Creamy Cajun Remoulade

New Orleans gave America many gifts, but remoulade might be the most underappreciated. French immigrants brought the name and the concept of a mayonnaise-based sauce. Cajun and Creole cooks transformed it into something entirely different, something bold enough to stand up to fried catfish and Gulf shrimp pulled from the water that morning.

The soul of this sauce lives in the Creole mustard. Not yellow ballpark mustard. Not smooth Dijon. You want the grainy, spicy brown mustard that New Orleans puts on everything from po'boys to red beans. It provides texture and a vinegar bite that cuts through the richness of the mayonnaise base.

I've eaten remoulade at lunch counters in the French Quarter and at white-tablecloth restaurants on Magazine Street. The best versions share one quality: restraint in consistency, boldness in flavor. The sauce should coat a shrimp, not drown it. It should announce itself without overwhelming the sweet flesh of whatever seafood you're serving. Mix it the day before if you can. Like gumbo, remoulade improves after the flavors have time to get acquainted.