Cuban Caesar Salad

Julio is here. My baby brother. Seventy-six years old, semi-retired, flew up from San Juan on Tuesday. He is staying ten days with Mami — at her apartment, on a fold-out bed the aides set up for him — because Mami wanted him close. I go over every afternoon. Ana drove up from Bridgeport for the weekend.

Julio in Hartford is a strange thing. Julio is island. Julio is San Juan. Julio does not wear a coat even when it is chilly because Julio does not own a coat that works for real weather, and Hartford in June is sometimes chilly in the mornings, and Julio has been borrowing a cardigan from Eduardo that does not fit well because Julio is six-foot-two and Eduardo is five-foot-nine.

Thursday I had all three of them over for dinner. Mami, Julio, Ana. Three of the five surviving Delgado siblings. Eduardo and me. I made arroz con pollo — the Sunday dinner version, not the Tuesday weeknight version — and I made it with the island sofrito from my February trip, the last of it, because this was the occasion to use it.

At the table: Ana (fifty-six, Bridgeport, youngest-daughter-energy still at fifty-six), Mami (eighty-seven, tired but present), Julio (seventy-six, the baby brother who was always the baby brother), me (fifty-eight, the middle child, the academic, the diaspora), Eduardo (the in-law, the listener, the one who watched the Delgado family dynamics with the fascination of a scientist observing a loud ecosystem).

Julio told stories in Spanish for two hours. The time Héctor tried to make rum at home in 1982 using the wrong kind of yeast and blew up the pot. The time Papi had come home from work at midnight with a stray dog he had found and announced the dog was now ours, and Mami had said no, and the dog had stayed for twelve years. The time Luis — in Orlando, eldest — had won a beauty contest in high school because our father had somehow paid off the judges (probably with rum, probably from the home-brew operation). Mami laughed. She laughed! She laughed so hard at the dog story that she coughed and I had to get her water.

Ana and I sat on either side of Mami. We held her hands. Julio sat across from her and told her stories she had not heard in forty years but that she recognized. It was the first dinner in a long time where Mami was the youngest at the table in spirit — the child with her brother, the girl Luz María Ortiz back in Bayamón in 1955, not the matriarch.

I cried in the bathroom after dinner for three minutes. Eduardo found me. He said, "They are laughing." I said, "I know. I am happy." He said, "Good tears." I said, "Yes." He kissed my temple. We went back to the table. Wepa.

A dinner like that one — Mami laughing until she coughed, Julio in Eduardo’s too-short cardigan telling the dog story for the first time in forty years — deserves food that tastes like the island came to Hartford. The arroz con pollo was the heart of the table, but this Cuban Caesar was right beside it: sharp with lime and garlic, alive with the same energy Julio brought through the door. If you were lucky enough to be at that table, you know why this salad belongs to this night.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 large heads romaine lettuce, chopped or torn into bite-sized pieces
1/2 cup freshly grated cotija cheese, plus more for serving
1 cup tostones (twice-fried green plantain rounds) or store-bought plantain chips
1/2 cup canned black beans, rinsed and drained
1/2 small red onion, very thinly sliced
1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves
For the mojo-Caesar dressing:
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 2 limes)
1 tablespoon fresh orange juice
3 garlic cloves, minced or pressed
1 teaspoon anchovy paste (or 1 mashed anchovy fillet)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/3 cup good olive oil
2 tablespoons finely grated Parmesan

Instructions

Make the dressing. In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the lime juice, orange juice, minced garlic, anchovy paste, Dijon mustard, cumin, salt, and pepper until combined. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil while whisking constantly until the dressing is emulsified. Stir in the grated Parmesan. Taste and adjust salt and lime as needed. Refrigerate until ready to use.
Fry the tostones (if making from scratch). Peel 2 green plantains and cut into 1-inch rounds. Fry in 1/4 inch of neutral oil over medium-high heat for 2–3 minutes per side until golden. Remove, flatten each round with the bottom of a glass, then return to the oil for another 1–2 minutes until crisp and deep golden. Drain on paper towels and season with salt. Skip this step if using store-bought plantain chips.
Prep the salad base. Place the chopped romaine in a large serving bowl. Add the sliced red onion, black beans, and cilantro leaves. Toss gently to distribute evenly.
Dress and toss. Drizzle roughly two-thirds of the dressing over the salad and toss well to coat every leaf. Add more dressing to taste — this salad likes to be well dressed.
Top and serve. Scatter the cotija cheese and tostones or plantain chips over the top. Add a final pinch of cotija and a few extra cilantro leaves. Serve immediately so the tostones stay crisp.

Nutrition (per serving)

Cuban Caesar Salad — The Table That Held Us All