But as I crossed over to adulthood, I got a sense that requesting ketchup at restaurants suggested something about me beyond my preferred sauce. I understood that, unlike worldlier condiments such as Sriracha, ketchup isn’t sophisticated, and neither are those who love it. Coming from a working-class background, I didn’t want to broadcast my blue-collar roots every time I ordered fries. I mean, frites. I branched out into aioli, flirted with malt vinegar and generally learned to live without my ketchup.

By the 1890s, the New York Tribune declared tomato ketchup the national condiment of the United States. It was described by food writers of the time as an “incomparable condiment,” and “the sauce of sauces,” according to food historian Andrew F. Smith’s book “Pure Ketchup.”