little stirry-stir, get the bois a lil dressed up? I’d like as many elements as possible to come in contact with the dressing (more on that later). ALSO MIGHT HAVE SPARED YOU THIS NEXT POINT:
  • AUDITORY EXPERIENCE: Far be it from me to expect a musical experience from my salads; I like to think of myself as a person who knows the difference between my entertainment and my edibles. BUT when dropping a crouton from my fork onto my plate creates the most plasticky, unpleasant dull thud imaginable, I must protest. I reproduced the accidental drop several more times on purpose, fascinated by this wholly novel way for a Caesar salad to displease me.
• Dressing: Another apparent innovation: smearing dressing on an empty plate before dumping the salad components on top. (My sister thinks gravity a more likely explanation.) But in either case, there must have been a way to have spared me the Caesar-flavoured bog lurking at the bottom of my plate. The lettuce leaves that had spent the whole meal soaking were near-inedible. And what would I have done to get some of that elixir in contact with the croutons! Ugh. No thank you, molten lava salad.

That said, we still brought a second one home for the ole brother-in-law as requested.