In the dining room with Colonel Mustard

The French may be smooth, and the English decidedly punchy - but just who cuts it, asks Christopher Hirst

The choice between English and Dijon mustards – like crème fraîche versus cream, curly or flat-leafed parsley – is one of the minor argy-bargies of the kitchen. Elizabeth David once wrote that her interest in mustard was sparked by a story she heard about Marcel X Boulestin, the great London restaurateur of the Thirties. One day, he was served by a new waiter. "Do you see that?" he muttered afterwards to his companion. "He offers us English mustard with the entrecote. He must go."

The difference between the two is simple, but profound, and emerged relatively recently in the long history of this familiar condiment.

Unlike such new world immigrants as cayenne, mustard has been with us since the year dot. Mentioned in the Bible, it was first cultivated in the west by the Romans. In the middle ages, the French ate mustard by the bucketful. At a feast in 1336, the Burgundian court chomped its way through 70 gallons of the stuff. Then as now, mustard in France was always sold already mixed, initially with verjuice (juice of unripe grapes), later with wine vinegar. The distinctive tradition of English mustard dates from the early 18th century when a Mrs Clements of Durham developed a finer grind of powder. Large-scale commercial production of English mustard began 150 years later when Jeremiah Colman opened a factory in Norwich.

A mixture of pulverised white and brown mustard seed with added wheat flour, English mustard was mainly sold in powder form until 20 years ago. Pre-mixed mustard now accounts for most of the 2,361 tons annually sold by Colman's in this country, but aficionados still swear by the powder. It should be mixed only with water. As a child, I was told that the longer you mixed it, the stronger it would be. Certainly, it should be left for 10 minutes after mixing to develop its "attack". Raising two fingers to M. Boulestin, I prefer the straightforward heat of English mustard with my steak and chips to either the French version or creamed horseradish.

Dijon mustard, made solely with brown mustard seed, is more salty, pungent and complex in flavour, though slightly less fiery than its English equivalent. The French continue to consume it in large quantities. The two largest producers, Maille and Amora (both subsidiaries of Unilever, which also owns Colman's) respectively manufacture 16,000 and 15,000 tons per year.

Available from major UK supermarkets, Maille Dijon Originale is a class act, sharp and creamy, made with white wine vinegar. Its flavoured versions, such as tarragon and Provençal, are equally impressive. Maille's cheaper brother Amora is not available on this side of the Channel. Made with alcoholic spirit vinegar, it is fine for cooking and salad dressings. Astonishingly inexpensive, it constitutes an obligatory purchase if you're making a day-trip dash to the hypermarché. Whatever you do, don't buy Colman's English-made Dijon, which is vinegary, coarse-flavoured and blatantly inferior. Why do they bother?

Running in tandem with these phosphoric smoothies is whole-grain mustard, known as "à l'Ancienne" in France. Best with cured meats and sausages, whole-grain mustard has enjoyed a surge in popularity in the UK due mainly to Tracklements of Wiltshire. The company's first mustard, Urchfont, was introduced 30 years ago and remains a top-seller. It is mild, with a slightly sour "bite". It has since been joined by 12 other mustards. Tracklements' spiced honey mustard is outstanding – a sweet (21 per cent honey), thick paste, with a pleasantly earthy, almost medieval quality – but its tarragon mustard is so aggressively vinegary that it is hard to detect any sign of the herb on the palate. "Tarragon mustard is used more in cooking than anything else," explained William Tullberg, founder of the company. "I'm roasting a chicken with it tonight – just raise the skin and rub a few spoonfuls into the breasts." That night, we did exactly the same. The result was wonderfully tasty chicken meat infused with tarragon with scarcely a trace of vinegar.

Mustard also works marvellously in a recipe for stewed cucumbers with mustard by the 18th-century cook Hannah Glasse (you can find it in Two Fat Ladies: Obsessions), but the best mustard dish I've had recently was rabbit with smoked bacon in mustard sauce at the Racine restaurant in London's Old Brompton Road. The stuff of heaven.

Most cooks, it should be said, stick to Dijon if they're using mustard as an ingredient. "Less brutal and more aromatic," said Elizabeth David. As you might expect from a man who has just opened a restaurant dedicated to French provincial cookery, Henry Harris of Racine agrees wholeheartedly. "Dijon works best of all," he insists. "If you want the mustard to have a kick, put it in at the last minute. For a creamy, background flavour, put it in at the start and use plenty. If you're using grain mustard, which is more acidic and lacks kick, also add Dijon."

In a recipe leaflet, Colman's stoutly maintains that its fine product can be used in a host of dishes, including, bizarrely, Hawaiian pizza and salad Niçoise. Still, at least one top London chef is sticking with English mustard. At St John, Fergus Henderson combines English mustard powder with cayenne, flour, Worcestershire sauce, Guinness and grated Cheddar to produce a magnificent, doorstep-sized Welsh rarebit.