Mayonnaise & the Perverse Evolutionary Fear of Condiments

Molecular Gastronomy & the Bourgeois Persistence of “reinterpreting/deconstructing classics.” Such as Molecular Remixology–Is there really a need to use liquid nitrogen to freeze alcohol? I’m no genius, but I also don’t get a hard on over ice. Remember, it was once cool and hip to melt shit via the fondue craze. Why should you get all worked up over food changing its state again? I don’t bust a nut every time I fill up the ice cube tray and throw it in the freezer. Just because you inverted the frozen particles in a Manhattan to have the ice cubes made out of bourbon, having a drink chilled with its own booze ice cubes doesn’t mean you improved it. You just made it more expensive. Am I to envision that some day in the future the next step will be molecular gastrointestinal fecalology where food is specially prepared to exit in exciting shapes once your shit is pooped out like those lame toys when you were a could would once they hit water? And can we slow down with the invention of new condiments? With the exception of Bacon Jam, these have all put a drain on our collective unconscious. Well, what about creating something new & exciting? Well, you know what–somebody’s already been there and written fuck you on it. Sometimes it is best to keep to the tried and true masters. Which brings me to my point of how this spread of condiments in fact proves the existence of deuche bags. I am meeting more and more people with strange phobias of condiments, shrieking fear at the sight of mustard and mayonaisse. This new evolutionary gene is a natural defense. How, say you? It is nature’s way of saying, this ‘tard has too many condiments and is not desirable as a mate and is definitely not relationship worthy. Some evolved beings have developed a natural revulsion to condiments to combat the incesant tide of niche nouveau worship. Thankfully, I am not one of these as condiments can be a little gift of heaven. This isn’t to imply that there is not room for innovation. There can be a million barbeque sauces under the sun, but they still remain BBQ sauce, some better than others. Not to be a scintar playing hippie, but organic ketchup does taste better than the now conventional corn derived concoction. Give me my hollandaise, my bernaise, my blue cheese, but can we please give a shout out to Ecclesiastes and accept that there is nothing new under the sun and that all this degenerative artifice into ‘modernizing’ food is beyond gilding the lily.  Look what happened to poetry once it got ‘modernized.’ Now anyone with the least bit of a dysfunctional family and even the briefest experience of social awkwardness believes they are a goddamn poet. (Side note: Except for the extremely rare few, free verse is the domain of emotional hacks unable to muster the discipline to make their meandering dribble into sustained structured thoughts in both poetry and prose. As Fran Lebowitz said, ” Having been unpopular in high school is not just cause for book publication.” I’m not saying don’t write it, just don’t go about claiming to be the second coming of Ginsberg while wearing a Fedora hat, smoking a clove cigarette, and riding around on a Vespa. And slam poetry. Accelerating your cadence and providing unnatural stress on select words and syllables does not a poem make. It is performance, nothing more. Glad to get this off my chest. The therapy seems to be working.) Eventually innovation is simply attempting to trick yourself into believing your product or experience is original. The trouble is that it very rarely is. There is much to be said about trying new things. Just keep it to yourself. Unless you travel in time to have a heart to heart with Cortez to discuss the atrocities he’s about to commit before he performed genocide, or you manage to get a sweetheart early bird special seat at the Last Supper, don’t cream your pants. Nor insist that we should do so in ours. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the creation of new classic condiments and sauces like bacon jam fits into the Hegelian dialectic. A merging of ideas, most of them mediocre, producing something new & outstanding. That’s all our bellies really ask for in the end. Just don’t assume and proclaim you’ve invented the wheel. For another educated take Barbarella’s Ketchup or Shut-up BBP © 2011

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *