The mayonnaise had a crust. I used it anyway.
That’s the kind of day it was—fogged in, fridge humming too loud, the cat staring at me like I owed him rent. I wasn’t planning to make tartar sauce. Who plans for tartar sauce? It’s the condiment you forget until the fish is already in the pan, until the toast burns, until the kitchen smells like disappointment and old oil.
But I had cod. And I had regrets. So I reached for Her Highness’s recipe—her tartar sauce, her clean hands, her measured lemon zest. I couldn’t do it her way. I tried. But I didn’t.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is almost too precise—⅓ cup mayo, 3 tablespoons chopped cornichons, minced shallot (exactly two tablespoons, thank you very much), capers like little punctuation marks, and lemon juice. A whisper of salt. Pepper like snow.
It’s delicate. Like she planned it for a summer lunch on a veranda I’ll never afford.
Her version tastes like control.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t measure. I couldn’t. That spoon I used to love melted during the broiler fire last spring—it still sits in the drawer, warped and stupid. So I just guessed.
Used bread-and-butter pickles instead of cornichons. Sweeter. Softer. Probably sacrilege.
Used red onion instead of shallot—sharper, louder, like me that morning.
Added too much lemon. Then a little more.
Didn’t even stir it all the way. Left it streaked and uneven. It felt honest.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The fish was already sizzling. I hadn’t planned the sauce. Mae texted “Did you fry it this time or broil again lol.” I didn’t reply.
The mayo was half-set, half-separation. I stirred it like I was mad at someone. Maybe me. Maybe him. I don’t know.
I opened the capers, dropped half on the floor. The cat got one. He made a face. I laughed out loud. First time all day.
That lemon—I squeezed it right over the bowl. Some seeds got in. I didn’t fish them out. Just kept going.
It tasted wrong at first. Then better. Then like Provincetown—like that tin of sea salt I still have, the one from the weekend I won’t talk about. It hit the back of my throat and stayed there.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t make this to impress anyone.
Make it because you need something tart to cut through something heavy.
Capers don’t need to be rinsed if you’re already salty.
It’s fine if it looks messy. You’re not plating it for royalty. You’re slathering it on something fried and hoping for peace.
What I Did With the Extras
Spooned it straight from the bowl. Bread crusts as utensils. Mae said she’d eat some if I left it cold—she didn’t. I did.
It stained the plate a bit. But it looked like it meant it.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. On another day like that. When the toast burns and I need vinegar to speak for me.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The kitchen still smelled like oil when the sun cracked through. Just a sliver. Just enough.
I scraped the toast and saved it anyway.
FAQs
Yep. In Fact, It Gets A Little Sassier After A Few Hours In The Fridge. Just Stir It Again Before Serving—Mine Separates When I Forget It Overnight.
Shockingly, Yes. I Dunked Potato Wedges In It And Almost Cried. Mae Once Used It On A Turkey Sandwich. Don’T Judge Her. It Worked.
Then Skip Them. Or Mash A Green Olive And Whisper An Apology To Martha. It Won’T Taste The Same, But It’Ll Still Have Bite.
A Few Days In The Fridge, Easy. I Kept Mine In An Old Jam Jar And It Was Fine On Day Four. Just Don’T Try To Freeze It—It Gets Weird.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Tartar Sauce
Description
It’S Tangy, Uneven, And Doesn’T Apologize—Like I Was, That Day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Mix the ingredients: In a small bowl, dump in the mayo first—it might have a crust on top, mine did. Whisk it with the chopped bread-and-butter pickles (I didn’t have proper cornichons), finely minced red onion (or shallot if you’re fancy), a spoonful of capers, and more lemon juice than the recipe says. It needed it. The cat knocked over the capers mid-whisk, but I kept going.
- Season and serve: Throw in salt and cracked pepper—guess if you have to. Stir again, or not. I left mine streaked and imperfect. Eat cold with something fried, or just smear it on toast if that’s the kind of day you’re having. It keeps in the fridge, but mine didn’t last. I ate it straight from the bowl, standing barefoot, kitchen still smelling like burnt crumbs.