What’s your favorite condiment to put on a leftover-turkey sandwich? —Louise V., St. Louis
Coincidentally, we were asked that same question several years ago. As we noted back then, there are as many post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich condiments as there are opinions on how best to cook the turkey in the first place.
A little texture is often desired, along with a little acid, says SLM contributor Emily Wasserman, hence her predilection for leftover homemade cranberry relish.
Mayonnaise is favored by the majority, however. (Both Hellmann’s and Duke’s have adamant fan bases.) Mayo is a simple and apt pairing when the sandwich consists of richly flavored dark meat. SLM freelancer Pat Eby takes it up a notch, though, mixing equal parts of Duke’s with a country Dijon. “Grey Poupon is nice but not mandatory—but Duke’s is sacred,” she says.
After making myriad sandwiches during the pandemic this year, Eby began making wraps to add variety. "For turkey wraps, I have a new favorite: my homemade chunky cooked cranberry sauce mixed with equal parts of Koop’s Stone Ground mustard." She slathers spinach wraps (notably the ones from Trader Joe’s) with a layer of whipped goat cheese and tops it with cranberry mustard and sliced turkey.
Writer Liz Miller finds herself in the mustard-with-cranberry-sauce camp as well. “A few tablespoons of leftover cranberry sauce whisked with one tablespoon or so of Dijon mustard makes a tangy, tart condiment ideal for leftover turkey sandwiches, which, in our family, are assembled using day-old homemade Parker House rolls instead of sandwich bread.”
SLM contributor Bill Burge mixes equal parts Portland's Secret Aardvark Habanero Hot Sauce with Duke's. He puts it on “damn near anything we can think of, including my family’s leftover bird.” As for this year? “While none of my immediate family actually loves turkey, the splash of nostalgia of doing it ourselves will be especially appreciated in 2020,” he says. A 16-pound bird means Burge's family will “keep the nostalgia flowing as the leftovers will land in Mom's turkey tetrazzini and my wife’s mom's turkey soup.”
SLM critic Ann Lemons Pollack prefers mango chutney, “preferably a spicy one.” This year, the former nurse was more reflective: “I still have a soft spot for the hospital turkey sandwiches I would come across at 3 a.m. in the kitchen when I was working a night shift—white bread, and a slice of, in those days, real turkey breast. Period. Sometimes that, with the flourish of salt and just-ground pepper, is just what I crave. Then again, there’s always that recipe for turkey, stuffing, and cranberry Chelsea buns.”
SLM contributor Cheryl Baehr likes to make a sauce of mayo, Dijon, a touch of honey, and a little Penzey’s Chicago seasoning. "It ends up being a bit like a smoky honey mustard," Baehr says, "sort of like Chick-fil-A sauce without the politics.”
For SLM contributor Iain Shaw, Dijon mustard is a solid go-to, "but it has to be wholegrain," he notes. "Sriracha also works great, and if you want to mellow the heat a little, you can make your own sriracha mayo in less than five minutes. Or try Lao Gan Ma Spicy Chili Crisp on your turkey sandwich, from that line of addictive and popular Chinese condiments. Start with a half teaspoonful spread on your turkey, and see how you like it—I guarantee you'll be hooked. It’s available at Jay's, Global Foods, and pretty much any international supermarket."
After long adding Durkee Famous Sauce, the go-to turkey sandwich condiment for generations of St. Louisans, SLM dining critic Holly Fann has recently been "craving big, bold flavors"—and recommends the exact same condiment as Shaw—Lao Gan Ma's Spicy Chili Crisp—the one made with chilies, crunchy fried onions and garlic. "It is mouthwateringly good and makes just about anything more interesting to eat," she says. "If you prefer less heat, blend a bit of it into mayonnaise, and smear that on your turkey sandwich.”
As for myself? At one time, I favored an aioli or remoulade, but I'm also craving spice these days. Having become a fan of oo'mämē (a locally made interpretation of spicy chili crisp, now available in four varieties), my thought was to mix a bit of it with...a little mayo. The mystery of how three palates mysteriously converged remains unsolved.
Years ago, SLM dining critic Dave Lowry pontificated on the wonders of umeboshi, a pickled Asian fruit resembling a small plum (available at Global Foods). But when asked about condiments more recently, he elaborated on his philosophy:
OK, first, there are no “condiments” for a turkey sandwich. No more so than there are “condiments” for Bach’s Notenbüchlein für Anna Magdalena.
There are elements. Each contributing the precise proportions necessary for a masterpiece.
There is bread—and in the ecumenical spirit of adiaphora, a certain liberty is granted here as to the actual make and model of that ingredient—which should not be interpreted as a licence for any bread product including quinoa or spelt.
There is turkey, which, like your great aunt’s favorite Thanksgiving libation, arrives white, chilled, and in copious amounts.
And there is mayo. Mayo is specifically mentioned in the Mayflower Compact. There were actually hogsheads of it in the hold of the ship.
That’s it. That’s a turkey sandwich.
Yes, there are those who would put dressing on the sandwich. This is a mild perversion, harmless but a trifle avant-garde. Basically, though, dressing on a bread sandwich is like drinking Scotch with a bourbon chaser.
These being more informal times, I will admit there is room for the addition, on holidays when one is feeling particularly daring or exotic, of a schmear of cranberry sauce, using mayo as a buffer so as not to sogify the bread.
I don’t make the rules, but without them Thanksgiving becomes indistinguishable from a pack of hyenas feeding on a wildebeest carcass.
If you have a question for George, email him at gmahe@stlmag.com. You can also follow him on Twitter @stlmag_dining. For more from St. Louis Magazine, subscribe or follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
