“No one puts ketchup on a hotdog” —Clint Eastwood

ROCK ISLAND, IL It is well-established in the authorities of antiquity that God favors those who prefer mustard to ketchup. All the trustworthy modern authorities confirm this, and to their unified voices the Bar Jester hereby adds his own correct opinion.

But having called to remembrance this incontrovertible fact, I would not be mistaken for a snob. I make no special claims for “gourmet” mustard or the pretensions of Grey Poupon. I do not lift my nasty professorial nose into to the air only to look down the filthy length of it. I hasten to advert, rather, that there is nothing lowly or unsophisticated about ordinary yellow mustard. Behold how radiantly it adorns the hotdog when applied generously! Consider with what concord its fine tang complements the bosky bite of bourbon whiskey!

And note by contrast with what repellent gore-like attributes its hated viscous rival, ketchup, besmears and disgraces the noble bratwurst!

And yet I would not encourage sins against propriety. There are proper and improper uses of mustard. It is not, this chaste delicacy, an ecumenical condiment. For example, it does not belong on a burger, nor do burgers willingly admit it. Anyone acquainted with the sacred canons of summer cuisine knows that there are only a few acceptable ways to prepare a burger, none of which involves mustard. In order of ascending rank these ways are:

3. With grilled or caramelized onions, lettuce, and tomato on a kaiser roll

2. With melted cheddar, mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato on a kaiser roll

1. With olive sauce—made of chopped Spanish olives and mayonnaise—on a kaiser roll

(This is the burger in its Highest Form. It generally goes by the modest name “Olive Burger.” Seek for it in the hallowed Peanut Barrel in East Lansing, Michigan, or at the Bar Jester’s Unlicensed Homebrewery & Grill in Rock Island, IL)

I will allow that in each case above the Bar Jester’s homemade buns may be used as a substitute for the kaiser roll, but note that under no circumstances is mustard—to say nothing of its vile tomato-based rival—to touch a burger. Note also that light mayo and especially Miracle Whip are strictly anathema. If you are caught eating a burger besmirched with either of these condimental abortions, your ass will be kicked off The Porch. With dispatch.

It goes without saying, though I’ll say it anyway, that the burger should be cut and ground from a grass-fed beast, locally raised, slaughtered, and lockered, and that when the patty comes off the wood or charcoal (but—good lord!—not gas) grill most of it should still be as red as the ketchup so obviously ill-suited to it. Cooking the flavor out of red meat is unchristian—indeed, cooking red meat at all it is almost unchristian—and punishable by hanging.

Why these prohibitions against ketchup?

Hast thou not understood the scriptures? “His eye is on the tomato; neither will he suffer the dissembling thereof.” Which is to say that ketchup should be had in a less processed form—namely, in the form of a whole tomato. And that tomato should be in season. Anyone who puts a rock-hard store-bought February tomato on a burger will be hanged.

And why these restrictions on mustard? Because we are creatures made in the image and likeness of God, who does not put mustard on burgers.

Moreover, Our Lord said nothing about moving mountains with faith the size of a tomato seed.

Critic, still thy tongue.

A general rule to follow—and all the ancients corroborate this—is that if the bun you’re using is round, you may apply mustard only if the meat is “white”; if the bun is long and tubular, you may apply mustard and mustard only—and maybe some chopped onion, but never relish, which is of pagan origin. See Maximus Voracious Gastronemes, A Discourse on Beasts and the Manner of Grilling & Eating Them; see also St. Anathemasius, Contra Catsupum et Relishum.

Each year after Baccalaureate I invite a few colleagues over to join me in fortifying myself against Commencement. Everyone brings a dish, an intoxicant, and a thumbtack (for Pin the Tail on the Administrator—if Strip Poker first, and Naked Twister subsequently, end not indecently). I fry a turkey according to specifications I lifted from an issue of Martha Stewart’s Prison Living. I also smoke some beef short ribs cut from a grass-fed ruminant, at which ribs we pick whilst the bird fries.

Now short ribs are not generally very meaty, at least not the ones hanging on the three-eighths of a cow (formerly grazing down near Buffalo Prairie, IL) that I buy each year. Indeed, you won’t see nearly as much fat in the federal budget as you will see on these ribs—and only slightly more at the opera. But to mitigate the disappointment of my guests, who, having spent an entire academic year demanding their pounds of flesh, count on rather a lot of it at my annual gathering, I make a South Carolina mustard sauce that is … that is … I had almost said “that is to die for” and “out of this world,” except that (1) it is to live for; (2) it is most decidedly in this world; and (3) one should avoid clichés like the plague.

Like loose clothing, this mustard covers a multitude of fat.

And it’s so easy even a Republican can make it. Out of the native goodness of my large and generous heart, I hereby proffer it to the FPR faithful and unfaithful alike:

In a medium saucepan, combine the following:

¾ cup yellow mustard
¾ cup red wine vinegar
1 ½ Tablespoon butter (margarine users will be hanged)
2 teaspoons salt
1 ¼ teaspoon black pepper
½ teaspoon Tobasco sauce
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
¼ cup granulated sugar

Simmer 10-15 minutes on low-to-medium heat, stirring occasionally. Let stand at room temperature for about an hour and mix another drink. WARNING: Do not add Liquid Smoke. You will be smeared with jam and rolled on an ant hill. When sauce is cool, lavish it on a dead animal and serve.

I make no especial claims for other body parts, but ribs of all sorts make excellent smearing grounds for this mustard, which is also good on brats, hotdogs, pulled pork, butterfly chops, fried turkey, and on the tip of your dipping finger when your Sweet Precious isn’t looking. I’ve even stirred it into Bloody Marys, wherein it does not disappoint, provided there are supplemental concoctional ‘fires’ and adequate quantities of cut-rate potato-based clear fermentables to complement it. For confirmation whereof, consult Blitherus Intoximenedes, Mustardimentia et Hemoglobimus Mariae.

But bear in mind that mustard is the gift that keeps on giving, and this last application of it may result in a delayed but audible and fragrant cutting of same. So air your demons the next morning with a healthy walk in the out-of-doors, downwind of her (or him) you love.

A NOTE ON THE IMAGE: Boetje’s Mustard, made in Rock Island, IL, is so good that it can alter history and change the course of a life. It has made gays straight, Straussians sufferable, and Charles Krauthammer interesting on at least one occasion. It even made a hair follicle sprout on Bill Kauffman’s cranial beach once.

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