I Love Mustard, Joke?

As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun
with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.
The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the table in
our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife
suddenly at my side. “Here, hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get
my sandwich,” she said.
I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again
for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers.
I love mustard.
I had no napkin.
I licked it off
It was not mustard.
No man ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time I have
sprinted with my tongue protruding. With a washcloth in each hand, I did the
sort of routine shoeshine boys do; only I did it on my tongue.
Later, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my wife said, “Now
you know why they call that fancy mustard . . “Poupon.”