Ketchup vs Mustard

In Hainaut and Brabant I made Attempts to order sauce with care, But in every inn at which I stayed They always brought me, with my fare, With every roast and mutton dish, With boar, with rabbit, and with bustard, With fresh and with salt-water fish, Always, never asking, mustard. I took fresh herring, said I’d like Carp at the pub for midday dinner, And called for simple boiled pike And some large sole, to be my supper. In Brussels, I asked them for green sauce; A cleric stared and looked disgusted And a varlet brought me in, of course, As always, never asking, mustard. I couldn’t eat or drink without it. They add it to the water they Boil the fish in and – don’t doubt it – The drippings from the roast each day Are tossed into a mustard vat In which they’re mixed, and then entrusted To those who bring – they’re quick at that – Always, never asking, mustard. Prince, it’s clear that ginger, clove, Saffron, pepper are never trusted. There’s just one thing these people serve: Always, never asking, mustard.

— Eustache Deschamps: Tousjours, sanz demander, moustarde, in: Selected Poems, red. Ian S. Laurie, Deborah M. Sinnreich-Levi, New York – London: Routledge, 2003, p. 116 Original text: En Haynaut et en Brabant ay Aprins a sauces ordonner; Es hostez ou je me logay Me fist on toudiz apporter A rost, a mouton, a sangler, A lievre, a connin, a ostarde, A poisson d’eaue douce et mer Tousjours, sanz demander, moustarde. Harens fres quiz et demanday Carpe au cabaret pour dyner, Bequet en l’eaue y ordonnay Et grosses solles au soupper; A Brusselles fiz demander Sauce vert; le clerc me regarde; Par un varlet me fist donner Tousjours sans demander moustarde. Sanz li ne bu ne ne mengay; Avec l’eaue la font meller Du poisson et ancor say Que la graisse du rost gester Font en la moustarde et bouster. D’en servir nulz d’eux ne retarde; La arez vous pour vostre user Tousjours sanz demander moustarde. Prince, gingembre, c’est tout cler, Clos, sapfran, graine n’ont d’eulx garde Maiz a chascun font destramper Tousjours sanz demander moustarde.

August gone, so is September; Autumn's here and now November Spread out its melancholy and foggy veil. I won't miss those summer days, Roses, berries, nightingales, But there's one thing, one and only, I'll bewail… Addio pomodori! Farewell, my dear beloved, Beyond my winter table Little red setting suns. Here come again, I know it, Long cold nights when I'll covet Those tasty ripe tomatoes Which I could eat by tons. I don't care that I could have Soups and ketchup, if still I want to gulp Down your fresh pulp, You scrumptious vitamin pills. Addio pomodori! Farewell, my dear beloved! Your scent I shall remember All dreadful winter long.

— Jeremi Przybora, Addio pomidory, own translation Original text: Minął sierpień, minął wrzesień, Znów październik i ta jesień Rozpostarła melancholii mglisty woal. Nie żałuję letnich dzionków, Róż, poziomek i skowronków, Lecz jednego, jedynego jest mi żal… Addio pomidory! Addio ulubione Słoneczka zachodzące Za mój zimowy stół! Nadchodzą znów wieczory Sałatki niejedzonej, Tęsknoty dojmującej I łzy przełkniętej w pół. To cóż, że jeść ja będę Zupy i tomaty, Gdy pomnę wciąż Wasz świeży miąższ W te witaminy przebogaty? Addio pomidory! Addio utracone! Przez długie, złe miesiące Wasz zapach będę czuł.