Why Sweetened Condensed Milk Belongs in Salad Dressing

When it comes to salad, the Midwestern U.S. is a lawless land, where traditional rules are not enforced. Having grown up there, I know intimately that Jell-O and marshmallows are just as common a salad base as lettuce or grains. Cookies can be retrofitted as croutons. Mayonnaise isn’t just for dressings, but is a component worthy of its own, unadulterated layer. Vegetables and fruits frequently need not apply. If they do, they may be immediately ushered into the nearest Jell-O mold.

Sifting through the dark corners of the internet for the Midwest’s most un-salad-like salads, I stumbled upon a blog post from 2008 about a phenomenon called “Marty’s Salad.” There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — that describes missing something you didn’t realize was missing. That’s what I felt when I saw the salad of my childhood. 

What was Marty’s Salad?

Marty’s Salad was a favorite dish in a beloved restaurant from my youth: The Family Buggy, in Rochester, Michigan. It was the sort of place that catered to families with thoughtful gimmicks like a train track mounted near the ceiling, a giant stuffed bear that would sit at your table on birthdays, and tiny animal figurines that would appear in your ice cream or applesauce.

But it was Marty’s Salad that helped turn me into a lifelong salad connoisseur. Like, the actual kind, with lettuce. Iceberg and endive were garnished with thinly sliced red onions, shredded cheddar, and bacon bits, and enrobed in a creamy, sweet-and-sour dressing. For a Midwestern kid, that salad would have been a valid meal choice over traditional selections like spaghetti or burgers. Such was its power.

And yet, there’s an English word — horror — that aptly summarized my feeling when I discovered the primary ingredient in Marty’s Salad’s dressing: sweetened condensed milk. 

Now, taking a moment to consider all of the various dairy products I have used in salad dressing in my post-culinary school life, such as yogurt, buttermilk, and sour cream, I don’t know why this should have been so off-putting. Ranch dressing is basically my birthright, and I almost always add a little honey to vinaigrettes to balance sharpness. Why, then, should a can of condensed milk elicit such a negative reaction?

A salad staple, from Michigan to Auckland

As it turns out, there’s precedent here, beyond Midwestern mad salad scientist vibes. Every search for “sweetened condensed milk salad dressing” turned up New Zealand in the mix. So I asked around.

“Sweetened condensed milk dressing would’ve been the height of culinary innovation back in the day,” says Tom Hishon, chef and co-founder of Auckland’s Kinji and DAILY BREAD. “It’s a bit of a Kiwi icon and is in most New Zealand household cookbooks.” 

“Growing up in New Zealand in the ‘90s, we were always eating on the beach for Christmas or family gatherings,” says Vaughan Mabee, chef of Frankton, New Zealand’s Amisfield. “Quick and easy sides were common right next to seafood we caught that day, and salads were always on the table with a Kiwi favourite dressing: sweetened condensed milk, a big splash of malt vinegar, salt, and Coleman’s hot mustard.”

Sweetened condensed milk also speaks to a resourcefulness that I can easily reconcile with a 1990s Midwestern upbringing. “It was born out of a postwar era where food supplies were extremely tight and colonial adaptations of English classics were created from ingredients that were both shelf-stable and cost-effective,” says Hishon. “It really shouldn’t work as well as it does but, it just does.”

So I tried it. Inspired by the blog post, I whisked three tablespoons of sweetened condensed milk with three tablespoons of mayonnaise and one tablespoon apiece of white vinegar, melted butter (no regrets), and honey. (The recipe asked for corn syrup here, but I made the honey swap since I had it on hand.)

The verdict? It totally worked. Glossy, sweet, and tangy, the enigmatic dressing is the perfect foil for sharp onions, savory cheddar, smoky bacon, and lightly bitter lettuce. What’s more, it brought back fond memories. The Family Buggy closed in 2012, but Marty — whoever he is — lives on in his namesake salad.