Along with the publication of the A’ level results on August 14th, I read a newspaper article about which university degrees may be valueless in the future because the work they lead to could be done more accurately and efficiently by AI.
There are six of us staying at this cottage in Talais and last night, instead of going out again for dinner, I made a salad. I found all the necessary ingredients easily enough except for mayonnaise. I came across four different kinds in the local supermarket but every one of them contained Dijon Mustard. I wanted something like classic Hellman’s mayonnaise.
Every time I open a new document in Word, there’s a question at the top of the page that asks, “What do you want CoPilot to draft?” CoPilot is an AI tool.
There are suggestions at the top of the page, such as “Create an article about how to effectively volunteer for a non-profit organisation.”
Just to see what happened, I entered: “Write a story in the first person of between 700 and 1000 words about attempts in France to buy mayonnaise that does not contain Dijon mustard.”
Below, you can read exactly what appeared less that 15 seconds later. Other to alter the font, I have not amended it in any way.
*****
The Mayonnaise Quest:
A Culinary Adventure in France
Seeking a Mustard-Free Mayonnaise in the Land of Dijon
It began, as many great quests do, with a craving and a touch of ignorance.
I really fancied having a sandwich at lunchtime. The chicken and lettuce that I already had, needed mayonnaise too. I had not anticipated that a humble jar of mayonnaise would become the object of my greatest trial.
My love for mayonnaise was innocent and unadorned. I wanted nothing more than the creamy, eggy spread, the kind that softened the sharp edges of ham, enlivened a salad, or lent a subtle luxury to a wedge of cold potato. But mayonnaise in France, I would soon learn, was a different creature — one wedded, more often than not, to the bold and unmistakable tang of Dijon mustard.
I made my way to the local supermarket. The shop was small, its shelves lined with the curated abundance of French tastes: cheeses that bloomed with white rinds, breads baked to golden crusts, and rows upon rows of jars and condiments. I scanned the shelves, searching for mayonnaise.
I found them easily enough; sleek jars labelled “Mayonnaise de Dijon,” “Mayonnaise à la Moutarde,” and varieties boasting the yellow-brown swirl of Dijon even in their packaging illustrations.
I picked up a jar and turned it over, squinting at the ingredients. There, unmistakable, was “Moutarde de Dijon.” I tried another, and another. Every jar, whether the glass was clear or clouded, whether the cap was gold or green, proclaimed with pride its inclusion of mustard. I have nothing against Dijon as a flavour, but for this particular sandwich — I pictured slices of roast chicken, lettuce, a crusty baguette — I wanted pure, unadulterated mayonnaise.
i approached the help desk, where a woman with a warm smile and a blue apron stood stacking boxes of pasta. “Excusez-moi,” I began, “je cherche de la mayonnaise sans moutarde de Dijon.”
The woman laughed lightly. “C’est difficile, monsieur! C’est le goût français.” She gestured to the shelf as if to say, “Why would you want otherwise?”
I explained, in my halting French, my quest. The woman pondered, then led me to a small, refrigerated section. Here, the jars were fewer, and the labels less ornate. “Essayez celle-ci,” she suggested, pointing to a jar labelled only “Mayonnaise,” with no indication of Dijon. My hope flared, but reading the ingredients, dashed it: “arômes naturels, moutarde de Dijon (2%).”
I thanked her and left the supermarket, determined but unsatisfied. Mayonnaise, it seemed, meant mustard, and mustard meant Dijon. Outside, the town rolled on with its day, and I wondered if I would be forever thwarted by the local palate.
Not ready to surrender, I set out for the weekly market in the town square. Here, between stalls of fresh produce and rotisserie chickens, I found a vendor selling homemade sauces. I inquired, and the elderly man behind the stall shrugged.
“Sans moutarde? C’est possible, mais ce n’est pas traditionnel.”
Refusing to be defeated, I tried a third tactic. I visited a small épicerie, this one run by a North African family, whose shelves carried harissa, preserved lemons, and an array of imported condiments.
Among the jars of mayonnaise, I found one labelled “Mayonnaise classique.” The list of ingredients was in fine print, but, heart racing, I scanned it. “Huile de tournesol, œufs, vinaigre, sel, sucre…” No mention of Dijon, no mention of mustard at all. With a sense of triumph, I bought the jar and hurried back home.
There, with the reverence of a pilgrim, I constructed the sandwich: slices of chicken, crisp lettuce, a generous layer of mayonnaise, all between two pieces of fresh baguette. I took a cautious bite, expecting either the familiar tang of Dijon or the pure, subtle flavour of the mayonnaise I had so longed for. To my delight, the mayonnaise was exactly as I hoped — smooth, creamy, faintly sweet, with no trace of mustard.
For the French, mayonnaise and Dijon are almost married. But France is full of surprises.
I learned something essential from that quest. In seeking a simple taste of home, I had touched on the deeper complexities of French food culture — the reverence for tradition, the pride in local flavours, and the small pleasures in searching for something unique. The sandwich was delicious, yes, but the journey — navigating supermarkets, markets, and specialty shops — had been just as satisfying.
I will keep the empty jar as a reminder, and, whenever I see it, remember that sometimes, the simplest desires can lead to the most memorable adventures.
*****
That was all generated by AI. All I did was set the task.
I am impressed. The language is fairly flowery and I don’t think my heart has ever raced and it was certainly not “my greatest trial” but it’s a lot better and much more interesting than I was expecting.
I wish now that I had asked for a story about my “futile” attempts in France to buy mayonnaise that does not contain mustard to see how that ending would have been.
I know that I would struggle to write 743 words on something as mundane as buying a jar of sauce and so AI beat me there, hands down. It is certainly a lot more interesting and informative than the 25 seconds that I actually spent on the task.
But the irredeemable error in the story is that, in reality, my quest did not have a happy ending. I was unable to find mayonnaise “sans moutarde”.
So, I asked again but this time, I asked for a tale about a futile search for mustard free mayonnaise. What was returned was a longer and much more involved story almost 1000 words long. Here are the first and last paragraphs:
First
The morning, I realized I was adrift in a sea of mustard.
I was standing in a small épicerie. Above me, pyramids of glass jars glinted beneath the indifferent fluorescence: mayonnaise, mayonnaise légère, mayonnaise maison, mayonnaise aux fines herbes. But each time I turned a jar to read the polite, looping French script, there it was—inevitable and omnipresent—“à la moutarde de Dijon.” - With Dijon mustard.
Last
When I finally left France, I took with me a suitcase full of cheese, a heart full of stories, and the lingering taste of Dijon. On the flight home, I dreamed of my first sandwich with plain, unadorned mayonnaise. But I also knew that, somehow, I would miss that indefatigable, irrepressible mustard which would be forever twined with my memories of France, and of all the ways a pursuit can shape you, even when it’s doomed from the very start.
I cannot begin to imagine what the future holds with regards to AI. Even today, I suppose I could put in the outline of a blog post and use an amended version of the output.
I asked CoPilot to write a funny story about joint of beef meeting a jar suntan lotion, two random objects that I thought would never go together.
The result was 600 words that were far from nonsense. The ‘amusing’ parts were mainly to do with the beef getting hot and the lotion trying to help out. It was by no means very good but it was beyond anything I would ever have thought of.
This could be the last you hear from me. Next time, who knows?
