Her name is Maggi. She is the great unifier among Chicago restaurants. I’ve seen her at a German restaurant in Lincoln Square, at a Polish restaurant in Noble Square, at Mexican restaurants in Pilsen, at a Senegalese restaurant in Bronzeville, at Filipino restaurants in West Ridge, and in Chinatown. Maggi might as well be secretary general of the United Nations.
Maggi is a condiment. It’s like a second cousin to soy sauce. It’s a secret weapon employed at some of my favorite ethnic restaurants around town. And yet when I presented a bottle to my food-savvy, Highland Park, Ill.-born wife, she said she’s never heard of the sauce. I brought a bottle of Maggi to my office mates and none have tasted it either.
Those who grew up on Maggi sauce, as I did (I was born in Hong Kong), swear by its effectiveness of turning ho-hum foods interesting. It’s made from fermented wheat protein and loaded with glutamic acids (not gluten free), which accounts for the rich, meaty, savory, umami-face punch the sauce provides. (For Australian friends, it’s not far off from Vegemite.) Think the taste of well-seasoned and well-charred roast beef. That’s what makes Maggi seasoning so dangerously addictive — you justify new foods to dash a few drops in, from scrambled eggs to spaghetti bolognese to a bloody Mary. Like a swig of fish sauce, it acts as an invisible amplifier of flavor.
A few months ago I remember sitting at Podhalanka, the Polish restaurant in West Town, with my friend Dan Pashman. Pashman is host of the terrific The Sporkful podcast on WNYC and he’s no food slouch. And yet he never heard of Maggi sauce until that day, when he splashed a few drops into his dill cabbage soup. When he returned to New York, Pashman told me he immediately mail ordered a bottle.
“It’s like soy sauce on crack,” Pashman said. “It’s this umami, kind of sweet, rich, fatty, salt and sharp flavor. You could put it on everything. I think you should try it on ice cream.”
Well, maybe not.
Pashman continues: “The main thing I use it with are sauces, stews and soups. Anything liquidy, I just pour a few drops in. It just adds this backbone, this extra unctuousness.”
The compelling part about Maggi: There exists a devoted fanbase among a cross section of immigrant communities, yet for America-born food fans, few are familiar with this sauce.
Maggi seasoning has its roots in Switzerland, invented by Julius Maggi. In 1863, the Swiss government commissioned Maggi to create quick-serve meals in response to “more and more women were working outside the home.” Maggi came up with two instant soup mixes, a pea soup and a bean soup, and those became the basis for the bouillon cubes, noodles and sauces that followed. Nestle acquired the Maggi brand in 1947.
What’s interesting is Maggi sauce, distinguishable by its yellow-capped black bottles, doesn’t have a uniform manufacturing process. A number of countries have their own version and each tastes slightly different. Over the weekend I stopped by a Mexican grocer, a Polish butcher shop and a Chinese supermarket in Chicago and found three different Maggi seasonings (fully aware there are several more versions).
My tasting notes:
Chinese: Dark brown in hue, but not as salty (relatively speaking) as the other two. There’s almost a caramel-like complexity to the sauce. Would be good as a supplement to marinades, or as a dipping sauce diluted with, say, chili oil. My favorite of the three.
Polish: A lighter auburn brown, but the saltiest of the three I tried. Perhaps this version works best dashed into soups. Again, a few drops is all that’s needed.
Mexican: Super dark with a thicker viscosity. Appears to be more concentrated, and the meatiest of the three. Closer in character to soy sauce than the others.
I’m a fan of this sauce, if you couldn’t tell. It’s because I’m a big fan of MSG — and no, there’s zero scientific proof it causes headaches or has adverse effects to your health. (Of course, everything in moderation. I wouldn’t chug soy sauce by the pint either.) It’s time for more Americans to know about it.
About the Author
