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Late last year, Molly Baz—the chef, author, and influencer who emerged from Bon Appetit’s test kitchen to food world fame—released a new line of mayonnaise called Ayoh!. Baz, a self-described “mayo maniac and sauce champion,” developed the flavored mayonnaise specifically to be spread on sandwiches. What makes this mayo different from the rest? According to her Instagram announcement back in November, they’re “all packed to the brim with pickles, spices, herbs, and acid.”
Looking at the reviews, they seem to echo the same sentiment—the product is next level, but who wants to pay $10 for a bottle of mayonnaise? There’s a whole Reddit thread calling the mayonnaise “obscene” and “bonkers expensive.” Eater’s Amy McCarthy reviewed them approvingly, but ultimately decided she wouldn’t “go out of my way to stock my pantry.” It’s a fair assessment, at least from a budgetary perspective: A 30-ounce jar of Hellmann’s generally runs about $6, while that $10 bottle of Ayoh! runs 10 ounces. (And with the way the price of eggs is trending—uh, not down!—it stands to reason that the egg-based emulsion will soon follow suit.)
Around that same time, I was watching an episode of Subway Takes, the popular TikTok series hosted by Kareem Rahma. The show’s format is simple yet incredibly grabby: A guest comes up with a hot take, presents it while seated next to Rahma on New York’s bustling subway, and then the pair debate the merits. In this particular episode, the comedian Paul Scheer sounds off on everyone’s favorite tomato sauce: “Restaurants need to stop with the artisanal ketchup,” he declared, referring to the house-made, fancified concoctions that have cropped up in recent years at many establishments. “We don’t need your mango-chutney ketchup. I just want the sugar!”
As the Ayoh! and craft ketchup blended together (yum) in my mind over the subsequent months, I’ve been thinking: When did condiments become this sticky battlefield of class warfare, with artisanal creations duking it out against the populist classics? And indeed, when there are so many beloved standby condiments at the ready, is there any value whatsoever in gussying things up? Aren’t chefs, brands, and Molly Baz just needlessly spinning their wheels when, by market share anyway, the majority of people have already spoken loud and clear: We want cheap, grocery store condiments? With an open heart and an unadorned bun, I decided to find out.
It may have been a foreigner who fired the first volley in this war. When I reflect on the clash between class and condiments, I can’t help but think about Grey Poupon—the silky, tangy, glass-jarred mustard that originated in 19th-century France—which took mustard in the U.S. and made it synonymous with the upper crust. Remember that elegant commercial from the ’90s? A man is being chauffeured around town by a glove-wearing driver, eating steak in the back of a Rolls-Royce, when his driver reaches into the glove compartment to pull out a jar of Dijon mustard to go with. Classical music plays throughout the commercial. The man is debonair and distinguished. Then, at the end, a car pulls up next to them and asks, “Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?” With this commercial, Dijon mustard became the condiment of refined folk, and condiments were suddenly connected to tax brackets.
But regardless of what the one percent are slathering on toast points in their backseats, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years writing about food, it’s that Americans are loyal to brands, especially when it comes to condiments. Most of us grew up with a ketchup in the house (usually Heinz), or a regional style of mayonnaise (Hellmann’s versus Duke’s), or a brand of mustard we adore. As such, we can be suspicious of outsiders and upstarts, and for many, that tribalism clashes mightily with the trend of “craft” or “artisanal” interlopers that’s been increasing since the 2000s. Even the attempt at making something like ketchup homemade or “from scratch” can seem like a bougie, ego-driven overcomplication, what with perfectly serviceable, smooth and sugary Heinz in abundant supply.
You don’t have to take my word for it. The hatred is real: Plenty of articles have been written over the years about the subject, with headlines like “Nobody Wants Your Homemade Ketchup” and “57 Reasons to Hate Homemade Ketchup.” America’s Test Kitchen, perhaps the authority on American home cooking, has straight up decreed that homemade ketchup should be illegal.
It’s interesting—while I think most of us would at least allow a homemade aioli or grain mustard, ketchup seems nonnegotiable, even for chefs. I spoke with chef James Rigato, fresh off a sold-out burger week at his popular restaurant Mabel Gray in Detroit, who completely agrees: “Nobody wants homemade ketchup. It’s a brand. It’s like your mom making you wear LA Gear when you wanted Nikes. There are 1 million delicious sauces you can make from scratch. Ketchup ain’t it.” I have texted Rigato a few times about various food subjects, but this time I noticed an extra bit of fire when I brought up homemade ketchup. “It’s the Coca-Cola of condiments. Nobody wants your homemade fucking cola. They want Coke.”
And you know, he has a point—ketchup is a brand. Ketchup is Heinz. Heinz is ketchup. (Sorry, Hunt’s!) We have irrevocably linked the two forever. Heinz is a working-class, everyday ketchup that gets the job done. Ketchup’s very being is processed, factory-made and engineered to be unceremoniously squirted or glugged out of its container.
Maybe daring to make ketchup from scratch really is hoity-toity and unnecessary.
Then again, for those of us who value creativity in cooking, isn’t condiment populism a little, well, bland?
I also spoke with chef Jesse Griffiths of Dai Due in Austin, Texas. Dai Due is a wonderful restaurant that’s racked up accolades (recently, a Michelin green star.) Griffiths has an eye hyper-fixated toward local ingredients. As such, the restaurant imposes upon itself some serious limitations—just about everything the kitchen uses is sourced from Texas. That means garlic, carrots, lemons, limes, onions, herbs, and all of the meat in the butcher case hails from the Lone Star State in some form or another. Naturally, because of his devotion to the region and community, Heinz won’t cut it.
“We couldn’t exactly buy Heinz, simply based on our ethos and sourcing protocols,” Griffiths explains, before talking about the pitfalls of making homemade ketchup. “Tomatoes aren’t super expensive, but when you cook them down to a fraction of their original volume, ketchup becomes a luxury item. With tomato seasonality and cost playing a part, we almost had to enter into the artisanal ketchup fray. That meant beets.”
With Griffiths’ beet ketchup, which is sweet and tangy and otherwise delightful, his goal was to get the ketchup as far away as possible from tasting like beets, while still maintaining the right balance of sugar, vinegar, classic ketchup spices, and that strikingly smooth texture of Heinz.
“I personally love [our] beet ketchup and think it’s great on our fries, which have an earthiness from being cooked in beef tallow.” However, he goes on to say that another chef at Dai Due has since created a from-scratch tomato ketchup that’s also been on the menu.
It’s curious that so many of us put a stink on things that are made thoughtfully and with care by labeling them as artisanal, that we spit out craft with some sort of scoffing disdain. Perhaps too many people have felt swindled by expensive, chef-driven (vroom vroom) restaurant concepts. (On that same Subway Takes episode, Paul and Kareem go on to lambaste a burger and fries costing $25. This, I fear, will constitute victim blaming, but that is purely the fault of the diner.)
The disdain is especially odd when you remember that ketchup being made from other things is not necessarily an indicator of pretentiousness. Indeed, tomato ketchup is a relatively new invention in terms of food history. Before ketchup was made from tomatoes, it was made out of all sorts of miscellany—mushrooms, fish sauce, anchovies, garlic, ginger, and oysters. The first public recipe for ketchup as we know it today—that is, tomato ketchup—appeared sometime in the early 19th century. Come to think of it, if you’ve never had Filipino banana ketchup, you need to—it’s deliciously sweet and smooth just like tomato ketchup, only it’s made from bananas. Making ketchup out of vegetables and fruits? That’s just ketchup getting back to its roots.
If my little history lesson doesn’t at least make you craft-curious, Griffiths offers a way of thinking about it that might help: “If you think of tomato ketchup as being a tomato chutney instead of a ubiquitous condiment, does that get us ketchup mixologists a bit of a pass in making our own?”
Making it your own—now that sounds like something I can get behind, and pretty American at that. Like the “thicc fries” at Ima Izakaya, a ramen joint in Detroit that also specializes in small plates of Japanese-influenced food. Their boat of fries costs $12, and comes loaded with crispy leeks, umami seasoning, yuzu-guava ketchup, and furikake kewpie mayo. In short, they’re loaded fries with a chef-y, Japanese slant, and they are so damn good. Crispy leeks offer a pungent char, there’s umami seasoning (which I’m guessing is mushroom powder) for meatiness, and a duo of creamy, decadent condiments perfect for dipping. In this case, those who would knee-jerk tell you that craft ketchup is a scam are completely wrong. This, friends, is just a delicious plate of fried potatoes and condiment. Here, we see that the value of making fancy condiments is not in replacing the stalwarts, but rather is about allowing for the manifestation of new bold and unexpected flavors. It’s always been an expression of wanting to create something new and delicious.
To wit, Molly Baz has herself conjured a new condiment that’s, in my estimation at least, worth the money. That’s because she understands mayonnaise more than you or me. I’ve tasted the stuff, and it’s incredible. It’s got the tang of Duke’s, the fattiness and body of Hellmann’s, and the sweet eggyness of Kewpie. While name-brand mayos are perfectly fine (and more economical, especially if you’re making potato salad, dressings, and the like), it’s undeniable to me that Baz made something truly great. And yet, thoughtful mayonnaise is too often greeted with the same “Oh là là” as when someone is snarking at béarnaise sauce.
I will admit that I also once shared Paul Scheer’s opinion about craft ketchup, and condiments on the whole. I used to think they were unnecessary, overhyped, and overpriced. But, in my travels reviewing restaurants, I have seen plenty of great chefs and restaurants serve exciting, deeply flavorful homemade condiments without being too costly. I think the lesson here is that there’s always room for expansion past our beloved brands—they’ll still be on the shelf when we need them. I firmly believe that when we embrace new things, our taste buds usually benefit. So take a risk, let a few of these fancy condiments out of the bottle in your own life. Just maybe not in the car—that’s inviting the sort of mess only rich people can afford to have cleaned up.
