French Mustard

It’s Fun to Have a Big Jar

I REALLY LIKE MUSTARD and use it often, as a rule. I mean especially Dijon and other mustard from France. I think, what doesn’t it go with? There have been times, though, when mustard seemed to me more acrid and bitter. But just as we don’t all taste things the same, we’re not always equally receptive. For several years now, I’ve been steadily pro-mustard. And if history counts, then mustard has been appreciated since it was made in Roman times; in 13th-century Paris there was already a guild of mustard-makers. Last summer, I spotted an 800-ml jar of Maille in a grocery store in Quebec for just $12 Canadian ($9 US) and immediately bought it. US stores have no such large retail size; my local supermarket sells a 213-gram jar for $5. (That our jars of Maille mustard are smaller is one of the curious differences that persist between the US and Canada.) With a large jar of mustard, you behave differently. You don’t dip in a teaspoon; you take more generous amounts and do that more often. Maybe it was the novelty, but the big jar made me like mustard even better.

Mustard is one of the crucifers, which are named for their cross-shaped flowers. The family is also called brassica from the Latin for “cabbage” and includes radishes, turnips, cress, horseradish, wasabi, rocket (arugula) as well as the many forms of cabbage. A pattern of subtle to strong heat runs through them.

To make the condiment, three mustard species have been used: white (Sinapis alba), black (Brassica nigra), and brown (Brassica juncea). They’re named for the color of the husk that coats seed, although the white is actually pale tan-yellow, the black isn’t all that black, and the brown can also be yellow. But all of them are yellow inside, and, except for whole-grain versions, the husks are eliminated during mustard-making. Black mustard seed often used to be mixed with brown, to make Dijon and English mustard, for example. (Coleman’s, the famous English mustard, is today a blend of white and brown.) The problem with black mustard is that it shatters — disperses its seed when it’s harvested, so it’s hard to gather a crop. Black mustard hasn’t been grown much since the 1950s, when it was replaced by brown. Brown makes the strong mustard that’s familiar with Asian food, and it’s the kind grown for salad greens. In milder form, it makes French mustard. White makes ballpark mustard, such as French’s, not to be confused with “French.” Even for the mustard made in France, nearly all the seed is imported. The big producers are on the Canadian plains.

Mustard seed isn’t hot at all until it’s ground and the cells are broken and water is added. The reaction starts quickly, but it takes about 20 minutes for all the heat to appear. In white mustard, the responsible chemical is acrinyl isothiocyanate, and in brown and black it’s allyl isothiocyanate. White mustard hits your tongue, while brown and black start on your tongue and, if they’re strong, rise to your nose and eyes and even forehead. Their effect is more intense and lasts longer. (The same allyl isothiocyanate gives heat to horseradish, watercress, and wasabi.) In making any mustard, mixing with hot water limits or prevents the reaction that creates the pungency, and acidity inhibits it. That’s why vinegar is often used in making brown mustard, so it doesn’t become as hot. But once the pungency has formed, adding vinegar helps to preserve it. Not just heat but one more thing comes from allyl isothiocyanate. It contains sulfur, and it decomposes to create gentle garlicky aromas that appear in mustard.

Despite the name, “Dijon mustard” isn’t necessarily made in Dijon or even in France. There’s no legal control over the name, and the “Dijon mustard” made outside France seems aimed at a different consumer. But of the dozens or hundreds of mustard brands once produced in France, few are left. I don’t know a good French mustard that’s available in the US apart from the well-known brands.

Reading the ingredients listed on jars is a little disappointing, sometimes surprising. In place of wine vinegar, there’s often spirit vinegar, and the vinegar’s acidity is supplemented with citric or other acid. Often, there are sulfites. For centuries, sulfur has been added to wine as an antioxidant to help to hold flavor, but wine can excel without it, and I’d rather not have it in mustard. I always thought that an essential part of the appeal of French mustard was flavoring with herbs and spices, but they’re not on some labels at all. Maybe those mustards rely on that garlicky note from allyl isothiocyanate.

Grey-Poupon dates from 1777 and the brand is omnipresent in the US, where the rights are owned by Kraft Heinz; the version sold here, though it’s called “Dijon,” tastes to me closer to ballpark. Maille, which was founded in 1747 and is owned by Unilever, also calls itself “Dijon,” and it does taste like it. “Moutarde de Meaux” — “mustard from Meaux,” the town that also gives its name to Brie de Meaux (and is not in Burgundy, thus the mustard is not Dijon) — is a trade name of the business started by the Pommery family, whose name is also on the label. The four ingredients are water, mustard seed, vinegar (unspecified), salt, spices, and no sulfites. It’s a good mustard. Edmond Fallot in Burgundy calls itself “Moutarde de Beaune,” rather than “Dijon,” and it has the top reputation. The jars I’ve bought over time in the US, unfortunately, have rarely seemed fresh; the sharpest and cleanest was one I bought directly at the warehouse of a distributor. The ingredients include spirit vinegar, sulfite, citric acid, and turmeric. Admirably, the mustard seed is raised in Burgundy.

For reasons of easy availability and price, I’ve been buying Maille. The jar I got a few days ago in Quebec (a mere 500 ml) listed water, mustard seed, white vinegar, salt, citric acid, and sulfites — no herbs or spices. It tasted fresh though less pungent than the jar I once bought at the Maille shop in Paris. As I was reading labels, I noticed that the Quebec jar said “Product of France,” while the US one said “Product of Canada”! The “best by” dates were close, April 30, 2025 for the Quebec jar and May 28, 2025 for the US. The French was slightly yellower, so I held a one-person, eyes-closed tasting with someone to hand me the tastes, a series of three of each. They were similar. Both, I thought, had a hint of garlic, but the made-in-Canada product was less hot and had a peculiar spice. I picked it out immediately in a retaste. The French wasn’t just hotter, its acidity was more pleasing and its flavor was deeper. It was more delicious.

Even if you wish that some of the ingredients of the famous brands were a little different, the mustard is fun. A big jar may seem at odds with the idea of freshness, but you use it more quickly. Jump in, buy a big pot, and you have plenty for vinaigrettes and cream dressings; for egg, potato, and carrot salads and céleri rémoulade; for lapin à la moutarde and rognons de veau à la moutarde; and to go with jambon persillé and other charcuterie. Mustard and lettuce are to me indispensable in a sandwich of leftover grilled steak. Mustard goes with any simply cooked or leftover meat or fish; it’s excellent with canned sardines.

Salt and acidity preserve mustard, but even a never-opened jar gradually loses flavor and fire. I keep mustard in the refrigerator to slow the loss. If you open a new or old jar and see a little separation, that means only that nothing has been added to keep things in suspension, which is good. Just stir the mustard together again. The key tactic for flavor: buy the freshest jar you can find. ●