A Brief History of Mayonnaise — Or Not.
There are two universal truths about the South, everyone loves mayonnaise, and everyone loves to trash Florida. So, what would happen to your opinion of Florida if I were to tell you that you might have it to thank for mayonnaise existing in America?
I’m not a historian, but I love history, especially as it applies to food. I’m going to put out a very plausible case for the truth, but I cannot prove it to be the truth. Two different research projects over two decades apart drew a line for me that I had never thought of when it comes to mayonnaise. So, I mean, if you like mayonnaise or historical supposition, read on.
When I was in culinary school decades ago, a paper on past and current trends in butter sauces was my punishment for some transgression that occurred, the details of which elude me. I was 20; I was supposed to do dumb things. In researching that paper, I learned the origin tale of what we now know as mayonnaise.
Modern-day mayonnaise evangelists argue over the factuality of what my 1987 research paper revealed, but here goes. In 1756, the Duke de Richelieu laid siege to Mahon’s port city on the island of Minorca (now part of Spain) during the Seven Years War. After winning the battle, the Duke supposedly fell in love with a creamy, garlicky, olive-oil-and-egg condiment that the Mahon locals ate, called aioli. (Some now say that his private chef invented this when he could not find cream on the island and needed to adapt a dish.) Richelieu supposedly brought the aioli back to France, where it gained popularity as Aioli Mahonaise — aioli in the style of Mahon. However it happened, Mahonaise, Spanish salsa Mahonesa, or whatever you want to call it, spread across Europe, and the name morphed until it became mayonnaise.
In 2013, I started doing a considerable amount of research into the foods of old Florida. I’m speaking of foods that existed before the carpetbagging and Disney-fication of the state. Did y’all know that the British owned Florida for a while? I’ll spare you the reasons why, but from 1763 to 1783, Florida was an English territory. In 1768, a Scottish doctor named Andrew Turnbull received a land grant and attempted to launch an indigo plantation in Florida, in an area that he dubbed New Smyrna. He needed workers who were used to the sun, heat, and humidity to work the plantation, and he recruited indentured servants from a Mediterranean island called….Minorca. The voyage to Florida was terrible enough; 148 of the colony’s 1403 members died on the trip, alone. Disease, food shortages, brutal working conditions from sadistic overseers, and predation by the folks who lived there first (you know, Native Americans) led to over 450 deaths in the first year.
Indentured servitude works like this: one signs a contract for a term. At the end of the term, one receives compensation — usually money or land. In 1777, the indentures had expired, but Turnbull’s overseers force the workers to stay on. A small group of them managed to escape the plantation and make their way to St. Augustine, where they petitioned the governor to be set free, as was their right for honoring their end of the contract. They were, and many of the Minorcan workers migrated to St. Augustine, where they assimilated with the population.
At this point, things start to come together, so stay with me. In 1783, Britain ceded control of Florida back to Spain. As a Spanish colony, the folks in and around St. Augustine had access to olive oil, it being a culinary staple of. Also, garlic grew wild, and eggs were readily available. Raw ingredients meeting with Minorcan tradition could have been the entry point of the duct tape of Southern cooking into what is now America.
There you have it, a brief history in the possibility of mayonnaise. This story could be the truth, or it could be bullshit. It’s plausible enough to establish an urban legend. Like Florida needs any help with that. I’ve bored many people with this story at parties because that’s how fun I am. Now it’s your turn.
