By Leslie Brenner

An eon ago, when I was in my twenties, I worked in Hollywood as an assistant on “Cheers,” a popular sit-com produced at Paramount Studios. One of the perks was that we could order lunch to eat at our desk (or dinner when we worked late) from any nearby restaurant, and the production company would pick up the tab. There were some really good restaurants to choose from, including a swanky French place called Le St. Germain, and an elegant Italian place, Emilio’s. (There was also a Mexican spot called Lucy’s El Adobe, whose chicken tostada captivated me.)

But there was one lunch I craved constantly, and ordered frequently: the Caesar salad from Nickodell, an old-school Hollywood restaurant that was right next door to the studio. Of course that Caesar was more of an event when you ordered it in the dining room, where it was tossed table-side, but to my desk, it always arrived crisp and chilled and perfect.

Super garlicky, forthright with anchovies, wonderfully tangy and generously endowed with grated Parm, it was absolutely smashing — an extreme Caesar. I’m not sure whether memory is playing a game, but I think they served it to-go on one of those cardboard-like deep-dish paper plates, with another bowl-like paper plate stapled onto the top of it. (This was pre-Uber Eats and GrubHub, of course; we sent our production assistants out to pick up our food.)

I wound up leaving Hollywood for grad school in New York. The sit-com’s decade-plus run ended, Nickodell closed and life went on. But I never stopped craving that salad.

At some point, I started recreating that Caesar at home. I don’t think I was fully conscious that it was the Nickodell umami-garlic-tang I was after, but my personal Caesar aesthetic had been set, on full-throttle.

Now, when I crave that flavor, I make my extreme Caesar. Its dressing includes both red wine vinegar and lemon, and a healthy dose of Worcestershire. Olive oil, of course. Lots of garlic, put through a press, and a meaningful amount of chopped anchovies. Lots of freshly ground black pepper. When I’m in a rush, I’ve been known to use anchovy paste instead of mincing fillets; both always live in my fridge.

Did Nickodell’s Caesar have croutons? Certainly, but they weren’t memorable or important, and croutons slow one’s salad game way down, so I leave them out. Also, I’d rather not have those carbs and extra calories from the oil they soak up. Having erased my carbo footprint, I figure I’ve earned the right to extra Parm — and a couple of eggs coddled to nearly gelatinous.

There is a feeling, among Caesar enthusiasts, that whole-leaf is the way to go. I certainly see the value, but to bend that way would be contrary to the spirit of the Nickodell archetype, so I chop.

Because this Caesar fires on so many cylinders, it loves to be a main course. Is it thanks to those solitary lunches at my desk that I like to eat it alone?

Of course it also loves company. Add a cool glass of rosé (or skin-contact!) wine, and you’ve got an excellent treat for a hot summer evening.

Beware, though: There is the possibility of permanent craving.