Once upon a time, mustard was considered a holy herb.
Because the top of the plant, the part that shoots up? It’s shaped like a cross.
There is a place in Madison, Wisconsin – The National Mustard Museum.
It’s in Madison that she learned the holy herb fact, among others.
It’s right downtown, the museum. They have thousands of different mustards, tens of thousands even, and a tasting bar up front where you can sample hundreds of them.
Behind the bar is a huge map of the US with shelves on each state holding mustards from that region.
Across the street from the National Mustard Museum is the National Museum of Ketchup.
You’ll find thousands of different ketchups inside the National Museum of Ketchup, tens of thousands even, and a tasting bar in the back where you can sample hundreds of them.
Behind the bar is a large map of the US, and on shelves in front of each state you’ll find bottles of ketchup from that region.
The two museums are not owned by the same people.
They do not think of themselves as complimentary flavors on either side of a hot dog.
No, they are rivals.
Bitter, angry rivals.
“We were here first,” the mustard bartender told her. He wasn’t smiling.
“So its not, like, a complimentary thing? Having ketchup right there?”
The bartender tucked his chin in, scoffed, said “no way.”
“I mean, you’d think,” she said. “Like the road is a hot dog, you know?”
“Oh yeah? You’d think?”
The mustard bartender wore a yellow (of course) tee shirt that read – ‘Pou Pon University.’
She thought, oh yeah, I do think. They could call the road ‘Hot Dog Ave’ or some shit, pull in tourists left and right. She thought, what the fuck’s up with this dude.
But what she said was, “what happened?” Cause she figured something must’ve happened.
The mustard bartender with the yellow PPU shirt had a thick mustache that curled up on the edges, old timey-like, and it bobbed on his upper lip as he talked.
“You mean other than them moving across the street and copying our whole operation?”
Oh, she thought, just some petty shit like that.
The mustard bartender sighed, turned his head one way, then the other. The mustard bar was empty.
“Sorry,” he said, “it’s a sore subject.”
“I know.”
“At first, I thought it was a good idea too, them building the ketchup museum across the street. I even played around with a promotion where we could call the stretch of road here ‘Hot Dog Lane.’
“No way, I had the same idea,” she said.
He gave a weak little smile, said “The news came, did a story. They made a joke where they compared mustard and ketchup. Like they’d show a video of some food and say if mustard or ketchup tasted better with it. They practically said ketchup goes on everything. Completely biased.”
Her eyes kept involuntarily sliding to the curls bouncing on the bartender’s mustache while he talked.
“They go and interview people, ask them which they prefer, and almost everyone said ketchup. Bullshit.”
She nodded, agreed.
“Bullshit,” she said.
“Yep. Then at the end of the segment, the reporter looks into the camera and says, ‘There you have it, ketchup wins,’ and takes this french fry, dips it into some watery fucking sugar loaded neon red bullshit and goes ‘mmmm.’
“No way. So biased,” she said.
“Yes way. And then get this, the Ketchup Museum puts up a banner, a big, big banner, that says ‘KETCHUP WINS.’
“Noooooo.”
He was nodding his head.
“Uh huh,” he said.
She thought the banner was a good idea, but they should have added, ‘ask anybody.’
KETCHUP WINS. ASK ANYBODY.
She said, “Well you’re talking to a mustard girl, sir,”
“Damn right, good people. You want another sample?”
“Hit me.”
“What kind?”
“Surprise me,” she said.
“Good call,” he said. He winked when he said it, and when he winked the one side of his mustache bounced so hard that she swore she saw it uncurl for a split second then snap back.
The bartender went to a cooler, filled a little cup, placed it in front of her with a spoon.
“This is one of my favorite new local mustards. A coarse whole grain mustard, made with organic chili peppers and locally sourced honey. A little sweet,” he leaned his head to one side, “a little spicy,” and leaned it the other.
“Oooo its good,” she said.
His smile said she pleased him.
“What else went down with the ketchup crew?” she asked, licking her spoon.
A family was gathering at the other end of the bar – a mom, dad, and three preteen kids.
“Then it really started,” the mustard bartender said. “We have a joke around here.” He looked at the family, then leaned over the bar toward her conspiratorially. “A woman goes to the store to buy ketchup and her house burns down.”
She waited, felt there was a punchline coming, but the bartender leaned back and winked an old timey curl snapping mustache wink, and moved down the bar.
She thought, her house burned down? Her fucking house burned down? What the fuck is that?
She wandered through the museum, which was really just a store. She wanted to buy one, only one, jar of mustard. Something random, rare. A small batch mustard that you couldn’t even find online.
She thought of holding up the bottle, presenting it to her friends and saying ‘Have you ever had this?’
‘Nooooo,’ they’d say. ‘What even is that?’
‘Mustard,’ she’d tell them. ‘Motherfucking mustard.’
We’re talking like an hour, hour fifteen, picking up bottles, reading ingredients, searching her phone, putting them back.
And then she found it, finally.
The perfect mustard.
Her mustard.
It was on the bottom shelf down in the corner of the basement.
10.5 ounces, brownish yellow, no online presence, all natural ingredients she’d never heard of.
She held it in awe, like Indiana Jones holds that golden statue at the beginning of Temple of Doom.
She imagined light trickling in through the windows and reflecting the mustard’s golden hue onto her glossy eyes, just like the statue does to Indy’s.
“Good one?” said this guy who materialized next to her.
She instinctively pulled the jar of perfect mustard to her chest and turned her shoulder away from the guy and scowled at him.
He reached past her and plucked the only other jar of her mustard from the shelf. He held it up, glanced at the label, and dropped it into a basket with several other mustards.
“What the hell?” she said.
“What?”
“Are you gonna buy that?”
“I was planning on it,” the guy said.
“So, you’re just gonna come over here, copy me?”
“Miss, I’m not copying anyone.”
She thought, ‘Miss?’ You’re gonna fucking ‘Miss’ me?
“You are,” she said.
“Get over yourself, lady.”
Lady? Now you’re fucking ‘Ladying’ me? she thought.
The guy took a few steps away, his eyes scanning the shelves of mustard – like a vulture, she thought – and she took the few steps with him.
“Were you following me?” she accused. “Waiting to see what I picked?”
“What do you care?”
“You were. You definitely were. You stalker.” She spit out the word ‘stalker,’ made it as vile as possible.
“What?” the guy said. “I’m not stalking you.”
“Yes you were. Stalking me so you could leech.” She spit out the word ‘leech’ with disgust.
“Leech? Lady, this is a store.”
“It’s a fucking museum.”
“Whatever,” the guy said, and walked away.
“Fucking leech,” she hissed at him.
Only she didn’t say any of that.
The guy reached past her, and she scowled alright, but she didn’t say anything when he picked up the last jar of the most perfect mustard in the whole goddamn National Mustard Museum.
She thought at him though.
She thought at him real hard.
Part of her wanted to put the mustard back, wash her hands of the whole mustard business, head across the street to the National Museum of Ketchup with a good riddance to mustard itself.
But, instead, she bought the mustard.
She told the story to her brother, who she was in town to visit, when he got home from work.
“Sampling all that mustard would give me the shits,” was all he had to say about it.
“You know, I never had diarrhea until just last year,” she said.
“Bullshit.”
“No honest. I thought I did, but then I actually had it. I was so proud of myself.”
“That you had the shits?”
“No, that my stomach is so badass,” she pointed at her stomach with her thumbs out like two cocked pistols, “that I didn’t have real diarrhea my whole life.”
TSA took the mustard from her bag when she tried to bring it through security.
“No way,” she said when the security guy told her she’d have to leave it behind.
“Ma’am, this is a liquid over four ounces. You can’t bring it on the plane.”
“It’s mustard, man,” she said. “Still sealed and everything.”
“Ma’am, it’s policy.”
“Policy? About fucking mustard?”
Another security guy came over, escorted her from the line and led her to a windowless room where they searched her, ransacked her bag, and reiterated that her mustard, her gold-Temple-of-Doom-glisten-in-your-eye mustard, would not be joining her on the plane.
They made it clear that she could very well stay in Maddison, Wisconsin with her mustard, if she preferred.
At this point, she was thinking, Fuck Maddison. Fuck Wisconsin, and she called her brother.
“It’s an emergency,” she told him. “The TSA pulled me aside.”
“They won’t let me get on the plane,” she told him.
“For real,” she told him.
“Get the fuck up here, I’m serious,” she said.
She was waiting outside when he pulled up twenty minutes later.
“Mustard?” he said, looking down at the jar in his hands. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It was, the TSA had me in this little room.”
“You said you were serious.”
“I was, they really had me in a room.”
“Because of mustard?”
“I know. Fuck. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”
“I’m gonna be late for work now. What the fuck.”
He tried to hand the mustard back, but she put her hands up, stepped back.
“Just mail it to me,” she said.
“Yeah right,” he said, getting in his car.
“Mail it,” she yelled after him. “Come on!”
She knew he would.
He did.
The mustard came in a week later.
Again she held it up in awe. Again its golden hue reflected sunlight onto her gleaming eyes.
The rarest, she thought.
Well, except for that stalking asshole leech, she thought. But he’s not going to enjoy it, not really.
She had a whole plan for when the mustard came in. She decided all the details on the plane from Maddison.
She went to the mall, through the food court and to the hot pretzel booth.
“Two please,” she said.
It took all her willpower not to rip a piece off the corner of a pretzel on her way home. She wouldn’t do that to the mustard. The mustard deserved two pretzels. Two perfect pretzels for her perfect mustard.
Perfect.
And then…
It was time.
She cracked the seal.
Unscrewed the lid.
Brought it to her nose.
And sniffed.
It smelled like vinegar.
Burnt horseradish.
Other stuff.
Not good stuff.
She put it on the table, looked at it, stirred it with a spoon, brought it back to her nose.
Still not good.
She thought that fish sauce smells like shit but tastes good on green beans.
Kombucha, she thought, that doesn’t smell too good and tastes okay.
She tore off a chunk of pretzel, dipped it liberally into the jar of mustard.
UGGGGGGH.
It tasted sour, spicy in all the wrong ways, left a film on her tongue and the roof of her mouth.
Ugh. Fucking Ugh.
No.
No way.
She refused to accept it.
She took a bite of pretzel to clear her palate and tried again.
UGGGGGGH.
It was horrible.
She spit it out.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”
The jar popped when she whipped it into the garbage can, the sound almost satisfying.
She threw open the fridge, pulled out a bottle of ketchup, squirted some into a bowl, and took it to the couch in front the TV to eat her pretzels.
A banner raised up into her head. Large and bold and written in red.
KETCHUP WINS.