Tartare Sauce

Friday evening. There's a piece of fish in the fridge, something simple, plaice or haddock or whatever the fishmonger had that looked bright-eyed and firm. It's going in a hot pan with butter in twenty minutes. But first, the sauce.

Tartare from a jar is one of those things I gave up on a long time ago. It tastes of vinegar and sugar and not much else, and it sits beside a piece of fish like an apology. Made at home, it's a different thing entirely. Real mayonnaise, glossy and pale, folded through with capers and gherkins and shallot and a small green snowstorm of parsley. Sharp, salty, herbal, rich. The kind of sauce that makes you want to eat it off the spoon.

Making mayonnaise from scratch sounds harder than it is. Two egg yolks, some mustard, a slow drizzle of oil, a whisk in your hand, and ten minutes of paying attention. That's the whole thing. The first time you do it and watch the yolks transform into something thick and glossy, you'll wonder why you ever bought it in a jar. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time it worked: "Mayonnaise. Friday. Plaice. Don't go back." I never did.

We're only making dinner. But this is the small, careful thing that turns dinner into something worth remembering.