I had a hot date in New York City a couple weeks ago, on Sunday, August 3rd, 2025. My companion being a staunch fan and ally of my salad shenanigans, he made sure to pick a restaurant that would feed this here blog as well as our bellies.
Admittedly, a first romantic meeting didn’t prove to be an ideal context for analysis; though I’d brought my trusty notebook, I definitely got to know the man much more than the meal.
Still, some details are so striking they draw even the most distracted mind…
Ci-contre, you will find the warning sign that ought to have come with our starter.
For it was too acidic! Aggressively acidic! (I pointed it out to my date! I ruined his experience too!)
At some point I uttered “I feel like I’m eating OJ”. This was not a compliment.
When my burger and fries came, I could have cried out: Salvation! Uncharacteriscally, I would opt not to intersperse my bites with further forkfuls.
The croutons, you ask? Monsieur applauded their non-sog. As far as I could tell, our acid spill had been sprinkled with packing peanuts.
The lettuce, then? The cheese? — Prithee, peace! It doesn’t matter!
During the subsequent days, we would come back (only in reminiscences, thank god) to that dressing — to it and the hazard it enacted upon our poor poor poor palates.
Mackenzie Bleho 