Not just salami, air conditioning and dental fillings: among their many contributions to civilization, the Romans also gave us Dijon mustard. Somewhere about the 4th century, it seems, the vinegar makers of Dijon were granted the right to use the exclusive mustard recipe composed by Palladius, son of Exuperantius, Prefect of the Gauls (or so Samuel Chamberlain informs us in his Bouquet de France of 1952).
Palladius was one of those fascinating Roman gentleman-farmers who are also poets and scientists. He owned farms in Italy and Sardinia and had a particular interest in fruit trees. He penned a popular treatise on agriculture that stayed on the best-seller (or at least most-read) list until well into the Middle Ages. It explained farming methods throughout the calendar year, wrapping things up with an 85-couplet poem about plant grafting, in elegiac verse.
In France, where they feel that salad is plain lettuce with vinaigrette, mustard is the star of every dressing
In case that résumé wasn’t impressive enough, some say Palladius went on to become a bishop (dropping off his daughter in a Sicilian convent) and got to Ireland ahead of St. Patrick, moving on to Scotland when the Irish proved unwelcoming. But perhaps there were several Palladii about in the late Roman Empire and the chroniclers got their signals crossed along the way.
Be that as it may, Palladius was undoubtedly a benefactor of the human race, if only for having persuaded the Dijonnais to start making mustard. The recipe should be in the public domain by now, so hopefully outraged Dijonnais won’t sue for copyright infringement if we share it: grind one sextarius (about 2 ½ cups) of mustard seeds in a pestle and mortar. Mix in five pounds of honey, one pound of olive oil and one sextarius of strong vinegar. Grind them all together, diligently, and use.
The secret of mustard lies in the chemical reaction that occurs when the crushed seeds come into contact with liquid. Enzymes in the seed then react with organic compounds called glycosides to become hot mustard oil. According to food blog Yuko’s Table, this is why, when a hot mustard burns through your sinuses and brings tears to your eyes, drinking water brings no relief – it simply makes the mustard burn with increased fieriness. (Yuko suggests exhaling instead.)
Adding acid to the mix, however, stops the chemical reaction and stabilizes the mustard, which is why vinegar is an essential element. By halting the chemical reaction, the vinegar preserves the pungent flavours, though they do eventually fade after the mustard jar has been open for a while.
Dijon mustard is one of the kitchen’s most useful condiments, after butter and salt. It’s good with everything savory: chicken, salmon, meat, sandwiches, cheese sauce. In France, where they generally seem to feel that salad is plain lettuce with vinaigrette, it is the star of every dressing (olive oil, wine vinegar, salt and a dab of mustard).
The Romans called it “mustard” because when they first made it, they mixed unfermented grape juice – “must,” from the Latin mustum – with the ground mustard seeds, and got a burning flavor (ardens), hence must-ardens. The vinegar was a later addition and also worked as a preservative.
Mustard was a generally appreciated condiment in the Middle Ages, and Samuel Chamberlain tells us that a feast put on by the Duke of Burgundy in 1336 for the King of France entailed the consumption of no less than 300 quarts of mustard. One of the Popes of Avignon even had a papal mustard-mixer, though the story was that he’d been asked to grant a title to a nephew he considered utterly inept. He backhandedly obliged by naming him premier moutardier du Pape.
From this anecdote came the beautifully dismissive Gallic version of “all that and a bag of chips”: “Il se prend pour le moutardier du pape” – he thinks he’s the pope’s mustard-maker.
So essential is Dijon today that grocers and chefs around the world went into panic mode when shortages hit in 2022. Canada – the world’s chief mustard-seed producer – had been hit by a drought, which destroyed much of the 2021 crop.
You can’t use just any mustard seeds to make Dijon: they must be brown and black, not the yellow variety used in American hot-dog mustard. A limited amount of the brown and black seeds are cultivated in France, but late frosts in April 2021 put a significant dent in that already small amount.
After much of Canada’s crop died of heat, war broke out between the other two producers, Russia and Ukraine, meaning no backup supply was available.
The price of the small amount of mustard still available from Canada became astronomical. Then the war in Ukraine drove up the price of glass jars – and energy prices skyrocketed too, thanks to Europe’s heretofore reliance on Russian gas. Between high costs and shortage of supply, French mustard-makers simply became unable to maintain their rates of production.
So essential is Dijon that grocers and chefs around the world went into panic mode when shortages hit in 2022
Retailers started to limit shoppers to one jar per family after hoarders began stocking up. In many places, shelves sat empty for months. The Dijon is back now, but in smaller quantities and sometimes with less variety. Efforts to restabilize the supply chain are ongoing. Canadian, Russian and Ukrainian production is all back up. France is trying to grow more of its own seed as well.
An indication géographique protégée – Moutarde de Bourgogne – was launched in the Dijon area in 2009 to support local mustard-growers. Mustard from the area must be made exclusively according to traditional methods, using Burgundy-grown mustard seeds and Burgundian white wine. The result is a spicy mustard with a strong taste of blanc de Bourgogne.
The World Mustard Championships (held at the National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin) have named Pommery de Meaux (made near Paris) the world’s best mustard. Those who are short and afflicted with delusions of grandeur may find they prefer Grey Poupon – Napoleon’s favorite.
But when nobles came to visit in Dijon, the only mustard allowed on the table was Maille – allegedly to preserve dignity, as it wasn’t hot enough to make anyone cry. The blue-bloods knew what they were doing. As the slogan goes, “Il n’y a que Maille qui m’aille.” Only Maille cuts the mustard.
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