Autumn Leaves + Desert Mirages

Lyle's Salad + Death Valley

Note: Before delving into the topics of the day I just want to acknowledge the atrocities happening in the Middle East. It’s wrenching to watch innocent people suffer (on both sides of the border). I hope for a path to peace and an end to the violence.

Well, I’m back from a whirlwind trip to London where I walked more than 100 miles in search of art (Marina Abramovic at the Royal Academy of Arts! The National Portrait Gallery! The Foundling Museum! Charleston House!), food (Rochelle Canteen! Lyle’s! Brawn! Honey + Co! Koya Bar! Towpath! Dishoom!), and so. many. bookstores (three different Daunt locations! The London Review Bookshop — absolutely to die for! Tenderbooks! Broadway Bookshop! Artwords!). I bought so many books (my rule was that they had to be unreleased in the US) that I ended up having to ship a box back to LA. My relationship with London continues to blossom and it remains my number one place to visit (especially solo). It’s endlessly inspiring on so many levels, is so culturally rich, easy to navigate, the people are lovely, and the parks are luminous and numerous. If you haven’t been or have written it off as flyover on your way to Paris, I implore you to visit. I’ll write you a personalized list of recommendations! Below is a book I read just before leaving, and a salad inspired by the trip.

Read

Death Valley by Melissa Broder, pub. 2023
Buy: Bookshop.org or your local bookshop

If you’re drug-curious but prudish, might I suggest dipping your toe into Melissa Broder’s writing? Reading her novels over the years – The Pisces, about a woman having a love affair with a merman; and Milk Fed, a sensual romp between a zaftig Orthodox Jew and a repressed TV writer – introduced me to a type of novel I don’t often seek out: fantasy, but rooted in real people with real problems. No one writes like Broder. She’s bitingly funny. Her characters are often narcissists with a history of addiction and eating disorders. Add a pinch of Judaism, a background of Los Angeles and you have Broder’s enthralling cocktail. She weaves stories that are so bizarre and dreamy you feel like you’ve entered a vortex of a mind you don’t want to leave. 

So it’s no surprise that I felt like I was on LSD reading her latest – the gloriously weird, achingly deep Death Valley. Broder’s novels are hard to describe, in part because their charm lies within their eccentricities, which are difficult to represent without full context. I’ll try, though. Broder’s main character is a woman in her early 40s who’s escaped from Los Angeles and driven to Joshua Tree. She leaves a trail of intensity in her wake: Her father remains hospitalized and intubated after two near-death experiences; her husband is all but wheelchair-bound with an autoimmune disease; her sister is in the thralls of new motherhood. So Broder flees to the desert, to a Best Western amid pink skies, and what unfolds can only be described as a heroine’s journey.

After discovering the joys of hiking thanks to the recommendation of a Best Western employee, our main character (nameless, though strikingly similar to Broder herself) embarks on a dusty walk through the desert. There, she discovers a gigantic cactus with an open wound, sticks her hand inside and finds she can enter it (I told you – trippy). The interior is hollow, spacious and filled with remnants of the past: Her father and husband appear as younger versions of themselves, and she interacts with them as both mother and child. She returns to the site the next day, eager for another peek into this un-reality, but loses her way. The rest of the novel follows her as she crawls through the desert in an attempt to find her way, literally and figuratively. Parched, injured and woozy, she starts having visions: There are talking rabbits and birds, imaginary conversations with her sick father, profound realizations about the nature of illness and the depth of love. Broder’s brand of genius is to pull you into a ludicrous world, shamelessly recount tales of her explosive diarrhea, then hit you with a Buddhist-level lesson. A writer who tugs your heartstrings while making you cackle, then cry: She’s a goodie.

There were moments during the reading experience where I wondered where this oddity was headed, and every time she delivered something deeply human and full of meaning. I’m so grateful writers like Broder exist. This is an excellent opportunity to push yourself out of your comfort zone! (I’d recommend reading The Pisces and Milk Fed first; strange as they are, their access points are a bit more at the ready.)

Eat

The other day I was speaking with my friend Leigh about bring the Chic European Lunch™ back — the kind where you sit down in a dining room for a breezy, hourslong, multi-course meal accompanied by a glass of wine (or chic n/a tipple). Lyle’s, a basically-perfect restaurant in Shoreditch where I love to lunch, never disappoints. I prefer to sit at the bar rather than a table and watch the restaurant hum. Every single dish I ate this past visit was fantastic (as was a lacto-fermented n/a raspberry spritz that I will diligently attempt to recreate at home), but as on my prior visit, the star of the show was the salad. If a restaurant can’t make a good salad, I’m sad to say I can’t give it the time of day. And if it makes a great one, I’ll give it 24/7 of my respect and devotion. Lyle’s makes an excellent salad. The menu reads: Folx Farm Leaves & Spenwood — a humble representation for something so special.

Let’s start with the leaves! The salad is hyper-seasonal. The first time I went, in April, it was tender lettuces, the first and finest spring herbs, tangles of peppery arugula. This time it was purple shiso (!), dandelion greens, heartier lettuces and whole spearmint leaves. The vinaigrette is like nothing I’ve ever tasted before — sweet and tart, a perfect foil for the bitter leaves; and though I’m not usually a cheese fan, I’m Team Spenwood for life: like a butterier, silkier pecorino, it’s a sheep’s milk variety that almost melts atop of the greens and adds moreish depth and richness. After I’d paid, one of the servers and I struck up a conversation and I professed my love for The Salad. Moments later she whipped out her phone and showed me a blurry photo — it was the recipe for The Dressing! Immediately after lunch I meandered over to Neal’s Yard Dairy, casually bought a wedge of Spenwood and tucked it into a slyly folded shirt in my suitcase so I could savor the flavor at home. So: In honor of London, solo adventures, gracious people in the service industry, getting your greens, and lying at passport control, here is what I’ll call The Lyle’s Salad (Emily’s Version). 

Note:

• Use whatever beautiful greens you can find at your market. That will vary based on where you live! If you can’t access a market, I’d recommend buying butter and Boston lettuce, arugula, mint and tarragon from your local grocer. 

The Lyle’s Salad (Emily’s Version)
Serves 2

1 bowlful mixed salad greens
1 handful herbs, picked
1 hunk pecorino or manchego (or, if you can get your hands on it, Spenwood!)
Lyle’s Apple Vinaigrette (recipe below)
Maldon

Lyle’s Apple Vinaigrette

½ cup apple juice (try to buy something without added sugar so the flavor shines through! Alternately I think cider would be wonderful)
2 tablespoons finely diced shallots
1½ tablespoons apple cider vinegar
¼ cup evoo
Kosher salt
Black pepper

In a small pan over medium heat, reduce the apple juice by half until you have ¼ cup. Add the apple cider vinegar and let cool, then add the shallots. Slowly whisk in the evoo until the dressing is emulsified. Season with salt and pepper and taste. You’re looking for a sweetly acidic balance. It shouldn’t be too abrasive!

Gather and wash your greens. Dry and separate the leaves, keeping them whole, and add them to a medium bowl. Add a few tablespoons of vinaigrette and mix thoroughly and tenderly with your hands, making sure every leaf is coated; add the herbs and gently mix. Plate your salad, then, using a peeler, shave the cheese over the top.