I'll Have a Side of Mayonnaise with That

jet lag and my #1 trick for overcoming it

The summer following my sophomore year of college, I embarked on a journey that would take me across the Atlantic to the hallowed halls of Magdalene College in Cambridge, England. After a brief overnight stop in London, I planned to board a northbound train and immerse myself in the history and literature of Britain during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Magdalene College, founded in 1542, was to be my home for the balance of the season. Its name, pronounced "Maudlyn," was said to be a nod to the vanity of its founder, Lord Audley, who wished to see his name intertwined with that of St. Mary Magdalene. The college's pristine courtyards and rarefied buildings, with their rounded arches and spiky towers, promised an experience steeped in tradition and scholarly pursuits. I envisioned engaging tutorials in the dark corners of the library, my hands warmed by delicate bone china filled with Earl Gray tea, as I pored over ancient texts, a crumble of shortbread biscuits dusting the pages.

Despite having traveled abroad before, this was my first solo adventure outside the country. As I emerged from the plane at Heathrow in the early morning hours, I was bleary-eyed and slightly nauseous from the lack of sleep. Navigating the Tube with luggage in tow, I resurfaced after a few stops into a sticky, sun-filled day on the city's outskirts. Time seemed to blur, my mind hazy and disoriented. In a nearby park, people went about their ordinary lives, pouring wine into plastic cups and taking long, loping strides on the flower-adorned paths. The robust energy of the scene stood in stark contrast to my travel-weary body. I hoisted my backpack higher on my shoulders and consulted the paper map, eventually finding my way to a brownstone-like abode. There, an older woman with frizzy silver hair and a confusingly warm cardigan (given the heat of the day) greeted me, handed over a key, and showed me to my room.

My home for the night boasted an enormous floor-to-ceiling bay window that magnified the already intense rays of sunshine illuminating the space. Wide wooden planks stretched across the floor, while a simple white cotton coverlet lay across the single bed. The small television, equipped with two knobs and no remote, sat beside an instant kettle flanked by a turquoise ceramic bowl filled with paper Nescafe sticks, shelf-stable creamer cups, and bags of tea I would not touch. A sleeve of golden biscuits wrapped in shiny blue foil completed the offering. It was a simple, hospitable room, a seemingly welcome respite after a long overnight journey. And yet, I felt delicate, a shell of myself. As I heated the water and poured the coffee granules into a teacup, I watched a white foam overtake the chalky brown liquid.

As a newcomer to jet lag, I didn't have a name for this state. It might have been akin to the euphoric and slightly off-kilter feeling one experiences after pulling an all-nighter. Being one who liked to tick things off my to-do list well ahead of schedule, I wasn’t yet familiar with the mania of rushing from the computer lab printer straight into an 8:30 AM final without a wink of sleep. In the days and weeks to come, I would grow increasingly confident in my pub order (cider and crisps), and my love for scones with clotted cream and apricot jam would reach almost obsessive levels. I would deftly navigate the tutorials, learning what was essential but not much more. Armed with a bevy of friends, I'd spend nights in smoke-filled hostels that now, as a mother and semi-cautious adult, seem rather sordid. But at that moment, with no inkling of the enchanting weeks ahead, my knackered state was impenetrable, exhaustion seeping into every fiber of my being.

As the sun crossed its noontime summit and the afternoon settled in, it was time to find something to eat. Armed with my room key, a calling card, and a thin black travel purse, I set off. On the corner, a small shop beckoned. I pushed open the door and found myself face to face with a case of plastic-wrapped baguettes. This seemed promising. I'd been to Paris and spent a few weeks in Avignon as a teen. I fondly remembered strolling the markets, picking up baguettes at the boulangerie, and tearing into the crusty loaf in a way we did not do in my New England home, where sandwiches, always prepared by my father, were more of the tuna fish and turkey on rye bread sort.

I examined the options. Ham salad, bound together with mayonnaise. Cheese and onion, bread slathered with mayonnaise. Egg mayonnaise (full stop). My stomach began to churn. Upon closer inspection, thick smears of gelatin-like mayonnaise seemed to cover every inch of available real estate. The baguettes were barely browned and rounded on the bottom, mass-produced for an easy bite. I looked around, helpless. Was this — a baguette with mayonnaise — a British delicacy I’d never heard of? Were these soggy subs my only hope for nourishment? Would I be damned to a summer of pasty white sandwiches and tepid PG Tips? I'd fantasized about dipping into all sorts of British delicacies: a piping hot Sunday roast served in one of the hallowed university halls, steaming Yorkshire pudding with wide crannies ready to sop up any extra liquid on the plate, a mess of curries, freshly shelled English peas, fish and chips, less than cold pints of beer, perhaps lamb with mint, new potatoes, and peas, a la Elizabeth David. It was, of course, utter insanity to expect this sort of formal fare to be laid out in the aisles of what was no more than a simple convenience store—a mom-and-pop Tesco Express—a place to efficiently tide oneself over rather than nourish.

An image from the FABULOUS Max’s World of Sandwiches. I am obsessed with all of Max Halley’s delightful books, lest you believe the UK is entirely bereft of fabulous sandwiches.

Of course, I’m sure there were other options. But in my memory and the lore that would be told for many years, the only option on that early summer day was mayonnaise on tasteless bread. When done right, mayonnaise can be the absolute best accompaniment for various foods, sandwiches included. An emulsion of egg yolks and oil blended, mayonnaise takes well to all sorts of accompaniments. The traditional recipe adds vinegar, salt, pepper, and mustard, but of course, one might take their love affair in all kinds of directions by incorporating spices, herbs, or even caviar. Larousse Gastronomique boasts that mayonnaise is a versatile and beloved condiment, a ready friend for everything from crisp French fries to cold meats.

I grabbed a baguette, stumbled out of the shop, plastic-wrapped egg mayonnaise in hand, into the closest phone booth, and fumbled for the phone card in my purse. Placing the sandwich on a small metal tray, I pounded the metal keys of the telephone with unnecessary force, tears starting to roll down my face. It was late on the other end of the line, but my mother picked up on the first ring.

"There's. Just. So. Much." I whimpered, barely able to get my words out, exhausted heaves punctuating every word, "Mayonnaise!"

Looking back, now a mother myself, I can see the situation for what it was: pure exhaustion mixed with anxiety about taking a leap and having no idea whether or not I would land on my feet. My mother, god rest her soul, knew that I would. My father, a confident world traveler himself, didn't doubt it. But in that moment, they did what the best parents do. They listened and then comforted me, assuring me that everything would look better after a good night’s sleep.

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Last week, I embarked on a new adventure, taking my daughter on her first international trip. She's years younger than I was during the aforementioned mayonnaise incident and quietly more confident. Armed with travel lessons I've learned over the years, our first order of business upon arriving at the hotel at 11 PM local time was to call room service. Within minutes, we were presented with a gorgeously simple cheese and charcuterie spread. Brie Fermier, or what I affectionately call "Farm Brie," took center stage, its earthy aroma hinting at the mushroom, straw, and woodsy notes within. Semi-hard aged Comté sat next to bold and pungent Roquefort, a sharp contrast to the creamy richness of the brie. An assortment of cured meats, including a robust Rosette de Lyon, pleasantly fatty mortadella, melt-in-your-mouth prosciutto, and salty bresaola, completed the savory offerings. A simple salad of delicately dressed baby lettuce, so crisp and fresh that I couldn't resist popping the leaves into my mouth like potato chips, added a refreshing touch to the plate.

Of course, no French feast would be complete without bread and butter. The baguette, with its crisp crust and open crumb, was the perfect vehicle for the star of the show: real French butter. Grasslike with flecks of sea salt on top, it left an indelible impression on my daughter, who declared that she would never again settle for its American brethren.

As we unpacked and settled into our room, I sipped a glass of ice-cold Bandol. That night, we fell into a blissful, if slightly fitful, sleep, with no trace of the anxiety that had plagued my own early travel experiences. It was a spectacular French welcome, but it could have been any number of simple, comforting foods that made us feel at home. Salty pistachios, sliced cheddar cheese, apples, even a small paper container of crimson-colored, jewel-like strawberries — any of these would have done the trick.

The week only got better from there. We gorged ourselves on all the available springtime bounty. Thick, firm stalks of asparagus—white and green both—with just the right amount of crunch and thin baby stalks atop morels and poached eggs. Mushrooms on top of everything. Lime-colored fava beans. Smooth as silk mashed potatoes and fall-off-the-bone beef. Sweetart crimson red raspberries nestled in thin layers of pastry and topped with a praline-flavored glass-like sugar shard. Pillowy soft brioche with large sugar crystals. Dark chocolate souffle. Pistachio ice cream. Tangy labneh with rose petals and radish. Macarons in every color of the rainbow. Traditional baguette and pain au raisins with thin whispers of pastry cream. Warm croissants infused with enough butter to leave our lips and fingers glistening.

Bite by bite and block by block, our confidence grew. We spoke halting sentences and stumbled over many menus. We cheerfully wished the hotel staff, “Bonsoir!” as we floated through the still light evenings. I remembered the travel advice my parents had shared so many years ago. My father, a runner, always made time for a quick stroll around whatever neighborhood he was staying in, even if his schedule was completely packed. He said exploring on foot allowed him to get to know the city even if he was stuck in a conference room for much of the day. My mother taught me the art of monochromatic dressing. Black (a color she said if she lived to be an old woman, she would wear with abandon, pushing a cart around the streets of New York City for her groceries) plus a colorful scarf and a fabulous pair of earrings made up for any potential style ennui.

For many, food isn't the way they track their travels. But after that fateful run-in with the cold convenience store case, it has, for me, been an essential way to mark each trip. My mental travel diary bursts with images of an abundant fruit plate in Bali, slippery mango, papaya, and coconut taken on a beachside balcony at sunrise. Szechuan dumplings, tender and so very spicy, served under a harsh green-tinted light in a private Hong Kong kitchen. My first bite of Portuguese food in a laminate-covered cafe in Macau, the television boasting a now long-forgotten football match. Food has the power to transport, to connect us with the places we visit and the people we meet along the way. It's a universal language, one that transcends borders and bridges cultures. With each bite, we grow a little more confident, a little more adventurous, and a little more connected to the world around us.

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FOR THE REST OF THE TABLE

HIT MAN

I’m a huge Richard Linklater fan, so when Hit Man landed on my streaming queue in the middle of an epic travel binge, I eagerly hopped on the treadmill and gave it a go. Glen Powell is a somewhat nerdy college professor who moonlights for the police department as a fake contract killer. Adrian Arjona plays a woman intent on offing her controlling husband. In classic Linklater form, this relationship, with all its tension, humor, and complexity, steals the show.

FIRE EXIT

I first encountered Morgan Talty at a conference in Maine two years back. He was just about to release Night of the Living Rez, a short story collection that reeled me in from page one. Fire Exit, his debut novel, was published last week, and I finished it in a weekend. There is nothing flashy here, just an incredibly well-written story about forbidden love, what we pass down through our families, and the complicated ties that bind and keep us apart. I loved this meditation on what separates us from one another and how present I felt in Talty’s vivid descriptions of the Maine woods.

Veal’s Legacy is Complicated and Worth Revisiting

I had veal for the first time in a very long time while in France. On the plane back, I stumbled across this hugely sensitive account (via Saveur) of a tricky subject. I especially adored the connection to Wendell Berry.