Mon Naisse, So to Speak

Some literary rumblings birthed from the North:

Mayo Magic

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By: GregAtkinson THE SEATTLE TIMES

"YELLOW AS summer sunlight," wrote Tom Robbins in his 2003 novel "Villa Incognito," "soft as young thighs, smooth as a Baptist preacher's rant, falsely innocent as a magician's handkerchief, mayonnaise will cloak a lettuce leaf, some shreds of cabbage, a few hunks of cold potato in the simplest splendor, recycling their dull character, making them lively and attractive again . . . "

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That rave prompted fans to send the author samples of their favorite mayonnaise, and now the author of eight novels including "Another Roadside Attraction" and "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" boasts a refrigerator door full of exotic brands: Duke's from Greenville, S.C.; Kewpie brand from Japan (in regular and wasabi styles); Delouis Fils Aioli from France; a lime-flavored bottle of McCormick brand "mayonesa" from Mexico, and of course, a jar of Best Foods, America's best-selling brand.

Robbins' latest book of essays, stories and poems, "Wild Duck Flying Backward," includes a piece called "Till Lunch Do Us Part," in which he answers the age-old question, "What would you have for your last meal?" with an eloquent treatise on the tomato sandwich and its essential components, soft white bread and mayonnaise. "But the mayonnaise would have to be the right mayo," Robbins says. "The bread would have to be the correct bread. I don't want to leave the world on an inferior tomato sandwich."

When Tom's wife, Alexa, invited my wife, Betsy, and me to visit their home in La Conner for a private mayonnaise tasting, it occurred to me that Tom and Alexa might like to learn how to make their own. And I came prepared. On the back seat was a bag with a mixing bowl, a wire whisk, one fresh egg, a bottle of organic canola oil, some white balsamic vinegar and a jar of Maille brand Dijon mustard.

Making mayonnaise from scratch has some advantages. It allows a cook to choose the ingredients with an eye for quality, and more than that, it affords us an opportunity to experience culinary alchemy.

But the assembly of mayonnaise is something of a challenge to many cooks, and a complete mystery to non-cooks. When she was compiling the recipes that would eventually become "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," Julia Child maintained strict security about all her recipes, but she was especially cagey about the formula for mayonnaise. When she sent the typed recipe to friends and family for testing, she sandwiched each copy between pink sheets of paper on which she wrote: "Confidential: to be kept under lock and key and never mentioned."

This veil of secrecy would suit Tom Robbins just fine. When I set about making a batch of homemade mayonnaise to compare it to the store-bought stuff, I was sure that Robbins would be interested, but he wasn't. In fact, he positioned himself on a barstool several feet away from the kitchen counter and faced away from the proceedings.

"I was occasionally watching you out of the corner of my eye," he said later, "but I really did not want to know what you were doing. That's because I kind of like the idea of it being a mystery. I have been eating mayo for 60 years, and until 10 years ago, I didn't even know what the ingredients were. I preferred to think of it as some kind of substance dug out of an underground cave in the French Alps."

Robbins said he had a 1969 Mercury Montego with 200,000 miles on it, and the head was never off the engine. "I attribute that to the fact that I never once looked under the hood. I liked to imagine there was a ball of mystic light that kept the motor running. Beneath that silliness is a propensity for mystery. Every great work of art, whether it's painting or film, has an element of mystery. Mayonnaise is not a work of art, but it is the food of the gods; it is ambrosia.

"I don't know how to write a novel," says Robbins, "and sometimes people misunderstand me when I say that; it could be construed as a confession of incompetence. But that's not what I was saying. What I am saying is, I don't have a formula; I don't have a recipe for a novel. I used to cook some, and when I cooked, I cooked from vibration."

I know exactly what he means. Cooking is a lot like writing. Once a writer has mastered his craft, stories seem to take on a life of their own. Once a cook knows enough about the basics to assemble a dish or two without thinking too much about it, he or she can cook by feel. Meals seem to flow together by themselves. And nothing holds everything together better than a smear of homemade mayonnaise.

Greg Atkinson is author of "West Coast Cooking." He can be reached at greg@northwestessentials.com.

Barry Wong is a Seattle-based freelance photographer. He can be reached at studio@barrywongphoto.com.