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.