Mayo Is Evil: A Brief History

You Say You Like Mayonnaise?

There was this guy named Maga. He was a Carthaginian and brother to Hannibal, the elephant guy. Maga really liked to crucify people. He was the type of guy who would wake up on a Wednesday and ask himself how many people he could crucify and then wake up on Thursday and say to himself “I can beat that.” He was energetic.

Words change over time. Indo European “Patre” becomes Germanic come English “Father.” The “p” elides to “f” as the puh sound is close to the fuh sound and the “t” isn’t that far off from “th.” You say potato, I say fathato. Somehow a Mediterranean Island named for Maga became known as Mahon. I don’t get that particular change, but it happened. In its current inception it’s called Menorca and it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump from Majorca where Robert Graves taught British people they could escape to a vacation paradise and have inconsequential sex with multiple women if you tell them that they’re your muse. It get’s the tourists too now by proxy.

If only John Byng had known about the sex, he may have engaged.

He didn’t. Byng was the admiral tasked with defending the then British controlled island of Mahon from the French, and he decided that the French force was overwhelming and retreated. He was court martialed and executed for his decision. His muse failed him.

Imagine being a mildly prosperous islander with a couple of cows. It’s 1756. You speak Spanish but you’re okay with the British rule. They keep the peace, more or less. The last thing you’re worried about is Armond de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu (not the one that immediately springs to mind, but the great or great-great nephew of that guy.) But Armond de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu came with a bunch of soldiers and took over your island and for some reason killed your cows.

“Why are you turning my back yard into a slaughter house?” you might ask the soldiers.

“We didn’t,” they replied. “We turned it into an abattoir which is Gallically more sophisticated to your slaughter thing.”

“Well, I want to lodge a complaint.”

“I get it,” says the soldier, dripping in a mixture of English and bovine blood. “But there are a lot of cows on this island, and I’m pressed for time. We can talk about this at tonight’s salon.”

“I’m going to report this to Byng!”

“Good luck with that.”

And then the French soldier went about his duties vigorously, knowing that a four day work week and government mandated paternal leave put a real crunch on his ability to meet his goals.

If your sympathy is with the suddenly cowless burgeoning middle class islander, you are missing something. Armond de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu (not the one that immediately springs to mind but the great or great-great nephew of that guy) ordered a feast to celebrate his conquest of Mahon. Your sympathy should be with the chef.

The poor chef is probably initially excited. A celebration dinner is his bread and butter, so to speak. There are all manner of birds to be stuffed into pies and he’s so happy. But you can see the problem coming a mile away.

He’s French and a chef. Think of his mindset:

Pork chops: that gets a cream sauce.

Lamb: cream sauce.

Asparagus: cream sauce.

It’s cream sauce all the way down.

I suppose he had a staff, but I also think he probably had control over a few of the soldiers attending to the needs of Armond de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu (not the one that immediately springs to mind but the great or great-great nephew of that guy.) He probably said something like “I need some dairy,” and all the soldiers who killed all those cows for some reason start looking at the ground or into the sky and mumbling about why they can’t help with dairy because the guys tasked with burning the bodies of the dead English are really short handed and maybe they should help out with the pyre building instead.

I hate mayonnaise. I hate it desperately. I think it’s vile. My wife thinks it’s evil. Distinction without a difference as we both agree on the letters if not the order. But I have to credit the unknown chef of Armond de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu (not the one that immediately springs to mind but the great or great-great nephew of that guy.) He pulled off one of the greatest improvisations in culinary history.

With no cream to be had he threw together eggs, oil, some lemon, probably a bit of salt and pepper, and made Armond de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu (not the one that immediately springs to mind, but the great or great-great nephew of that guy) happy.

My tastes aside, the stuff is ubiquitous. I don’t order a turkey and Swiss on wheat. I order a turkey and Swiss on wheat without mayo because the presence of that demon condiment is assumed. Bastard.

So that’s mayonnaise. It takes its name from an island named for a serial crucifier, and was first served as wafts of burning British bodies permeated the air. Enjoy your sandwich.