8 Old-School Salads Nobody Eats Anymore

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What exactly counts as a salad? It’s a broad and slippery category to define, and its architecture is more complex than it seems. A salad’s basic makeup typically involves a dressing — whether for vegetables or other items like pasta, meat, or fruit. But even this loose interpretation fails to account for the molded gelatin salads that were ubiquitous in 20th-century America, which are so integral to America’s salad lore.

The following salads rarely make their way to our tables these days, but they do illustrate just how broad the interpretation of salad can be. As a category, salad has long acted as a medium for culinary improvisation and innovation, often serving as a way to use up leftover ingredients or as a way to work with the few eclectic ingredients on hand. More than the assemblage of random ingredients, they are also a reflection of the tastes, technologies, and nutritional ideals of their time — loaded with meanings pertaining to nationalism, gender, politics, cleanliness, and familial relations. Salads, almost more than any other type of food, are also associated with health — a fraught category itself which nearly always carries ideas about morality and the rightness, wrongness, and legitimacy of certain diets.

Looking back at old recipes, it’s clear that salads tell some of the most interesting stories the annals of gastronomy have to offer. The eight salads ahead may be gone from our 21st-century tables, but they’re still worth a look if only to marvel at just how far the definition of salad can stretch. 

Before Jell-O existed, gelatin was extracted from the bones of animals to thicken sauces and soups and achieve that jelly-like consistency. Aspic is made by gently boiling gelatin-rich animal parts —such as the bones, skin, and tendons — and then straining and cooling the stock. To make an aspic salad, it’s layered with other ingredients like meat and vegetables.

According to the Michelin Guide, making aspic is a centuries-old technique that was practiced all over the world. Auguste Escoffier, considered the father of modern cooking, said that an aspic should be “at once succulent, limpid and just sufficiently viscous to allow of it being turned out of a mold without breaking.” Though considered a culinary art form, the gelatin in aspic also served a practical purpose, acting as a preservative by sealing out oxygen and slowing spoilage. Aspic salad is made by layering ingredients and aspic into a mold, chilling it, then gently unmolding. If made properly, the aspic should be crystal clear, with vegetables or meats suspended like ornaments inside.

By the end of the 1960s, the reign of Jell-O was undisputed, and aspic salads no longer made appearances on menus. Refrigeration was standard as well, meaning aspic was no longer needed for its preservation qualities. Different iterations of aspic were born in the U.S., like tomato aspic, made with gelatin instead of animal stock. Though not a true aspic, the name stuck likely because of its culinary lineage and to evoke the nostalgia of classic aspic dishes.

Salad Olivier, a mayonnaise-based chopped salad with an assortment of vegetables, protein (typically cubed ham, bologna, or chicken), boiled egg, and pickles, is an iconic centerpiece of the New Year’s Eve Russian table. Originally created by Lucien Olivier, a French chef at Moscow’s elite Hermitage restaurant in the 1860s, Olivier’s original version featured luxury ingredients like grouse, caviar, and crayfish tails, dressed in a secret sauce that he allegedly took to his grave. Once reserved for the Russian elites, it eventually found its way onto every Russian’s table, with expensive ingredients like caviar and seafood being swapped out with affordable substitutes like carrots, peas, and sausage, and the secret egg-based sauce was replaced with mass-produced Soviet mayonnaise. The Russian government even promoted the dish in the 1939 “Book of Tasty and Healthy Food” as a model of nutrition, thrift, and patriotism. In leaner times, the humble potato made up the bulk of the dish, which is why it is widely known today as “Russian potato salad.” 

In the 1950s and ’60s, demand for mayonnaise couldn’t meet supply, making it even more coveted. Over time, salad Olivier became a beloved family tradition, often made in large batches and served from ornate, cut-crystal bowls at holidays. Salad Olivier hasn’t disappeared altogether, and many Russians and Ukrainians still enjoy it around the holiday. It is, however, primarily served as a retro holiday dish that carries the flavor and nostalgia of a bygone era. 

There is perhaps no other ingredient that captures the shifting ideals and tastes of 20th-century America more than Jell-O. At the 1905 Knox-sponsored recipe contest at the World Fair, Mrs. John Cooke won a prize for her “Perfection Salad,” a wobbly concoction of shredded cabbage, vinegar, pimentos, celery, and — the star of the show — packaged gelatin, a technological marvel at the time.

James Beard, in his 1972 edition of “James Beard’s American Cookery,” notes that Mrs. Cooke’s salad set off a nationwide gelatin frenzy in the United States, especially in the suburbs. Gelatin packets provided the texture of an aspic (gelatinous chilled meat stock) without the time commitment, and mass-produced foods from factories were considered pure, convenient, and economical. The expectations put upon American housewives at the time were not just to care for the family at home, but to prevent the nation itself from falling into moral decay through the appropriate care of the home, which combined new technologies and a strong sense of moral duty through producing wholesome, hygienic food. 

This era was not so much concerned with the pleasure of eating, but with the utility of it, reducing gustation to little more than necessity and practicality. Perfection Salad fit the mold — literally. It was economical (vegetables went farther when suspended in mounds of gelatin), clean and pure with clearly defined borders, novel, and nutritious. Though no longer seen today, Perfection Salad’s Jell-O-saturated lineage throughout the rest of the 20th century is well documented.

Celery is an ingredient that has had the misfortune of being typecast as a supporting character in most dishes. In celery Victor, created by French-born chef Victor Hirtzler, it plays the starring role: Its hearts are braised in a flavorful broth (typically beef), then chilled and dressed in a zingy vinaigrette. Hirtzler was recruited to be the executive chef at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco and was known for his refined, European-inspired menus. The simple elegance of celery Victor cemented it as a staple on the menu. Its garnishes are contested, with some preferring egg and tomato, and others anchovies. In “The American Century Cookbook, The Most Popular Recipes of the 20th Century,” by Jean Anderson, the recipe opts for a simple garnish of minced chervil or tarragon. 

Celery Victor, invented in the early aughts of the 20th century around 1910, was a simple and sophisticated dish served to the equally sophisticated guests who patronized the hotel. It epitomized poise, restraint, and gentility and came to be considered an “American classic,” even being featured in “A Bohemian Guide to San Francisco Restaurants” (1914). Though it has fallen from modern menus, celery Victor is a reminder that even the humblest vegetables, when prepared well, need only a gentle nudge from the fresh acidity of lemon or vinegar, a good fat, and some herbs to make them shine. 

The 1962 edition of “Joys of Jell-O” featured a recipe for a savory, molded salad made with Lemon or Lime Jell-O, flaked tuna, celery, chopped pimento, cucumber, onions, vinegar, water, and salt. Lauding its elegant presentation, the cookbook describes it as jewel-like and perfect for the luncheon or buffet table.

Food blogger “Dr. Bobb,” who recreates vintage recipes at home, noted that one of the most difficult aspects of making Jell-O salads was balancing the sweetness of the Jell-O with the otherwise savory ingredients. Given the overwhelming popularity of Jell-O salads in mid-century America, Jell-O released four savory flavors — its “For Salads” line — to address this elision in its product lineup. The unique Jell-O flavors included Celery, Mixed Vegetable, Seasoned Tomato, and Italian Salad. According to Dr. Bobb, the traditional method for turning sweet Jell-O packets savory is to add vinegar and onion (he recommends grated onion so it permeates the entire salad rather than the larger flecks being suspended randomly throughout). If you dare to re-create this at home, Dr. Bobb recommends serving it with a dollop of mayonnaise; the creaminess balances the sweet and salty flavor contrasts in the salad. 

Some dishes are better evaluated according to their presentation rather than their taste. Candle salad — sometimes called candlestick, candlette, or night cap — is one of America’s most unique and audacious interpretations of the “salad” category. A banana torn in half, stuck upright on a bed of lettuce, with a pineapple ring around the base, a maraschino cherry placed proudly on top, and whipped cream (or mayonnaise) dripping down the side to emulate wax — this candlestick abomination was considered a festive dish served on Christmas, Halloween, or at children’s birthday parties. 

The 1957 “Betty Crocker’s Cook Book for Boys and Girls” takes a stab at extolling its virtues, saying it is even better than a real candle because it is edible. The first mention of the salad can be traced back to 1916 (though only included on a menu with no accompanying recipe), while the first recipe for candle salad, from 1921, is found in the Los Angeles Times. From there, recipes became increasingly complicated, including lettuce as the candle base and green peppers, celery, or orange peel to serve as the handle. Today, candle salad survives as a quirky relic of mid-century America’s love of kitsch and as a conversation piece more than a dish anyone would actually want to eat. 

Technicolor ambrosia salad blurs the line between salad and dessert — and one that truly transgresses the category of “salad.” The original recipe (though we can’t be certain it was the first that appears in print) is found in the 1867 cookbook “Dixie Cookery: or How I Managed My Table for Twelve Years.” The recipe called simply for grated coconut layered with oranges. At the time, these ingredients were considered “exotic” and were rare to find in North America. Post Civil War, they became easier to source and ambrosia spread throughout the country, but was most beloved in the south where it became a staple of Southern holiday tables. At the time, tropical fruits were rare enough to be given the title “ambrosia,” the Greek word for the food and drink of the gods.

Over time, the simple fruit-and-coconut combination gave way to more elaborate variations. Pineapple and bananas eventually appeared, and by the 1920s and ’30s, canned fruits, marshmallows, and whipped cream had transformed ambrosia into a gooier, sweeter version of itself. The mass production of marshmallows and jarred marshmallow whip further fueled its popularity, really leaning into its iconoclastic role as a “salad” rather than dessert. Ambrosia has largely faded from everyday menus, but may indeed still find its way onto a Southern holiday table as a nod to the past. 

While Waldorf salad is still a feature on many menus today (you can still order it at the Waldorf Astoria hotel in New York City), the version you’d be served is very different from its roots. The original version created by Oscar Tschirky — a Swiss immigrant who was not a chef but the maître d’hôtel at New York’s Waldorf Hotel — is largely a relic of history. The recipe, endlessly riffed on over the decades, first appeared in writing in “The Cookbook by ‘Oscar’ of the Waldorf” in 1896 as a brief paragraph citing just three ingredients: two raw apples, celery, and mayonnaise. Various fruits were added soon after (including pineapple, oranges, and pears), though they don’t appear in Oscar’s 1896 book. Walnuts joined in 1928 via “The Rector Cookbook.”

The Waldorf salad has a touch of glamour and refinement, despite its simplicity, and Tschirky was known for being skilled in planning opulent parties. Before the hotel closed in 2017 for renovations, it sold an estimated 20,000 Waldorf salads annually. The hotel’s modern version — made with julienned Granny Smith and Fuji apples, halved red and green grapes, and candied walnuts — remains closer to the original than most interpretations. Other riffs over the years have pushed the salad in unexpected directions, with some recipes going so far as to add ingredients such as fried chicken. Though newer versions of the salad have become staples on menus everywhere, David Garcelon, former culinary director at the Waldorf Astoria, would clarify: “That’s not a Waldorf salad.”