Interesting things you find out when flicking through The Oxford Companion to Food, number 843: apparently, it is widely agreed that the word mayonnaise, whose original French spelling was mahonnaise, meant literally “of Mahon”, and that it was so named to commemorate the taking of Port Mahon, the capital of Minorca, by the Duc de Richelieu in 1756 (presumably the duke’s chef invented it). The English borrowed the word in the 1840s, and its first recorded user was the novelist and noted gastronome, William Makepeace Thackeray.

I’ve been thinking about mayonnaise quite a lot, for which I blame Miriam González Durántez, who writes in her new Spanish cookbook that round at Dave and Sam Cam’s place, she and her husband, the then deputy prime minister, were once served – lo mal gusto! – roast chicken with Hellmann’s, the tube plonked on the table for all to see. Uh oh. I have to admit that this vengeful outburst, served cold as gazpacho, induced conflicted feelings in me. Can’t she see that this makes her, and not Mrs Cameron, look bad? But I also secretly – and now not so secretly – share her indignation. Hate me if you like, but I, too, would rather cry off at the last moment than offer my friends (or even my frenemies) shop-bought mayonnaise.

Some supermarket condiments look madly chic at dinner: Heinz tomato ketchup, say, or Worcestershire sauce which, like its superior Sheffield rival, Henderson’s, comes in such a lovely, old-fashioned bottle. But in any case, substitutes of these delicious things aren’t what anyone wants: no one in their right mind would spend time trying to make homemade ketchup or an approximation of Worcestershire sauce, which is why even the smartest restaurants bring them to you in their original packaging. Hellmann’s mayonnaise, however, not only comes in an ugly jar (or, even worse, a tube) that bears the word “REAL” in red letters, but has the dubious slogan: “Bring out the Best”. The stuff inside, flavourless and claggy, is so far from being like real (or even REAL) mayonnaise, it’s a wonder some right-thinking EU bureaucrat hasn’t tried to make Hellmann’s use some other word for it instead.

People tend to be intimidated by the idea of making mayonnaise, as they are by most egg-based sauces (hollandaise, béarnaise, proper custard), and you probably wouldn’t want to bother on a Sunday night when Poldark’s about to come on. Most of the time, it’s worth the minimal effort. Proper mayonnaise is so amazingly delicious: rich, but invigorating, too, especially with a boring bit of farmed fish, a dreary late summer potato, or a couple of hard-boiled eggs (the campaign for the return of that postwar classic, eggs mayonnaise, served with a splotch of paprika and a leaf of butter lettuce, starts here). Can it go wrong? In my experience, it hardly ever does. But even if the worst did happen, it’s only a couple of egg yolks and some olive oil. No one’s going to hang you for that.

You know the drill. Beat the yolks with some salt and mustard; then add the oil, drop by drop; finally, cut the gloop by adding some white wine vinegar or lemon juice (or both). I use an electric whisk, so none of this is hard work. Two things, though, are important. The eggs need to be at room temperature, and tortoise-like slowness is called for in the matter of adding the oil. If it does split, don’t weep, or bang your head on the counter; leave off the sherry for now. In the past, I’ve rescued a split mayonnaise (and béarnaise, too, which basically substitutes butter for the olive oil) by adding a couple of drops of warm water to it, a tip picked up from Len Deighton. If all else fails, try starting again with a new yolk in a clean bowl, to which you can then add the curdled mixture, drip-drip-drip.

Slip a bowl of this stuff on the table, with some radishes or prawns, and listen to everyone coo. You will feel queenly and proud. Add garlic and it’s aioli; add fish stock, and you’ve the sauce for a bourride.

It’s also possible that you’re reading this and thinking that life is too short even when Poldark’s not on the telly, or that there is absolutely nothing wrong with Hellmann’s. Both of which points of view are fine by me. Maybe, that fateful evening, Sam Cam was simply hoping to telegraph her own lack of pretension, though I rather think she was simply sending uppity González Durántez a subliminal message: “I just can’t be bothered for you, dear, not even to crack a couple of eggs.”