Conundrum
mayo
The line at Yolk stretched past the host stand and almost to the sidewalk, which meant it was good, which was the only reason Priya had agreed to come. She stood with her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, scanning the brunch menu on her phone while Jalen held their place and Camille tried to parallel park her Civic for the third time on East Boulevard.
“She’s going to hit that Audi,” Jalen said.
“She’s not going to hit the Audi.”
Camille did not hit the Audi. She arrived at the host stand slightly flushed and talking about a yoga class she wanted to try at three, and by then the wait was only ten more minutes, which they spent arguing about whether bottomless mimosas were economically rational. Jalen thought yes. Priya thought you were paying for permission to drink before noon. Camille said that was the most depressing way to frame it and ordered one immediately when they sat down.
They got a table by the window. Sun came through in a bright sheet across the reclaimed wood, and Priya moved the tiny succulent centerpiece so it wouldn’t cast a shadow on her menu. She ordered the pressed turkey club, listed on the menu with arugula, havarti, pickled onion, and a roasted garlic aioli. Jalen got the short rib hash. Camille got avocado toast because Camille always got avocado toast and was not embarrassed about this.
The food came quickly. Priya’s sandwich was thick, pressed golden on the outside, and she could see the aioli oozing slightly from between the layers of turkey when she picked it up.
“Wait,” Camille said. She had her fork suspended over her toast. “Pri. You ordered that?”
“Yeah?”
“That has aioli on it.”
“I’m aware.”
“You hate mayo.”
Priya set the sandwich down. “It’s aioli.”
Camille looked at Jalen. Jalen, who had been shoveling short rib into his mouth with a focus that bordered on devotional, paused long enough to say, “She’s got a point.”
“No she doesn’t,” Priya said. “Aioli is not mayo.”
“It is functionally mayo,” Camille said.
“Aioli is garlic and olive oil emulsified together. Mayonnaise is eggs and vegetable oil. They are fundamentally different products.”
“They are fundamentally the same product,” Camille said. “One of them just has better branding.”
Jalen wiped his mouth with his napkin. “She’s right about the branding thing. Every restaurant in South End puts aioli on the menu because nobody would pay seventeen dollars for a turkey sandwich with mayo on it.”
“That’s a marketing argument,” Priya said. “I’m making a culinary one.”
“The culinary argument is that they’re both emulsified fat,” Camille said. “You whip oil until it gets thick and spreadable. The garlic is a garnish. You wouldn’t say ketchup and sriracha are different food groups just because one has chili flakes.”
“Those are completely different.”
“Are they? They’re both tomato-based condiments with vinegar and sugar.”
Priya opened her mouth, then closed it. Jalen pointed his fork at her. “She got you.”
“She did not get me. Traditional Provençal aioli has no egg in it at all. It’s a mortar and pestle preparation. It’s closer to pesto than it is to Hellmann’s.”
“Does this menu say Provençal aioli?” Camille asked. “Or does it say roasted garlic aioli, which is what every American restaurant calls mayo when they want to charge a premium?”
“Just taste it,” Jalen said.
Priya looked down at the sandwich. The aioli, or the mayo, or whatever it was, gleamed faintly against the havarti. She picked it up and took a bite. The bread crackled. The garlic came through first, roasted and sweet, then the richness underneath it, and the tang of the pickled onion cutting across everything. She chewed slowly.
“Well?” Camille said.
“It’s good.”