Ranch dressing as we know it was invented by a Nebraska-born African-American cowboy working as a plumbing contractor in Alaska. It’s true. Steve Henson whipped up the concoction of buttermilk, mayo, sour cream, parsley, onion, garlic, and salt and pepper to feed his crew of hungry workers in the early 50s. Eventually, though, Henson and his wife, Gayle, moved to Santa Barbara and opened Hidden Valley Ranch, where the dressing grew so popular among their guests they began to bottle it and send it home with them.
Whatever the case, the ranch is wholly unnecessary, because the pies all by themselves are very nice, belched from one of two looming dome-shaped wood-burning ovens. These are prominently positioned in the open kitchen at the rear of this massive cream-colored and teak-stained room, so filled with the din of shouting diners that Norwegian death metal could be playing on the soundtrack and it would still sound like a faint faraway echo under all the noise. (Servers—and Bower—promise that acoustic remediation is coming.)
Without writing a book on the subject, I can’t say exactly how one should define California cuisine. But in an essay penned for the Washington Post (an extraordinary publicity coup), Bower writes this: “The best description of California cuisine that I have heard comes from chef Stuart Brioza [owner of San Francisco’s State Bird Provisions and the Progress]. ‘The California diner expects a level of intercultural conversation in their food.’”
141 W. Erie 312-736-1778 pstchicago.com
