Around 300 BCE, people in China were experimenting with making pungent pastes out of fermented
fish guts. A few centuries later, the Greek historian Pliny shared a method to treat scorpion
stings using the ground-up seeds of a common plant. These are the unlikely origin stories
of ketchup and mustard.
Hi, I’m Justin Dodd. *And I’m Justin Dodd* Welcome to Food History, and shout-out to
Bradley Jones and no_diet_diet_club for suggesting ketchup and condiments as topics. People in
the United States spend over a billion dollars, in total, on ketchup and mustard each year,
but neither item was invented here. *So how did two condiments with thousands of years
of history between them become associated with hotdogs and hamburgers? By the way, looking
good, Justin.* Thanks, Justin.
Let’s start with mustard. It’s been around for a while. In fact, it may have been among
the first crops ever cultivated. Mustard first appears in the archaeological record in China
around 6800 years ago—and in this case, when I say mustard I’m referring to the
plant and its seeds, and not the condiment that comes from them. There are multiple species
of mustard plant, with most being members of the Brassica or Sinapis genera. Mustard
is closely related to broccoli and cabbage. Bonus shout-out to Randall Mason and the 47
people who liked his comment suggesting we make a whole episode on foods that are hybrids
of cabbage. I reserve the right to make a super-involved episode on that topic, but
for now here’s an incomplete list of plants that are somehow all the same species, brassica
oleracea: cabbage, kale, kohlrabi, broccoli, broccolini, brussel sprouts, and cauliflower.
All one species!
When it comes to mustard, the seeds harvested from the plant were used as a spice and a
medicine before they became a condiment. Indian and Sumerian texts from around 2000 BCE mention
them in this context.
The paste-like form of mustard showed up roughly 2500 years ago. The Greeks and Romans blended
ground-up mustard seeds with unfermented grape juice, or must, to make a smooth mixture.
The term mustard may come from the Latin for hot must,” a truly unappetizing combination
of words. Hot. Must.
The first version of this concoction wasn’t necessarily food. It may have been used more
for its medicinal properties, and not completely without reason. Mustard seeds are rich in
compounds called glucosinolates. When these particles get broken down, they produce isothiocyanates,
powerful antioxidants that fight inflammation and give mustard its nose-tingling kick. The
Greeks and Romans applied mustard’s medicinal properties to almost every ailment imaginable.
Hippocrates praised its ability to soothe aches and pains. Many of mustard’s historical
uses don’t hold up to modern science—for instance, it’s not a cure for epilepsy,
as the Romans once believed—but it’s still used as a holistic treatment for arthritis,
back pain, and even sore throats.
While experimenting with mustard as medicine, the Greeks and Romans discovered that pulverized
mustard seeds were pretty tasty. In the first century C.E., Roman agriculture writer Lucius
Junius Moderatus Columella—sidenote, awesome name— published the first recorded recipe
for mustard as a condiment in his tome De Re Rustica. It called for an acid and ground
mustard seeds—the same basic formula that's used to make mustard today.
Meanwhile, the evolution of another popular condiment was underway halfway across the
world. Ketchup first appeared in China around 300 BCE. In the Amoy dialect of Chinese, kôe-chiap
means ‘the brine of pickled fish,’ according to the Oxford English Dictionary. 19th century
ethnologist Terrien de Lacouperie thought the word might’ve come from a Chinese community
living outside of China. In any case, the name is pretty much the only thing that version
of ketchup had in common with the bottle of red stuff in your fridge. It was actually
much more like garum, a mediterranean fish sauce that was once wildly popular in Ancient
Roman cuisine. Modern versions of garum can actually be found today in high-end restaurants
like Denmark’s Noma. Some have even suggested that Asian fish sauce is a descendant of garum.
And how was the Chinese fish sauce, known as ketchup, made? Likely by fermenting ingredients
like fish entrails, soybeans, and meat byproducts. Mm. Meat byproducts.
You probably know that fermentation gives us beer and wine, and you might even know
it can involve yeast. But what exactly is going on when something ferments? *Food science
intro*
Fermentation is a pathway for breaking down carbohydrates like glucose when aerobic respiration
isn’t possible— when oxygen isn’t able to act as an acceptor of the electron transport
chain. Both aerobic respiration and fermentation create Adenosine triphosphate, or ATP. And
if, like me, you only remember things from school that rhyme, you know that ATP gives
en-er-gy.
You might read online that fermentation is carried out by simple organisms, and that’s
mostly true, but it can also happen within your own body. Red blood cells don’t have
mitochondria, and therefore can’t perform cellular respiration. Instead they carry out
lactic acid fermentation. The live cultures in yogurt do, too, as do muscle cells, in
certain conditions. One byproduct of lactic acid fermentation is lactate—hence the name—and,
despite it not rhyming, I clearly remember being taught in school that the buildup of
lactate was responsible for sore muscles. Turns out, research suggests that’s probably
not the case.
My typical theater major disclaimers apply for that scientific breakdown, but the important
thing for us to know is that fermentation creates byproducts that can be of great interest
to human beings. One such byproduct is the ethanol that gives us beer and wine through
alcohol fermentation.
Another is monosodium glutamate, also known as MSG. A lot of theories fly around about
MSG, but it’s worth pointing out that glutamates appear naturally in all sorts of foods, from
tomatoes to beef to parmesan cheese. Our own bodies produce glutamates. And MSG can give
foods a savory, hard-to-define flavor called umami. The fish paste that was created by
fermentation possessed this umami, and was used to add a salty, savory depth of flavor
to a variety of dishes. And because fermentation can breed so-called “good” microorganisms
while inhibiting the growth of the bad bacteria that cause foods to rot, this version of ketchup
could be stored on ships for months without spoiling, an important factor at a time when
trade routes could take months to traverse.
As ketchup spread to different parts of the globe, it went through a few transformations.
Trade routes carried it to Indonesia and the Philippines, and it was likely around this
part of the world that British traders discovered and fell in love with the funky seasoning.
As soon as ketchup landed in Great Britain in the early 1700s, Western cooks found ways
to make it their own. One of the first English recipes for ketchup, published in Eliza Smith’s
1727 book The Compleat Housewife, calls for anchovies, shallots, ginger, cloves, and horseradish.
Some recipes used oysters as the seafood component, while others cut the fish out of the fish
sauce completely. Popular bases for ketchup around this time included peaches, plums,
celery seed, mushrooms, nuts, lemon, and beer. Like their predecessor, these sauces were
often salty, flavorful, and had a long shelf-life, but beyond that they could vary greatly. The
word ketchup evolved into a catch-all term for any spiced condiment served with a meal—”spiced”
referring to ingredients like cinnamon or nutmeg rather than heat level, by the way.
Walnut is said to have been the preferred ketchup variety of Jane Austen. I’m now
imagining Elizabeth Bennett being courted by a Mr. Walnut. He’s mature, and deep,
and just a little spicy.
Mustard received its own makeover when it was imported to different parts of Europe.
The Romans invaded the land now known as France in the first century B.C.E., and the mustard
seeds they brought with them thrived in the region’s fertile soil. Locals loved the
new condiment, including the monks living in the French countryside. By the ninth century,
monasteries had turned mustard production into a major source of income.
Mustard found its way into less humble settings as well. Pope John XXII was said to be such
a fan that he appointed a Grand Moutardier du Pape, or “Grand Mustard-Maker to the
Pope.” John XXII was one of the Avignon popes, who lived in what is now France rather
than Rome, and he created the mustard-making position specially for his unemployed nephew
who lived in Dijon, which was already the mustard capital of France by the 14th century.
Even French royalty developed a taste for mustard. King Louis XI made it an essential
part of his diet, going so far as to travel with a personal pot of the sauce so he’d
never have to eat a meal without it. And honestly: I respect the move.
There are many types of mustard; yellow, spicy brown, English, Chinese, and German, to name
a few. But to some condiment connoisseurs, mustard is still synonymous with the creamy
Dijon variety that first took hold of France centuries ago.
In 1634, it was declared that true French mustard could only be made in Dijon. The recipe
was an important part of French cuisine, but as one innovator proved, there was still room
left for improvement. Dijon native Jean Naigeon tinkered with the formula in 1752, swapping
the traditional vinegar with verjuice, or the sour juice of unripe grapes. The simple
change gave dijon the smooth taste and creamy texture that’s associated with the product
today. Most modern dijon uses white wine or wine vinegar to imitate that original verjuice
flavor. And most of it isn’t made in Dijon. Unlike champagne or Parmigiano-Reggiano, which
must come from the areas who lend their names to the products, dijon no longer enjoys “protected
designation of origin” status.
The dijon you’re most likely to find in your local supermarket is probably Grey Poupon.
In 1866, inventor Maurice Grey teamed up with financier Auguste Poupon to revolutionize
the mustard world. Grey’s automated mustard-making machine brought the artisan product into the
Industrial Age. Today, most Grey-Poupon mustard is made in American factories and enjoyed
in the backs of Rolls Royces. That can’t be right.
While mustard was flourishing, ketchup was still figuring out how it would leave its
mark on the white t-shirt of history. After arriving in America by way of British colonization,
the sauce joined forces with the ingredient that would define it for decades to come:
the tomato. The British had experimented with turning nearly everything they could find
into ketchup, but tomatoes were the exception. At least in part because, much like the star
of our mashed potatoes episode, the New World fruit was believed, by some, to be poisonous
when it was first introduced to Europe by explorers in the 16th century. It’s possible
that some wealthy English people did get sick from eating tomatoes, though not for the reasons
they suspected. If they were eating off lead and pewter plates, the acid from the tomatoes
may have leached lead into their food, thus giving them a case of lead poisoning they
might’ve mistaken for tomato poisoning. A lot of food historians doubt how much influence
this could have had on public perception, though, arguing that lead poisoning takes
too long to develop to get connected to any single dish. Instead, it could just be that
tomatoes looked like plants that Europeans knew were poisonous, and so were branded with
guilt by association. The bottom line is, the reasons are contested, but by the late
16th century you can definitely find anti-tomato texts in English.
This misconception about the risks of tomatoes may have persisted among English Americans
if it weren’t for the efforts of some passionate tomato advocates. One of these crusaders was
Philadelphia scientist and horticulturist James Mease. He referred to tomatoes as “love
apples,” and in 1812, he published the first known recipe for tomato ketchup.
The name love apples didn’t stick, sadly, but tomato ketchup did. People with fears
about tomatoes felt safer eating them in processed form—something anyone who's ever ordered
a burger with no tomatoes and extra ketchup can relate to. And ketchup may have gotten
an assist from a bit of old-fashioned quackery. Dr. John Cook Bennett touted tomatoes as a
cure for maladies ranging from diarrhea to indigestion. He published his own recipes
for tomato ketchup, and eventually the product was being sold in pill form as patent medicine,
helping to sway public perception about the benefits of tomatoes.
In reality, though, early tomato ketchup was actually less safe than tomatoes from the
vine. The first commercial products were poorly preserved, resulting in jars that were teeming
with bacteria—and not the good kind. Some manufacturers cut corners by pumping the condiment
with dangerous levels of artificial preservatives. Coal tar was also added to ketchup to give
it its red color. That’s just slightly less concerning than the time Heinz made ketchup
green.
Speaking of Heinz, the company is largely responsible for elevating ketchup from potential
botulism-in-a-bottle to staple condiment. Pennsylvania entrepreneur Henry J. Heinz got
his start in the condiment business in 1869 by making and selling his mother’s horseradish
recipe. Seven years later, he saw an opportunity to bring some must-needed quality to the ketchup
market.
The first bottles of Heinz ketchup hit stores in 1876, and in the years that followed they
would do several things to set themselves apart from
the competition. For starters, Heinz got rid of the coal tar and all that other stuff you
don’t want on your French fries. Instead, he blended distilled vinegar with ripe, fresh
tomatoes. His formula was shelf-stable and it tasted good, but that alone may not have
been enough to make Heinz a household name. Arguably the biggest change he made was packaging
his products in clear, glass bottles. Before that, ketchup had been sold in brown bottles
to hide its poor quality. With Heinz, customers knew exactly what they were getting.
The Heinz ketchup bottle is one of the most iconic pieces of food packaging ever created,
and it’s likely shaped your perception of the product. This extends even to the spelling
of the word. If you write C-A-T-S-U-P you may get funny looks, but it’s a perfectly
valid old spelling for the word, and for years was actually the preferred spelling in America.
Heinz labeled his condiment ketchup with a K as another way to differentiate it from
its catsup with a C counterparts. Today Heinz’s version is widely regarded as the correct
spelling.
Mustard also arrived in America shortly after the first European settlers did, but All-American
yellow mustard didn’t appear until much later. At the World’s Fair in Chicago in
1904, the R.T. French Company debuted its new “cream salad mustard”—which is an
unfortunate name, but still much better than hot must. Hot. Must.
Distracted fairgoers may have overlooked the product if it wasn’t for a special new ingredient.
Mustard is naturally brown or beige, but Brothers George and Francis French added turmeric to
their mustard to give it a neon yellow look.
For a canvas to showcase their condiment, the Frenches chose the hotdog—a dish that
was fairly new to Americans at the time. The R.T. French Company’s cream salad mustard,
or French’s yellow mustard, is still a classic hot dog topping more than century later. Although,
to be honest, I’d just as soon take my hot dog with no mustard or ketchup at all. What
do you think is the right way to top a hot dog? Tell us in the comments. And as long
as we’re starting unnecessary comment fights that will invariably devolve into hysterical
ad-hominem attacks, what’s the best way to top a burger? Ketchup? Mustard? Mayonnaise?
Whatever your personal feelings may be—and put me down for some honey mustard and a bit
of garlic aioli— ketchup and mustard have no-doubt secured their positions as culinary
heavyweights. Surprisingly, though, neither product is the top-selling condiment in the
U.S.. That distinction belongs to ranch dressing, which is a $1 billion industry as of last
year, and really just speaks to the decline of the American empire. Did King Louis XI
carry around a pot of it? Did Jane Austen have a favorite ranch recipe? Not likely.
Last episode we promised to answer a food-or-drink-related question from the comments, and Vincent Chavez
Jr asked, “Does dark roast coffee have more caffeine or?” at which point I assume he
fell asleep at his keyboard. I’m sorry, Vincent. It turns out, this question is a
bit harder to answer than you might expect. You’ll find sources online swearing that
dark roast has more caffeine because it tastes stronger, that light roast has more caffeine
because less caffeine is burned off in the roast, and that there are no meaningful differences.
Here’s what’s really going on: Caffeine is not appreciably affected by the roasting
process—it’s actually quite stable at the temperatures used in coffee roasting.
But the beans themselves are affected; the more a coffee bean gets roasted, the more
water evaporates out, and—somewhat confusingly—the larger the bean gets. So the dark-roasted
beans are less dense. The individual beans don’t change in caffeine content, but more
of them are needed to create an equivalent mass of ground coffee beans. That means that
a cup of dark-roast coffee—if made using the same mass of coffee grinds and brewed
in exactly the same way as a cup of light-roast coffee—might have a bit more caffeine. In
practice, there are a number of other variables in play, from the species of coffee to the
amount of water used in the brew, so your best bet is probably just ordering coffee
based on your preferred taste. Hold the mustard.