I used to think washing lettuce was the kind of thing you could phone in.
Then I bought escarole for the first time—those broad, frilly leaves that look deceptively clean at the market—and realized I’d been living in a fantasy world where produce came pre-sanitized by some benevolent farm fairy. Escarole, it turns out, is a dirt magnet. The leaves grow low to the ground, their curly edges trap soil particles like tiny geological archives, and if you’ve ever bitten into a salad with grit in it, you know that specific brand of regret. I’ve seen people rinse escarole under the tap for maybe ten seconds, shake it once, and call it done. That’s not washing. That’s optimism. The problem is that escarole’s structure—those wide, ruffled leaves with deep crevices—means water alone won’t dislodge everything hiding in there. You need agitation, submersion, maybe a little bit of patience you definately don’t have at 6 PM on a Tuesday.
Here’s the thing: most people don’t realize they’re doing it wrong.
They rinse. They pat dry. They move on with their lives, blissfully unaware that they’ve just served their family a side of topsoil. I guess it makes sense—we’ve been conditioned to think that if something looks green and leafy, it’s already virtuous enough to skip the hard parts. But escarole, like most broad-leaf lettuces, grows in sandy or loamy soil, and those particles cling. Studies on leafy greens have found that a single unwashed leaf can harbor thousands of bacteria per square centimeter, though most are harmless. Still, the idea of eating dirt—even trace amounts—bothers me in a way I can’t fully articulate. Maybe it’s the texture. Maybe it’s the principle.
The Cold Water Immersion Method That Actually Works (Even When You’re Exhausted)
Anyway, the technique I’ve landed on involves a large bowl, cold water, and a willingness to let the leaves soak for a few minutes while you do something else.
Fill the bowl—something wide enough that the leaves can float freely—and submerge the escarole completely. Swish it around. Let it sit. The dirt, being heavier than water, will sink to the bottom. This is basic physics, the kind you half-remember from middle school, but it works. After maybe three to five minutes, lift the leaves out gently—don’t pour the water out with the greens still in there, or you’ll just redistribute the sediment—and inspect the bowl. If there’s a visible layer of grit, repeat the process. I’ve had to do this three times with particularly filthy bunches, which feels excessive until you see the murky water and realize you were about to eat that. Some people add a splash of vinegar or a pinch of salt to the water, claiming it helps dislodge bacteria or insects, though the research on this is mixed. A 2015 study in Food Control found that vinegar solutions reduced some pathogens on lettuce, but plain water with mechanical agitation was nearly as effective. Wait—maybe the real point isn’t the vinegar. Maybe it’s the ritual of caring enough to try.
Why Spinning Dry Matters More Than You Think (And Why Paper Towels Are a Trap)
Once the leaves are clean, you face a new problem: water.
Wet escarole is limp, dilutes dressings, and generally refuses to cooperate in salads. A salad spinner—one of those plastic contraptions that looks like a toy but performs actual wizardry—is the only tool I’ve found that works. You load the leaves in, pump the handle or pull the cord, and centrifugal force does the rest. It’s satisfying in a way that feels almost childish, but the results are undeniable: dry, crisp leaves that hold onto vinaigrette instead of repelling it. Paper towels, by contrast, are a trap. They stick to the wet leaves, tear into little bits, and you end up picking paper out of your salad like some kind of produce archaeologist. I’ve tried it. I’ve regretted it. Honestly, if you don’t have a spinner, just lay the leaves out on a clean kitchen towel and pat them dry—it takes longer, but at least you won’t be eating tissue fibers. The texture of properly dried escarole is completely different from the limp, waterlogged version. It’s sturdy. It has presence. It reminds you why people have been eating this stuff for roughly two thousand years, give or take, since the Romans were cultivating it in their gardens and probably complaining about the dirt then, too.
I still forget sometimes and rush the process.
Then I bite into a leaf, feel that telltale crunch of sand, and remember why I started writing this in the first place. Washing escarole isn’t glamorous, but it’s the kind of small, repetitive task that seperates a mediocre meal from one that feels intentional. And maybe that’s enough.
