Consider the lettuce

Just so we’re clear: I’m not all that crazy about lettuce. At best, it’s light, crisp, and fat-free; it adds color and bulk to salads and takes a minute to prepare. At worst, well, try getting your ass as far as possible from where lettuce is grown — like where I live, for instance — and sample the kind sold there; that’s where the really naughty lettuce are sent to die, far from the temperature-controlled shelves of Landmark or Santi’s. (I think there’s a terminal case or two languishing in the fridge as we speak; I don’t know why I even bother keeping some in stock. Force of habit, maybe?)

That said, it’s obvious these wonderful specimens were not bought locally but came hand-carried all the way from Manila (thank goodness for obliging friends). I wanted romaine, but there was none to be found, hence these. It was a first for me, too: This country bumpkin had no idea lettuce came in red!

The serrated leaves tinged with rusty reds (upper half of the heap) are those of the oak leaf variety. Those deep-red leaves at bottom right, all crinkly and fringed, like lace, are of the lollo rosso type. Both have loose leaves — as opposed to the denser, tightly packed iceberg. Certified beauties, as you can see, looking like they came straight out of Fashion Week. And the taste? The lollo rosso was somewhat bitter but the oak leaf was mildly sweet — on top of light, crisp, and all that. Definitely a winner, if you ask me.

I usually sex up salads with lots of extra ingredients to make up for inferior lettuce, but in this case it wasn’t necessary. I simply put the rest of the ingredients in separate bowls and let everybody make his or her own salad. Mine had tomatoes, onions, hard-boiled eggs, toasted Parmesan, and a dollop of store-bought Cæsar’s dressing. It was quite good, and I had more of it as a snack later on, though I left out the lollo rosso the second time around. Very filling, too.

Did I mention there’s good old iceberg lettuce underneath that pile? I wasn’t trying to hide it, okay? For what it’s worth, it was the best damned head of iceberg I ever laid eyes on: fresh, not waterlogged, and the size of a bowling ball. Needless to say, it also came from Manila.

Imagine, then, how astounded the watery iceberg lettuce in our veggie crisper must have been, encountering a genetically superior (if, I dare say, modified) version of itself. I wasn’t there, of course, but this exchange was gleefully relayed to me by the celery a few days later, via e-mail:

WATERY ICEBERG: Well, oh, well… If it isn’t my coño cousin… What brings us to backwater country, señor? I trust your cling-wrapped majesty is sufficiently rested after the long voyage?

LOLLO ROSSO: Pay him no mind, Bergy. Breeding this one hasn’t got. That’s “trip” for you, you brute: We took the plane, not some RORO vessel.

WATERY ICEBERG: Is that so, Li’l Red Riding Hood? Love your look, by the way. Very… lacey. What do you say we go for a tumble in the old salad bowl later — just you and me, hmmm?

AWESOME ICEBERG: Man, what is your problem? I see you’ve some unresolved issues, but don’t take out your psycho-shit on us, okay? I mean, just look at you. Don’t blame us for all that water in your system. It’s all in the genes, baby. Face it: We got the good ones and you don’t. We’re food for gourmets and film stars, high-profile thieves and elected extortionists, socialites and trophy mistresses with declined credit cards —

WATERY ICEBERG: Wait — you mean si Gretchen B.? Pare, maganda ba talaga siya sa personal?

AWESOME ICEBERG: Uh…

RED OAK LEAF: Look, everybody! Isn’t that the Virgin Mary on that potato over there?