Mustard

It has occurred to me that mustard is, perhaps, the most maligned, ignored and quite possibly discriminated against condiment.

Go to your refrigerator right now and tell me where the mustard is. You can’t, can you? Oh sure, you tell me that it has a special spot near the ketchup, but it doesn’t. You intend for it to have its own spot, but it routinely gets pushed to the back by the milk, the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and that half-rotting leftover spanakopita that you bought at the Greek restaurant three weeks ago and have no intention of eating because the phyllo dough has become soft and mushy instead of light, flaky and crispy.

You secretly hate your mustard. You resent that watery slurm that ejects from the spout before the real good stuff comes out. You have a general disdain for that yellow crust that forms at the tip of the spout.

All your fault, you know. Don’t blame the mustard. You could have taken the time to shake the mustard before you squeezed it on your sandwich. The mustard didn’t cause your bread to be soggy, you did. And the crust? Wipe the damn spout when you’re done. If not for you, out of courtesy for those who follow you.

But, you say, you like honey mustard. And Dijon garners much respect in your home, you say.

That’s like making a racial slur and then saying, “ but some of my best friends are . . .” It doesn’t hold water. Plus, you’re rationalizing your hatred of the yellow condiment by saying that if it’s sweetened or highly educated and rich, you’re fine with it. It’s that every day mustard you don’t like.

But have you considered that mustard is great on many things? Tastes great on hot dogs, and makes a stunning visual impact as well. Soft pretzels dipped in mustard? Sublime. And on a plain cheese sandwich, you’ve just added an element of sophistication.

Plus, mustard is an educational tool. Remember when you were a kid and out on a picnic with your parents. As you unwrapped your bologna and cheese sandwich from the plain label plastic bag that was ripped before you even touched it, you reached for the mustard. Why? To write your name on the sandwich.

You’re still not convinced. But ketchup, you tell me, now comes in a squeezable container and can be used as a writing implement just as easily. Besides, ketchup is much more versatile.

Right. That’s partially true. But you never complain about the watery sludge in the ketchup when you don’t shake it. Nor do you mention that red slimy crust that forms on the spout.

No, you still hate mustard. And you’ll use any chance to malign it. It’s so German, you say. It isn’t American. How can I put that on my hot dog? How can I possibly dip my fries in that?

Yeah, the hot dog is a German invention. And the burger? Brought to New York by . . . Germans. French fries? Well, that’s a dispute between France and Belgium.

And your beloved Ketchup? A fish sauce from China, perfected and Malaysia and Indonesia.

But the hole in the donut? American. And damn proud of it.

Discuss