With tomato sandwich season around the corner, I have chosen to reprint this 2009 column, in which a panel of Southern food experts weighed the flavors of commercial mayonnaise in a blind taste test. It has been edited for length.
May I explain why I managed to invite six Southern food experts to my office one cold and rainy afternoon to lick mayonnaise off pieces of white bread? It’s a bit of a story:
Several months ago, when the Cherokee Purple tomato vine in my backyard was heavy with fat, firm, “eat-me-now” specimens, I decided to have my first Southern tomato sandwich. I made it with one thick and drippy slice of the maroon fruit, two pieces of white bread and whatever mayonnaise I had in the fridge, which was Hellmann’s. Delicious. I posted a note on my Facebook page and then published a column on the experience.
I subsequently got hundreds of comments and e-mails from readers and got stopped repeatedly in the hall at work to discuss this sandwich.
Some told me it was about time I had discovered a quintessential Southern summer experience. But many more were aghast at the jar pictured in the accompanying photo.
Hellmann’s???
In the South, you put Duke’s mayonnaise on your tomato sandwiches and everything else, I was told in no uncertain terms. Created by Eugenia Duke of Greenville, S.C., in 1917, who sold mayo-laden sandwiches to soldiers stationed at nearby Fort Sevier, Duke’s is the true emulsion of the South.
But, wait, no!
If you’re from the Gulf states, then chances are you may prefer Blue Plate, which has been made the same way in Louisiana since 1927, and has such a following that Web-based retailers ship it hither and yon.
Unless, of course, you don’t like either. There’s no shame.
You might have been raised to slather your sandwiches with one of the two nationally popular Kraft contenders — either Real Mayonnaise or its tawdry cousin, Miracle Whip, which isn’t a mayonnaise at all but a “salad dressing.” I don’t believe anyone in gastronomic history has actually dressed a salad with this stuff.
All that being good and true, plenty of Southerners don’t buy into the Duke’s orthodoxy and argue for the superiority of — ta da! — Hellmann’s, just as Northeasterners have since 1905, when German immigrant Richard Hellmann began selling his wife’s blue-ribbon-wrapped jars out of his New York deli.
Our compatriots out West have never heard of Hellmann’s, though they eat it all the time. Once you approach the Continental Divide, the brand’s name changes to Best Foods.
So, for my own piece of mind, I had to put these jars of emulsified soybean oil through their paces. I chose the five popular brands mentioned above and one ringer. I cut little rounds of Pepperidge Farm Very Thin white bread (Sunbeam lovers, hold your tongues), slathered them with six mystery mayos, and invited some folks to come and taste them from numbered plates.
Here is what the experts found, with their ratings on a 1 to 5 scale (5 is the highest):
Hellmann's: (Rating 4.7). The clear winner, the panel found it "smooth, creamy, rich," with a "touch of spice" and the "best all-around flavor."
Blue Plate: (Rating 3.7). Some found it tart and pleasant; others deemed it bland. "Not a lot of depth," sniffed one commenter.
Duke's: (Rating 3.7). One avowed Duke's lover noted the heavy, "almost sticky" texture. Another noted the saltier flavor would stand up best to a tomato sandwich. A third found it balanced but didn't like the aftertaste. Just about everyone commented on a vinegary kick lacking in the other brands.
Kraft: (Rating 3). Opinions were all over the board. It was called "savory," with a notably smooth texture. But others were put off by what they perceived as a light, sweet flavor. "Yuck. Discount brand?" asked one taster.
Kewpie brand from Japan: (Rating 2.5). This yellowish mayo in its distinctive doll bottle can be found in any Japanese kitchen. Though the color suggests fresh eggs, the real secret ingredient of note is MSG, which gives Kewpie a savory, lingering flavor. Opinions were all over the board. One taster complimented the "complex flavors," while another said it "had no snap."
Miracle Whip: (Rating 1.5) .Two commenters said it tasted like pickle relish. Everyone found it too sweet, and just about everyone recognized the flavor instantly.
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