Ranch Dressing Conquers the World

For weeks, America has hosted one of the biggest sports events in the world. Soccer/football-obsessed fans from 48 countries visited Atlanta, Boston, Dallas, Houston, Kansas City, Los Angeles, Miami, New York City, Philadelphia, and San Francisco. And many of those fans thought they knew America, even though it was their first time visiting. But then reality hit them like an over-air-conditioned Buc-ee's: 50 different versions of Jerky, 33 flavors of ice cream, dozens of brands and flavors of iced tea, free chips and salsa, and free refills of bucket-sized soda. And don’t forget about ranch dressing. 

Many of our guests arrived assuming America lacks a food culture because we borrow from everyone else's. But that is precisely the point. American cuisine isn't a museum preserving a single tradition. It's a conversation—sometimes a very loud conversation—spoken in languages from all over the world.  

In America, you will find a Vietnamese restaurant next to a barbecue joint, an Ethiopian coffee shop sharing a shopping center with an Italian restaurant, a Korean bakery next to a French one, and an Indian buffet occupying a former Pizza Hut. That's not culinary confusion. That's culinary confidence.

It takes a remarkably confident country to believe that another culture's best idea (or even worst idea, for that matter) belongs on someone’s dinner table. We  don't absorb cuisines because we're insecure, but because we’re curious. It was that optimism and a belief, bordering on obsession, that our visitors feasted on. 

We build big restaurants because tomorrow might bring more customers. We stock 33 flavors of ice cream because someone may want number 33. We combine cuisines because maybe it'll work. And if it doesn't? We'll try something else next week. There is a generosity hidden inside all of that experimentation. “Tell us what you want.”

There are moments when a country gets to explain itself without saying a word. For the U.S., that turned out to be the 2026 FIFA World Cup. When they arrived, these fans discovered something different from UFC, The Simpsons, or American Idol. They got the real place—not a cliché. But beneath the oversized drinks and endless aisles lies an optimism bordering on collective cognitive dissonance—room for one more person at the table, one more recipe, one more variation on the taco, one more flavor of ice cream. It's one of the reasons people keep coming here. And when they do, maybe they can leave a new recipe or dish, and they can go home with a bag of siracha-lime ostrich jerky or a three-ounce sample of ranch dressing that passes muster with TSA. 

Fried Chicken Gets the Glory. Egg Salad Does the Work.

"I even like egg salad, which my brother won't eat even if someone holds him down.” 

--Lynda Mullaly Hunt

Whether you love it, hate it, or are indifferent,  you must respect the egg salad sandwich. 

Cuisine (without irony) has been getting a lot of attention the last few years: barbeque, fried chicken, shrimp and grits, and pecan pie. But the egg salad sandwich? Who? Huh? What?

The humble egg salad sandwich never demands attention. It isn’t advertised on billboards by anthropomorphic farm animals. It doesn't appear in state tourism brochures. Nobody plans a road trip around it. There are no festivals celebrating it, no competitive circuits, no television documentaries. This is not to say, however, that the egg salad sandwich is invisible. It always has a role to play. It’s like that character actor you can’t quite place, but without him the movie would fall flat.

• Need something for a church picnic? Egg salad!
• Hosting the ladies of the garden club? Egg salad!
• Wedding shower in the fellowship hall? Egg salad!
• Family reunion? Egg salad!
• Funeral where everyone agrees Aunt Birdie "looked peaceful"? Egg salad! 

The egg salad sandwich asks for remarkably little. The egg salad sandwich knows exactly what it is.  It doesn't need sixteen secret spices or a smoker that costs more than your first car. It isn't interested in becoming "deconstructed," "elevated," or "artisan." Boiled eggs. Duke's mayonnaise. A touch of mustard if you're feeling adventurous. Salt. Pepper. Maybe a whisper of paprika. If your grandmother added sweet pickle relish—as mine did—that’s family history, not heresy.

But there are certain rules no civilized Southerner would violate.

First, the mayonnaise must be Duke's. This is not open for debate. In other parts of the country, mayonnaise is an ingredient. In the South, Duke's is a legal requirement defined by an undocumented but fervently observed statute. 

Second, the bread should be white. Not sourdough; not rye; not wheat; and certainly not some gluten-free brick made with ancient grains harvested under the first full moon after the third Saturday after the fall equinox. White bread provides architectural structure. It compresses gently around the filling, never competing with it, creating a soft, comforting quilt-like structure that holds the egg salad with quiet reassurance. And if this little gem must be taken on a road trip, then it must and it shall be wrapped in wax paper. (Another unwritten statutory requirement.) Anything else—plastic or, God forbid, a Ziploc bag—and you could find yourself in jail. 

So let the fried chicken have its headlines. Let barbecue inspire passionate debate. Let pecan pie own the dessert table. At the end of the day, the egg salad sandwich never complains about its assignments. It simply shows up, wrapped in quiet dignity, and just enough mayonnaise to remind you that the life is beautiful.