Dijon, the ancient capital of the dukes of Burgundy; city of art and history, is today the center of Burgundian good living, especially in the month of November, when the annual Foire Gastronomique takes place. Due largely to the efforts of its epicurean mayor, Gaston Gérard, this festival of food and wine has become a matter of national acclaim. During the time of the fair, each Dijon restaurant vies with its rival in preparing precisely the same menu—a little along the idea of duplicate bridge—and the public is indeed the gainer. The name of Dijon immediately suggests its specialties of pain d’épices and cassis, that fragrant juice from the black currant which makes delicious deeppurple candies and a fine liqueur. Cassis is also a syrup which, when mixed with vermouth, ice, and seltzer water, makes one of the most popular apéritifs in France. But above all, the name of Dijon signifies mustard, and well it might.
Mustard has been manufactured in the city of Dijon since the fourth century, and then the local vinegar-makers were authorized to use the exclusive formula of Palladius, son of Exuperantius, prefect of the Gauls. Its popularity dates back into the dim days of history. In 1336 a Gargantuan banquet was given for King Philippe de Valois by the Duke of Burgundy. At this single feast a hogshead containing three hundred quarts of mustard was consumed. That gives you a faint idea of the scale of the banquet! Can the Yankee Stadium, even at the peak of the hot dog season, equal this record?
The dukes of Burgundy were among the most erudite and exacting of gourmets and lavished an immense amount of attention upon their vast dining halls and kitchens. Their feasts for visiting dignitaries were truly prodigious. The diners stayed at the table for days at a time, varying the rich Lucullan fare (each service had fifty or sixty dishes) with “sumptuous bacchanalian vaudeville,” whatever that signifies. The Ducal Palace in the famed Place d’Armes in Dijon contains a mammoth kitchen which is really nothing more than a vast, four-sided fireplace, replete with multiple spits, grills, and stoves. Today we calculate in chops, where those lusty Burgundians counted in whole sides of beef.
The popes of Avignon were gastronomically aware of the charm of mustard and of its utility. The saintly Pope Jean XXII made good use of it. Not knowing what to do with his worthless nephew, who was “an incorrigible frequenter of little back streets, ignorant as a carp and proud as a jay,” the holy man created for the wastrel the title of Premier Moutardier du Pape. The title has been preserved in learned circles to apply to vain sots who carry on the nephew’s tradition.
The little white porcelain jar containing Dijon mustard is known to everyone. I still think that the best possible dressing for a leaf of lettuce is made with four parts olive oil, one part wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and enough newly made Dijon mustard to add its indefinable bouquet. One thing to remember is that any French mustard, even the best, becomes flat, sour, and unpalatable with age, which is sometimes its condition on reaching this country.
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