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To our left was a Dutch family. We welcomed them to New York City and they happily spoke of their travels and the good fortune of seeing an old friend, André Rieu, perform up north.
They said he was internationally acclaimed as the world's greatest musician, and they simply loved the fact that he was their André, a friend and neighbor raised in the same village. I didn't know who he was. But I welcomed their enthusiasm. My dining companion was a mind-numbing bore.
He had a Roman numeral III to his name and I was yawning Roman numeral ZZZ's. Blah, blah, blah was what he said most of the time.
The food came with a waiter who looked like the butler from Sunset Boulevard. The fare was alright, usual suspects for a legend. But the sauce! It came with the hamburger and took my breath away. I dipped everything into it - the fries, the bread, even the decorative vegetables. I was dada for it.
It was a strange pink. Not a pretty shade - unless you called it cardamom rose or something like that. And it had such a delicious sharpness to it. The waiter asked how everything was. Perfunctorily so.
I had to ask. What was in the sauce? No, no. Don't tell me. It's ketchup and something wasabi. It's ketchup and horseradish! Yes, it's ketchup and horseradish! I was completely bonkers. Very undignified. But it worked.
The snobby waiter glared at me and sneered with a low Austrian accent, "No. It. Is. Not. That is ketchup and Colman's mustard." And then he walked away.
Candy from a baby. So easily given, it would have to be shared:
Heinz + Colman's = The 21 Hamburger Sauce.
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There you have it, my condiment fanatico. Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart have nothing on you now. Whether you're a desperate socialite who prey on invalids or just a sick pup watching the lives of others, you too, can bring home '21'. Make the sauce and order in. That, and a bottle of Montrachet for two might be a very good way to slip into the new year.
Happy 2014! ~e
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