AIOLI
Aioli, the thick pungent emulsion incessantly—and incorrectly—referred to as “garlic mayonnaise,” is well-known throughout Europe. But the unfortunate majority of Americans have been exposed to counterfeit forms of this ambrosial sauce, as posh—i.e. style over substance—eateries insist on tossing ingredients that are most unwelcome into their “version(s)” of aioli. Green peppercorns. Wasabi. Chipotle peppers. Sun-dried tomatoes. I wish the lot of you a lengthy and painful demise.
There can only be one.
Real aioli is three things, perhaps four; but most definitely not more than that.
Garlic bulbs. Odiferous ones blushing violet at their cores. Those are the ones with the needed umphf.
Olive oil; French is fine; Greek Better; Italian best.
Salt. Spanish or French sea-salt.
That’s three things. The fourth could—or would—be Dijon mustard, or, um, an egg yolk. I’ve got a problem with the latter.
This is a garlic sauce. This is not a mayonnaise.
Let’s do the history. Linguistically, we’re looking at Latin: allium = garlic; oleum = oil. Then we’re looking towards the French, the Provençal: alh = garlic; òli = oil. I can’t think of an ancient Roman equivalent to this sauce. The closest I can get is “garum,” which is more like Asian fish sauce than aioli.
Enough history.
With a mortar and pestle, grind five healthy garlic cloves together with a pinch of salt. The garlic will break down and turn wet and begin to coat the pestle. Add a spot of olive oil and turn the pestle into the garlic. Your shoulder will begin to hurt a bit. That’s fine. It will all be worth it. Continue to pound and grind and churn. Add some more oil and then a bit more salt. If you haven’t created an emulsion, add a dab of Dijon mustard. This should get the mixture thick and rippling with waves if you’re not there already. Taste it. Depending on the quality of your oil, it may need some lemon juice. Not too much. It should be like the sun poured on a plate. Aioli: A yell of yellow and earthy enough to bring the tears.
The hold of Gaul eats aioli with lots of good stuff. Salt cod is soaked in water and pan fried and enjoyed with spoonfuls of the stuff. Fries are covered in the stuff. Bread is toasted, smothered in cheese and slathered with the stuff. Etc.
There can only be one.
Real aioli is three things, perhaps four; but most definitely not more than that.
Garlic bulbs. Odiferous ones blushing violet at their cores. Those are the ones with the needed umphf.
Olive oil; French is fine; Greek Better; Italian best.
Salt. Spanish or French sea-salt.
That’s three things. The fourth could—or would—be Dijon mustard, or, um, an egg yolk. I’ve got a problem with the latter.
This is a garlic sauce. This is not a mayonnaise.
Let’s do the history. Linguistically, we’re looking at Latin: allium = garlic; oleum = oil. Then we’re looking towards the French, the Provençal: alh = garlic; òli = oil. I can’t think of an ancient Roman equivalent to this sauce. The closest I can get is “garum,” which is more like Asian fish sauce than aioli.
Enough history.
With a mortar and pestle, grind five healthy garlic cloves together with a pinch of salt. The garlic will break down and turn wet and begin to coat the pestle. Add a spot of olive oil and turn the pestle into the garlic. Your shoulder will begin to hurt a bit. That’s fine. It will all be worth it. Continue to pound and grind and churn. Add some more oil and then a bit more salt. If you haven’t created an emulsion, add a dab of Dijon mustard. This should get the mixture thick and rippling with waves if you’re not there already. Taste it. Depending on the quality of your oil, it may need some lemon juice. Not too much. It should be like the sun poured on a plate. Aioli: A yell of yellow and earthy enough to bring the tears.
The hold of Gaul eats aioli with lots of good stuff. Salt cod is soaked in water and pan fried and enjoyed with spoonfuls of the stuff. Fries are covered in the stuff. Bread is toasted, smothered in cheese and slathered with the stuff. Etc.
Labels: Gaul

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