And Modern Aioli Trembled

A tasting spoon shifts, although untouched. The confit garlic in the bowl beside you levitates and drops to the floor - shattering. Lights flicker, and a faint, oppressive figure materializes. You see her glide weightlessly towards you; searing disappointment washes over you as the figure moans, "Iaia doesn't make it that way..."

Thank you for indulging my Stephen King novel.

The traditional Catalan aioli is a far cry from the style found in chain restaurants today. The old-world bright acidity was traded in for dulled, smooth, it's-literally-just-confit-garlic-blended-in-mayo fries dip. Allow me the freedom, however, to say there is room for it in our world. I do resist its riding-the-coattails nature of modern aioli, but MY GOODNESS, a well-cooked steak fry baptised in garlic mayo is incredible.

I believe the power dynamic is ready for a position change. American cuisine has been held hostage by the imposter that has less in common with aioli than I do (as I am smooth and white). For as many brunches covered in sriracha aioli, there is a skirt steak exhausted of its chimichurri. There is a pan-seared chicken breast craving something to make it worthy of a bite past thank you. In dark places, there are lamb chops basted with browned butter needing a balance; enter the ancient tradition of fresh garlic, sea salt, and olive oil, ground together and naturally emulsified.

Simple pleasures born from a simple dressing made from simple ingredients; only complicated by the necessary labor involved. A head of peeled garlic and a pinch of salt ground until smooth; joined by a cup of olive oil whipped in drop by drop until the emulsification takes control.

Reject modernity. Accept tradition.