Ask George: What’s the best condiment to put on a leftover-turkey sandwich? —Dagwood B., Joplin
It’s safe to say that there are as many post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich condiments as there are opinions on how best to cook the turkey in the first place.
Straight mayonnaise is favored by the majority (both Hellmann’s and Duke’s have adamant fan bases), which is a simple and apt pairing when the sandwich consists of richly-flavored dark meat. SLM freelancer Pat Eby mixes equal parts of Duke’s with a country Dijon. “Grey Poupon is nice but not mandatory—but Duke’s is sacred,” she says. (Sacred to other St. Louisans is Irene's, a locally-owned gourmet mayo that, alas, is currently unavailable.)
SLM contributor Bill Burge mixes equal parts Portland's Secret Aardvark Habanero Hot Sauce with Duke's, and “puts it on damn near anything we can think of, including my family’s leftover bird.”
There are those who prefer a “lemonnaise” and there’s the Miracle Whip crowd. Mustardheads weigh in with sweet-hot Mister Mustard, different iterations of Dijon, and the hearty whole grains, yet I suspect few people put yellow mustard on a Thanksgiving Friday sandwich (unless it’s ham, of course).
A little texture is often desired, along with a little acid, hence the predilection for leftover cranberry relish (the favorite add-on for SLM contributor Emily Wasserman). Another logical choice is Marina’s Cranberry Chutney, made in Seymour, Missouri, from whole cranberries and oranges (available at Straub’s). SLM critic Ann Lemons Pollack prefers mango chutney, “preferably a spicy one.” And we can’t forget Durkee Famous Sauce, the go-to turkey sandwich condiment for generations of St. Louisans, including SLM contributor Holly Fann.
Personally, I lean toward an aioli, a remoulade, or a Bon Appétit concoction I’ve yet to try called “gravy mayo” that’s way more than a two-component spread (recipe here).
Years ago, SLM’s 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 this year, he took several paragraphs to explain what others threw down in a word (and we love him for it):
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 and limited largely to those families where minaudière are carried by women before seven o’clock. Basically, though, dressing on a bread sandwich is like drinking Scotch with a bourbon chaser.
These being informal and more liberal times, there is room for the addition, I will admit, 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.
