IS IT WRONG TO EAT GREENS IN A BOX?
Hell if I know. Perfect florets of maché encased in glassine plastic tombs? Frisée? Radicchio? Baby romaine? Wily produce finally reduced to squared off product? Picked, packed, prewashed, shipped and merchandised by armies of men? Trucked through the night in precisely orchestrated campaigns of freshness and plunked down by me next to my tenderloin with chimichurri? Tossed with sundried tomatoes and goat cheese and baby beets? Bedded down beneath the szechaun peppercorn-encrusted seared tuna?
