Mayonnaise: we all know it, but we all definitely do not love it, despite Big Mayo’s attempts to grease us into submission. For decades, we as a society have been brainwashed (or brainspread would be more apt, I suppose) into believing that mayonnaise is integral to a sandwich. You’d be hard-pressed to find any deli menu that doesn’t doesn’t include it as one of the ingredients of every. Single. Sub. And it’s so ubiquitous, it’s often not even listed, prompting a flagrant, wretched attack on my delicate taste buds when I’m just trying to enjoy a goddamn pastrami on rye without a slimy, uninvited, and unwanted guest popping up like an ex-boyfriend with a “U up?” text. Blocked and reported. 

 

But guess what, bitches? Mayo isn’t necessary! It’s really not. 

 

Think about it. The ingredients that comprise mayonnaise are few and basic: eggs, oil, and either vinegar or lemon juice. All of these elements on their own are fine; wonderful, even. But when they join forces, they’re whipped into a god-awful, unholy abomination that immediately dominates an otherwise perfect panini. It’s not all about YOU, mayo. Read the room.

 

Mayo is also the only sauce that bears a striking resemblance to a certain bodily fluid. Which, like, is totally fine. But while I know there are probably porn categories for that, I’m not super gung-ho about that shit being liberally doused all over my ham and cheese. There’s a condiment/condom joke in here somewhere, but I digress.  

 

Sure, I’m biased and have decades of personal mayo trauma that I’m still working through with an unlicensed therapist. A summer of pool parties at Mrs. Husted’s house in the summer of ’91 meant two months of Miracle Whip-laden sandwiches for lunch. Since, I’ve associated the condiment with bathing suit wedgies, mosquito bites, soggy turkey-on-wheats, and water trapped in my ear. Over the years, I’ve become skilled at recognizing my nemesis under all of its aliases and in all of its incarnations, including “aioli” and “remoulade.” 

 

There’s also the issue of control. Why the hell should I trust Andy, the random, likely stoned sandwich slinger at the neighborhood deli, to intimately know my dressing preferences? The man probably thinks chocolate-dipped Funyuns are a good idea. 

 

What do I propose instead? I’m so glad you asked. While I’ve personally never understood what’s so wrong with letting the flavors of the deli meats, cheeses, tomatoes, and pickles shine on their own accord, I’ve been made aware over the years that this is apparently an unpopular and perhaps even deranged take. So, I have an easy and exponentially more delicious idea: ranch motherfucking dressing.

 

Ranch is everything mayo wishes it could be. Flavorful. Slightly tangy. Versatile. A true value-add to any sandwich or salad and the perfect dip for wings, chips, or vegetables. Get you a condiment that can do both, I say. Can you imagine dipping buffalo chicken in mayonnaise? Truly psychopathic behavior. To paraphrase Jackie DeShannon — who probably fucking haaaated mayo, too — what the world needs now is ranch, sweet ranch. 

 

And mustard? Well, that’s a story for another day.

 

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