Interview by Marke B. From SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour, on stands in the Guardian now.
House of Salad, photographed by Leo Herrera
I recently ran halfway across downtown with the mother of lunatic dragstravaganza House of Salad, Ambrosia Salad herself (pictured above, bottom center, with the big head), teased out extra wig and fake Louis Vuitton suitcase full of props in tow. We were on our way from a vogue ball at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts to Aunt Charlie’s in the Tenderloin, where she was set to perform. But first we made a quick pit stop at an Indian pizzeria for a huge slice of Hawaiian, which Ambrosia relished with gusto, lipstick be damned. I guess that summarizes the ragtag retinue of underground DJs, performers, promoters, artists, and freaks that she’s gathered around herself, who represent every alternaqueer tribe in San Francisco and put on a hell of a show: Who needs makeup when you’ve got ham drippings and pineapple juice?
SFBG You grew up in the fruit fields of Monterey …
Ambrosia Most of my wonder years were spent on a strawberry farm next to the ocean, where my bedroom furniture got front row to me dancing around to Stacey Q, Annie Lennox, and Grace Jones. I was no stranger to wearing mommy’s pumps and tube tops as dresses. Oddly enough, it wasn’t until five years ago that I revisited wearing women’s clothing. At first just silly swamp drag: a mustache with a shitty wig. It wasn’t until [drag mentor] Mr. David beat the shit out of me that I discovered that Ambrosia didn’t need to be so tragic after all. In fact, she looked pretty good.