antsy?”
“Well, a private tour of the White House and sitting behind the president’s desk is fine, but a girl likes to be impressed.”
Ralph had prepared for the moment. He pulled a large wicker basket from the closet. He spread a picnic blanket across the carpet and laid out china plates and two thin candles, which he lit with a lighter from his pocket.
“How does a Chinese food picnic in the Oval Office sound?”
“It sounds just wonderful,” Jessica said. She got up from the desk, walked over to the blanket, and sat down cross-legged. “What are we having?”
“General Tso’s Chicken.”
Jessica started to speak, but Ralph cut her off. “It’s vegetarian,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“I just guessed. I know how you tree-huggers are.”
He dished the food onto a plate. “Here,” he said. “Have some General Tso’s Lite.”
She took the plate. “Let me ask you a question,” she said. “If it’s made with tofu, is it still General Tso’s Chicken?”
“You mean is chicken an integral part of the dish?”
“Right. If it’s made with tofu, can it be General Tso’s Tofu ortofu prepared in the style of General Tso or did General Tso only like chicken?”
“I don’t know. How do you get a food named after you anyway?”
“That’s a good question. How many people can you think of who do have foods named after them?”
“Napoleon has a pastry,” Ralph said.
“Julius Caesar has the Caesar salad.”
“I always thought that was Sid Caesar.”
“No, it was definitely Julius.”
I N FACT IT WAS the Italian-American restaurateur Caesar Cardini (1896–1956) who created the salad—sans anchovies—at his Tijuana restaurant in 1924. Cardini lived in San Diego, but ran the restaurant in Mexico to avoid Prohibition. As with every great invention, disputes have arisen over where the credit truly belongs. Among others, Cardini’s business partner, Cardini’s brother, and the mother of one of Cardini’s sous-chefs claim credit for the recipe, but the weight of historical evidence is with Cardini himself. Julius Caesar is almost certainly not involved, except as the inspiration for Mr. Cardini’s first name. Looking back, it is almost impossible to imagine Mr. Cardini could have foreseen the massive proliferation of Caesar salads, including salads topped with chicken, salmon, and fresh grilled tuna, and the explosion of salads generally, including the Waldorf salad, the Cobb salad, and the unfortunately named Watergate salad, a fruity mélange of pineapple, nuts, marshmallow, and whipped topping, which fell out of favor in the late seventies, but has enjoyed something of a renaissance of late, coinciding with the decision to turn the old hotel into condominiums.
“M AY BE YOU HAVE TO be a brutal tyrant to get a food named after you,” Jessica said.
“There is the Shirley Temple.”
“But that’s clearly the exception.”
“Or the exception proving the rule.”
“Just think of all the great people who never had a food named for them.”
“In that way,” Ralph said, “Sting may have hurt himself. It’s easy to imagine someone named Gordon getting a food named afterhim—Chicken Gordon Bleu, for example. But it’s hard to imagine a food with Sting in the name—Shrimp Sting—it just doesn’t sound very elegant.”
“You know, there’s a Simpsons episode on this. Mr. Burns has takeout Chinese and he says something like, ‘General Tso, you may have been a ruthless tyrant, but you make a delicious bird.’”
Ralph’s heart skipped a beat. “You like The Simpsons ?”
“I do,” she said with mock indignation. “I hope that isn’t a problem for you. I can deal with this whole working-for-a-Republican-president thing, but not liking The Simpsons would be a deal breaker.” She stood up theatrically.
“Oh no,” Ralph said, looking up. “I love The Simpsons . I was hoping you did too.”
Jessica sat back down. “Well,” she said, playful again.
“Well, a private tour of the White House and sitting behind the president’s desk is fine, but a girl likes to be impressed.”
Ralph had prepared for the moment. He pulled a large wicker basket from the closet. He spread a picnic blanket across the carpet and laid out china plates and two thin candles, which he lit with a lighter from his pocket.
“How does a Chinese food picnic in the Oval Office sound?”
“It sounds just wonderful,” Jessica said. She got up from the desk, walked over to the blanket, and sat down cross-legged. “What are we having?”
“General Tso’s Chicken.”
Jessica started to speak, but Ralph cut her off. “It’s vegetarian,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“I just guessed. I know how you tree-huggers are.”
He dished the food onto a plate. “Here,” he said. “Have some General Tso’s Lite.”
She took the plate. “Let me ask you a question,” she said. “If it’s made with tofu, is it still General Tso’s Chicken?”
“You mean is chicken an integral part of the dish?”
“Right. If it’s made with tofu, can it be General Tso’s Tofu ortofu prepared in the style of General Tso or did General Tso only like chicken?”
“I don’t know. How do you get a food named after you anyway?”
“That’s a good question. How many people can you think of who do have foods named after them?”
“Napoleon has a pastry,” Ralph said.
“Julius Caesar has the Caesar salad.”
“I always thought that was Sid Caesar.”
“No, it was definitely Julius.”
I N FACT IT WAS the Italian-American restaurateur Caesar Cardini (1896–1956) who created the salad—sans anchovies—at his Tijuana restaurant in 1924. Cardini lived in San Diego, but ran the restaurant in Mexico to avoid Prohibition. As with every great invention, disputes have arisen over where the credit truly belongs. Among others, Cardini’s business partner, Cardini’s brother, and the mother of one of Cardini’s sous-chefs claim credit for the recipe, but the weight of historical evidence is with Cardini himself. Julius Caesar is almost certainly not involved, except as the inspiration for Mr. Cardini’s first name. Looking back, it is almost impossible to imagine Mr. Cardini could have foreseen the massive proliferation of Caesar salads, including salads topped with chicken, salmon, and fresh grilled tuna, and the explosion of salads generally, including the Waldorf salad, the Cobb salad, and the unfortunately named Watergate salad, a fruity mélange of pineapple, nuts, marshmallow, and whipped topping, which fell out of favor in the late seventies, but has enjoyed something of a renaissance of late, coinciding with the decision to turn the old hotel into condominiums.
“M AY BE YOU HAVE TO be a brutal tyrant to get a food named after you,” Jessica said.
“There is the Shirley Temple.”
“But that’s clearly the exception.”
“Or the exception proving the rule.”
“Just think of all the great people who never had a food named for them.”
“In that way,” Ralph said, “Sting may have hurt himself. It’s easy to imagine someone named Gordon getting a food named afterhim—Chicken Gordon Bleu, for example. But it’s hard to imagine a food with Sting in the name—Shrimp Sting—it just doesn’t sound very elegant.”
“You know, there’s a Simpsons episode on this. Mr. Burns has takeout Chinese and he says something like, ‘General Tso, you may have been a ruthless tyrant, but you make a delicious bird.’”
Ralph’s heart skipped a beat. “You like The Simpsons ?”
“I do,” she said with mock indignation. “I hope that isn’t a problem for you. I can deal with this whole working-for-a-Republican-president thing, but not liking The Simpsons would be a deal breaker.” She stood up theatrically.
“Oh no,” Ralph said, looking up. “I love The Simpsons . I was hoping you did too.”
Jessica sat back down. “Well,” she said, playful again.
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