I Don't Like It
A Guest Post on Mayonnaise from Micheal
Mayonnaise. I don’t like it. Those are the words I use when I’m out at a restaurant. Well, those are the words I used to use which somehow fell short because like a scandal to Trump, mayonnaise would always find my plate. Due to this gravitational pull mayo has to my entree, I now have an entire monologue and rebuttals at the ready when it is time to order. “I’ll have the southwest special, no mayonnaise please. No mayo, aioli, tzsiki, crema, ranch or yogurts. Or capers please, those taste like mayonnaise. Not an allergy, just don’t like it. Even if it comes on the side I’d prefer it not be on the plate at all. I’d prefer it not be in the building. Medium rare, thank you.”
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Is this a little much? Not if you walk a mile in my shoes. The sheer lack of respect a mayonnaise aversion receives is mind boggling. It’s as if I didn’t mention it at all, or I just haven’t come around to enjoying it yet. I haven’t had a girlfriend who hasn’t tried to sneak it into my food. To be a mayonnaise martyr is to know pain. The pain of betrayal when you first taste the distinct tang distant on your palate. The pain of looking into your partner’s eyes and knowing their awaiting gaze means you’ve been had again. The pain of their quick question asked with a forked tongue, “Do you like it?,” confirming your fears that there is a special ingredient in your rice. The pain.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” is the old saying. While that may or may not be true, I promise you if there is a free lunch, there will be mayonnaise on it. My favorite and least favorite phrase is “lunch will be provided” because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt mayo or something mayo-esque will be slathered with impunity. Never trust a free lunch, that’s what mayo has taught me.
Christ, if I had a dollar every time mayonnaise or its cousin popped up two bites into a sandwich, like some sort of Jack-in-the-Box from hell in a Stephen King novel, I would be Bezos. The world seems to treat mayonnaise as if its some god-like nectar only a lunatic wouldn’t enjoy. Mayo is not ambrosia. It’s ghost snot.
I like bananas but I also can understand why someone wouldn’t like a banana. That element of understanding is what us mayonnaise martyrs do not receive on this thing called Earth. We walk alone through culinary minefields deciphering coded lingo for mayonnaise. “Chef’s selection,” “Tasting menu,” “Pre-set menu” all mean there will be something cold and slimy to contend with.
I wish I liked mayonnaise. I do. Because then I would be like the billions of people who don’t even notice how ubiquitous it is. Pause for a moment, take the red pill. Now you will notice mayonnaise the way you notice mattress stores. You don’t think about them, but once you do, you notice they are everywhere.
I know I’m difficult. I do. I know I don’t have an adventurous palate and am probably missing out on a lot of great food experiences. However, mayonnaise is not one of those experiences. Please stop with the mayonnaise. In my opinion the Bible needs an eleventh commandment on the rules of engagement with mayonnaise. Loving thy neighbor is cool but the world would be a better place if we could all trust each other with each other’s sandwich. Shalom.