Beware the great invasion of mayonnaise

Editor’s note: Mayonnaise, that most overwhelming of all condiments, has somehow barged its way into all manner of food in India. Momos, kulchas, kathi rolls, chilli potatoes, shawarmas—wherever you look, there’s a huge glob of tandoori mint jalapeno mayo staring back at you. We try to make sense of this uneasy alliance between desi cuisines and mayonnaise, only to be left with more questions than answers. 

Written by: Akhil Sood

Ages ago, I found myself in some godforsaken part of Pune in the stinging January winds. Starving after a long day of running around, my friend and I found a tiny corner shop in Viman Nagar selling paratha rolls filled with chicken or aloo/paneer. It’s impossible to say with certainty, but I think this may have been a very early iteration of Faaso’s before it became a nationwide rolls conglomerate. I ordered for myself a chicken roll of some sort and the first bite gave me an electric current. 

There was mayonnaise in my roll, can you believe it? It was all so weird and unfamiliar. We’re talking about 2008 here—much simpler times. Mayo went strictly inside burgers and sandwiches. Chutney went inside rolls. These two worlds were kept apart by tradition and convention. So to experience this collision—mayo inside a paratha roll?!—was so exciting. Maybe even a little dangerous. Like I was a rule-breaker. 

And now look at us. We are in the midst of a full-blown mayonnaise epidemic. To cite a quick case study, recently I went to my neighbourhood momos thela restaurant. (We all know how this story is going to end but I’ll tell it anyway.) It’s a small, intimate space where they spell momos as “Momoz” and is always swarming with annoying teenagers being a nuisance (as is their right).

I got a plate of chicken momos (they do paneer and cabbage ones too, which come in a different shape to avoid any horrible misunderstanding), and was handed three different dips. The first, naturally, was the flaming red chutney you’re supposed to have momos with. It’s a toxic biohazard; whenever I taste it, tears stream down my face and smoke billows from my ears. But have it I must. 

Then there was green chutney; we’re Indians after all and this is Delhi we’re talking about. The third, surprise-surprise, was a beige-coloured mayonnaise with some herbs in it. Alongside, I’d also ordered crispy honey chilli potatoes—as one simply has to at all such local momos and Indian-Chinese joints—which too came with a little katori of mayo. There were, by this point, not one but two cups of mayo on my table. I understand that I can just not eat the mayo instead of being all dramatic. There’s no gun to my head. But what’s going on here? It stirs up some kind of intellectual curiosity in me. 

Obviously there’s some thought behind it; it’s not indiscriminate. People are experimenting with fusion mayos, trying to find accessible entry points to different dishes. Just to run through an incomplete list of mayo variants available today: we have in the market mint mayo, which draws (poorly) from our staple pudina chutney. Tandoori mayo, of which the less said the better. Chipotle mayo. Low fat mayo. Roasted garlic mayo. Jalapeno mayo. Vegetarian mayo, even. (Our finest minds have somehow found a way to entirely eliminate the one essential ingredient of mayo—the egg!—to craft something that appeals to a wider demographic, without compromising its taste much.)

But how did we get to this point? What is it about mayo that has made it such a permanent and essential fixture in all local and street food-adjacent shenanigans in the country? Even the restaurant I order butter chicken rolls from—in weak moments—laces the inside of the flaky paratha with generous globs of jalapeno mayo alongside the butter chicken. And it’s an opt-out option, not opt-in. Why do we need mayo inside a roll that is already wet and dripping with excess flavour? It puzzles my mind. These particular shawarmas I have been obsessed with for more than half my life are prepared, too, with a special mayo in them that has a secret garlic fluency to it. Mayonnaise is everywhere you look. 

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While not exactly sitting at the top of my list of favourite condiments, mayo does have real utility to offer. We’re not haters here. It can sometimes do a fine job of assisting or softening the profile of a dish. Or masking its crappiness. But so much of food in India, even the kind that’s not native to us, is already so rich in flavour and spice; it has its own character, its own voice. To add mayo by the bucketful and wash out all of that personality feels self-destructive. 

And I do understand, as a staunch pro-fusion progressive, the desire to find exciting new blends. Cultural intermingling, as long as it doesn’t veer into appropriation, can lead to thrilling new discoveries. We wouldn’t have those incredible roti-style tacos everywhere without it. Or this vile keema pizza that I adore. Or desi shawarmas! You’re welcome to cling to past traditions, but the world will keep spinning regardless, and spring all these wonderful surprises on us if we’re willing to embrace them. 

Sometimes, though, you can sense that a creative experiment is just not working out. With mayo and Indian food, I wonder if we’ve perhaps gone a bit overboard? The ideological clash between the two contrasting taste profiles just feels so jarring. Mayo has such a muscular and dominating taste, with a lingering sweetness that overshadows everything else if you mess up the proportions even slightly. And Indian food—of all stripes—has a bold, reckless, free-wandering spirit to it, where you discover sharp new elements with each bite. The protracted grace of an errant jeera; the sudden tingle of amchoor. To toss mayo in that? It feels like overkill. This is an uneasy alliance at best. At its worst, it’s a bharta of vagrant absurdity, like a child mixing Pepsi with Sprite with Fanta with Limca with milk. And then pretending to enjoy it out of juvenile pride.

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Editor’s postcript: Sick of globs of mayonnaise everywhere on your plate? Instead, try out these eight must-try pantry condiments recommended by our sister site Souk. We personally are intrigued by the Stoneground Chilli & Honey Mustard and the Organic Black Garlic Caper Spread.