La Scala was where the charismatic restaurateur Jean Leon fed his famous friends. It was, like most of L.A.’s cultural exports, a celebrity-driven phenomenon, one that began at a clubby Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills in 1956. As early as 1960, Angelenos were eating shards of iceberg, romaine, salami, and mozzarella, all hacked so fine you barely had to chew. So I began to wonder: How did something as basic as chopped salad become such a thing in this city, and what got lost in translation when it left LaLa Land?ĭecades before Los Angeles pledged allegiance to the grain bowl, the city fell hard for chopped salad. In L.A., chopped salad exudes a timeless glamour, propped up by the celebrity chefs who make it and the actual celebrities who eat it (and, no, I don’t just mean the Kardashians). It wasn’t until I moved to Los Angeles, where health is paramount, produce is pristine, and salad is an art form, that I realized how wrong I’d been. I used to associate chopped salad with sad desk lunches-a mess of half-dead lettuce and pallid tomatoes suffocating in a plastic clamshell.
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