The Meth of Mustard

“Mustard: Good only in Dijon. Ruins the stomach.” — Gustave Flaubert

If you love food then you know what it is like to be haunted by a dish, a flavor, or a specific ingredient. You know the struggle to quest after something ephemeral. That thing that sits, on the far edge of your consciousness like the gossamer fragments of last night’s dream. You know the joy of remembering the last time you experienced it. And you know the look of exasperation that falls upon your friends’ faces when, once more, you claim to have found the item of your torment only to be disappointed yet again. You, my friend, are a gourmand. Welcome to the club.

Upon my return from my first visit to Paris, I was smitten with four such items; the bread, the cheese, the wine, and of all things, the mustard. The first three were pretty easy to hunt down here in New York, but the fourth, the mustard, was as elusive as the Western Jackalope. Smooth and creamy, with a punch of heat that makes your eyes water if you overindulge in portion size, this was the mustard of my dreams.

The first time I had it was during a simple plate au jambon at a cafe a few blocks from the Eiffel tower. There it sat, innocent and unassuming in the center of the table. A small glass jar with a wooden spoon. Nothing to see here, move along… I placed a dollop on my plate. From that meal on, ham became only the delivery device. Chicken? Oh, yes please. Green beans? Why, of course. Anything that could hold the mustard on its path to my mouth did so. Sausages were purchased to cover my addiction as it seems that just sitting in a cafe, spooning jars of mustard into your gaping maw is frowned upon. So too is asking your waiter for multiple refills of the jar on your table.

Back in the States, the memory of that mustard called to me. Pulled at me. I tried every dijon I could lay my hands on. I went to a specialty shop I know that imports directly from France and purchased a jar of the same brand that I had tried in Paris and returned directly home, eager to feed the beast. Like an opiate addict of the nineteenth-century I popped the lid and plunged my wooden spoon deep. I was going directly for the fix. I was not going to adulterate my soft-yellow treasure with some foreign substance. No, give it to me straight, Sir, GIVE IT TO ME! NOW!

And then, the sadness. The confusion. The deflation of my mustard dreams. It was so different from my experience in Paris that I suspected counterfeit. There must be some vast mustard cabal which made millions by duping unsuspecting Americans. How else to account for the differences. This was a shadow of what I had fallen in love with. It started right, but then it dropped off and faded. No burn. No heat. No bite.

As the years passed I resigned myself to the fact that only across the Atlantic would I again enjoy the distinct taste and burn of my precious condiment. Here, at home, substitutes satisfied my cravings — but each was just a pale facsimile. Oh, I found some fine mustards. Philippe’s in Los Angeles makes one of my favorites, a very hot mustard with an Asian taste profile, but it is not her. It is not the mustard that started it all.

Last week that changed. My wife and I were walking up Columbus avenue after spending the afternoon at the park. We were looking for a place to grab a quick dinner. Mustard was the furthest thing from my mind. Those days in Paris far behind. We crossed the street and in the middle of a block, I glanced to my right. Elegant and stately it stood. Dark black with gold lettering the storefront proclaimed MAILLE. I could feel my addiction pull. Windows revealed gold and black cabinets stocked floor to ceiling with every imaginable flavor of mustard. La Maison Maille. Maison Fondee 1747. My wife pushed me inside. Oh, the glory! The joy! The rapture! And you could taste! Every flavor if you’d like and if you had the time. Mustard with blue cheese, mustard with cognac, mustard with mango and Thai spices. Cherubs danced among the shelves. This was bliss.

And then, I noticed them; On the counter in the middle of the store sat four black, golden accented, gray embossed, marvels of modern engineering ready to dispense liquid gold at will. Mustard from the tap! What evil genius devised these instruments of culinary delight? To whom should I send my thank you note? There, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I had discovered the same magical substance which had eluded me for so long. Pure, nuanced, back of your sinus burning, mustard.

How? Why? What was the secret? I had purchased Maille many times from the store. How could this be so transcendently different? What, pray tell, is going on here good sir?

Well, it seems that there is a reason for the difference and a large one at that. Pasteurization. All of the mustard sold in jars has been, for obvious reasons, pasteurized. The mustard from the tap is fresh and lives in the dark. It retains the flavors normally lost to light and storage. It pours out slowly as the mustard sommelier fills your order. You take it home in a stoneware jar sealed with wax paper and a cork. And that makes a world of difference. Silky. Smooth. Both subtle and bold, it is the stuff of legend and it is sublime. It is the mustard I remember.

It is also up to six times more expensive so not something that I will constantly have on hand. And it is fresh, so it will go south if left in the refrigerator too long. Personally, I don’t see that as an issue. Good luck surviving the month. So, once or twice a year I’ll hike up to the little bit of Paris on the Upper West Side and splurge on a refill. I’ll carefully bring my treasure home and for a few weeks will transport myself to that small cafe in Paris where I can enjoy that glorious golden heat until it’s gone.