Dear Word Detective: I heard from an old salt that the expression “run amuck” comes from losing control of a boat and running a boat aground on the bank and into the “muck.” It makes some sense. – Nick Burford.

Yes, it does make some sense. But I know what makes even more sense. I suggest that we pass a small law making it illegal for anyone who has ever spent more than a week afloat on a boat to spread etymological hooey upon their return from the bounding main. I would especially like to ban all those “Old Salts” (as they often sign their letters) from berating me when I stray from the mission statement of that shadowy sailors’ cabal known as CANOE, the Committee to Assign a Nautical Origin to Everything. Ahoy, maties, “posh,” “brass monkey” and “the whole nine yards” have nothing to do with ships.

And neither does “amuck” have anything to do with running aground. I should say that, as a sailing aficionado in my youth, I had extensive experience with running aground, and spent many unpleasant moments up to my waist in the dark gray goo known as “muck” around Long Island Sound (from the Old Norse “myki,” meaning “cow dung”). Then again, it was preferable to growing up on a farm, where the verb “to muck” means to clean stables, etc., of livestock dung.

“Muck” has also given us several useful modern idioms. “To muck with” something, meaning to tinker, fiddle or interfere with it, dates to the 1920s, and “to muck about” (or “around”), meaning “to goof off or fool around” is actually a relic of the mid-19th century. The irony of that story about boats running aground in muck is that the original “proper” form of word “amuck” in English was “amok,” still often used along with “amock.” And although we often use “run amuck” today to describe small children, for instance, running wild in daycare, the original meaning of the term was quite grim. “Amok” comes from the Malay word “amoq,” meaning “a state of murderous frenzy.” In English, the word “amok” dates back to the 16th century and the first contacts between the Malay people and European explorers. The Europeans reported that the Malays were “susceptible to bouts of depression and drug use,” which then led them to engage in murderous rampages known as “running amok.” Of course, it’s likely that the Europeans’ accounts of the phenomenon may have been overly melodramatic and culturally biased, but the word entered English with the same general meaning, that of “murderous frenzy.”

Dear Word Detective: I came across “cock-a-hoop” while reading an article by a British sportsman. I’d appreciate hearing the history behind this combination of words and its use and meaning. – Jayesh.

Thanks for a great question. This reminds me of those “Antiques Roadshow” or “Cash from Trash” TV shows where people invite antique appraisers to take a gander at that weird dusty old thing Aunt Milly always claimed was worth pots of money. Sometimes it is, often it isn’t, but the interesting part is always the explanation of the gizmo (“This was found in every colonial household, usually placed in the doorway to frighten away wolverines.”).

“Cock-a-hoop” is a very old English phrase, dating back to the early 16th century, with two meanings as an adjective in common usage today: “being in a state of elation or boastful high spirits,” and “being askew or crooked.” But the original meaning of “cock-a-hoop” as a verb was a bit livelier – “to drink without restraint; to celebrate drunkenly.” The modern meanings seem easily explained – obviously, drinking without restraint can lead to both high spirits and finding oneself “askew.” Searching for the origin of, and logic behind, “cock-a-hoop” is where the real fun begins. The Oxford English Dictionary, in an unusually long speculation on the etymology of the phrase, calls it: “A phrase of doubtful origin, the history of which has been further obscured by subsequent attempts … to analyze it.”

In other words, people have been proposing theories about “cock-a-hoop” for so long that the trail may have been hopelessly muddied. Probably the most popular theory is that the “cock” of the phrase is the spigot on a keg of ale or liquor (“cock” being a term for “spigot” since the 15th century, possibly referring to the resemblance of a spigot and tap to the head of a rooster). To “cock-a-hoop,” in this theory, originally meant to remove the spigot and place it atop the keg (“on the hoop”), allowing celebrants to drink directly, and without restraint, from the barrel. One of the problems with this theory is that names of pubs featuring other things “on the hoop” (“Falcon on the Hoop,” “Angel on the Hoop,” etc.) were common in England during that period.

Another theory, a bit more plausible to me, suggests that “cock-a-hoop” is simply a transliteration of the French phrase “coq a huppe,” meaning a rooster displaying its crest (“huppe”) in a pose of proud defiance. Thus, “cock-a-hoop” would simply liken a drunken man to a boastful and aggressive rooster. If true, this theory would explain all those other “on the hoop” tavern signs as simply imitations of the original confusion of the French “huppe” with the English “hoop.”

Dear Word Detective: “Dock” is a place to park and obtain access to a boat, what was done to my Schipperke’s tail in order to meet the AKC breed standard, and what a deep dish pizza recipe told me to do to the crust before baking it (stab it gently and repeatedly with a fork). “Dock” might even be a plant, too. Is this coincidence or one of those wild word stories that make reading so much more fun than the stupid TV? – Sarah.

Hmm. Interesting. Am I the only one around here who, upon hearing the word “dock,” automatically thinks “Otis Redding”? Now I have an apparently endless loop of “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” playing in my head. Not that I’m complaining, of course. It certainly beats the theme from “Jeopardy.”

Onward. Hey, coincidences can be fun, too, and that’s what we have here, a five-layer historical coincidence. With cheese. There are actually five separate “docks” in English. The oldest is indeed a kind of plant called a “dock,” a term usually applied to members of the genus Rumex, although other species of plants are also called “docks.” This sort of “dock” takes its name from the Old English word for the plant,”docce,” which harks back to a Germanic root and has relatives in several other European languages.

The sort of “docking” done to your dog’s tail is the second oldest use of the word. As a verb meaning “to cut short,” “dock” first appeared in the late 14th century. It was derived from the noun “dock” meaning “fleshy part of an animal’s tail,” which had appeared earlier in the century, apparently derived from a Germanic root meaning “bundle or bunch.” This verb “to dock” is the same one encountered when the boss “docks” your pay.

The third kind of “dock” to appear in English, in the early 16th century, is the sort Otis was sitting on, a wharf or pier for loading or unloading ships and boats. Our modern “dock” had humble beginnings. Originally, borrowed from Germanic roots, the word simply meant the rut or hollow created by a boat lying on a beach at low tide. Some sources trace this “dock” back to the Latin “ducere,” meaning “to lead,” suggesting that the name comes from leading or pulling boats up onto the beach.

“Dock” number four is the little pen in the courtroom where the accused sits during trial in many countries, and comes from the Flemish word “dok,” meaning “rabbit cage.” This “dock” first appeared in English in the late 16th century.

The final “dock” is a cooking term, first used around 1840, meaning “to pierce with holes,” a practice apparently usually employed in baking biscuits to keep them from swelling up in the oven. The origin of this “dock” is a complete mystery, but I suspect it may be related in a roundabout way to “dock” in the “cut short” sense.

Dear Word Detective: I have somehow gotten the impression that “pushing the envelope” means encroaching on forbidden territory in a conversational sense. I would like to know if this is so. If I am correct or not, from where did the expression come? – Rene Guggisberg.

Good question. I think I know what you mean, as when you say something like “Lovely engagement ring, Debbie. Is that the one Dave got on eBay?” Conversations can be tricky. Personally, I have a tendency to answer people’s rhetorical questions literally, and folks who make the mistake of asking “Why me?” in my presence often get five or six good suggestions.

I have actually answered a question about “pushing the envelope” before, but I see by the clock on the wall that it’s been almost exactly ten years, so we’ll take another run at it. To “push the envelope” does include straining the boundaries of polite conversation, but more broadly it means to approach, exceed, or even extend the limits of what is considered possible or permissible in any context. This can be a good thing, as when a race car driver sets a new world’s record time, or a bad thing, as when an office worker sets a new record for calling in sick. In both cases, the attempt itself carries a risk considered too great by most people.

“Pushing the envelope” comes from a field, however, where tremendous risk is the whole point. It’s drawn from the lingo of test pilots, whose job consists of pushing their aircraft right up to and often beyond the technical specifications and theoretical limits of their craft. While “pushing the envelope” (originally in the form “pushing the edge of the envelope”) has probably been in use among test pilots since World War II, it was propelled into general usage by Tom Wolfe’s 1979 book about test pilots and the early US space program, The Right Stuff. The “envelope” being pushed in “pushing the envelope” is a mathematical construct, what is called the “flight envelope” of a given aircraft: combinations of speed and altitude, range and speed, or speed and stress on the aircraft’s frame, that are considered the limits of the plane’s capabilities. Within the “envelope” formed by these parameters, you’re (at least theoretically) OK. Push those limits and you’re asking for trouble, which is what test pilots do for a living. In the process, they verify the safety of the aircraft within those limits and pinpoint possible points of failure if the “envelope” is pushed too far.

Given the popularity of Tom Wolfe’s book (and the movie made from it), it’s not surprising that by the early 1980s “push the envelope” was being used in non-aviation contexts with the diluted meaning of “experiment, innovate, take risks” (“Steven Bochco is offering a new series this fall on ABC, ‘NYPD Blue,’ that … will ‘push the edge of the envelope’ of profanity, nudity and artistic violence,” 1989).

Dear Word Detective: So okay, I lived a few years in Philly, I’ve moved on. But I always called what is otherwise a “big shot” a “big mahoff.” My grown daughter tried to research this when she got blank stares after using it around friends, and it seems to be a totally local expression. I tried to verify this tonight (rather than going back to work), and she seems to be right. Most of the citations are by Philadelphians, about Philadelphians or in Philadelphia publications. Whaddayathink, is this really just a Philadelphianism? — Diane Yaghoobian.

Could be. Maybe it refers to the guy who invented the cheesesteak, a.k.a. the Coronary Event on a Bun.

There must be something going on in Pennsylvania. The two largest cities, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, are both famous in linguistics circles for their idiosyncratic slang, terms often heard nowhere else on the planet. Natives of Pittsburgh, for instance, apparently call baloney sandwich meat “jumbo.” Put that baloney on a long roll with lettuce, tomato, etc., and you have what much of the rest of the US calls a “submarine sandwich” (or just a “sub”), but is known in Philadelphia (and southern New Jersey, to be fair) as a “hoagie.” Philadelphians also apparently call the sidewalk “the pavement.” Can you say “lost colony of space aliens”? I knew you could.

Now that I’ve ensured myself lots of mail from hoagieland, on to “mahoff.” As you’ve discovered, this is evidently a seriously obscure term outside of Philadelphia. It’s not defined in any major dictionary, it’s not listed in the Historical Dictionary of American Slang (HDAS), and it’s not even in the Dictionary of American Regional English (DARE), the gold standard of glossaries of weird local terms. Fortunately, Grant Barrett, a lexicographer at Oxford University Press, project editor of HDAS and proprietor of the Double-Tongued Word Wrester Dictionary website (www.doubletongued.org) did a write-up on “mahoff” in January 2005. He found print citations dating back to 1951, all using “mahoff” or “big mahoff” in the sense of “big cheese” or “important person.” Grant later contributed to a discussion of “mahoff” at Dave Wilton’s wordorigins.org site in which various origins from Irish to Russian were discussed, but no conclusion was reached. So, for the moment at least, “mahoff” remains a mystery.

Dear Word Detective: I just read the following explanation of the origin of the martini (on a website about kayaking, if you can believe it): “…and the martini itself resulted from a gold miner wandering out of the wilderness and into a saloon in Martinez, California (1862). He wanted an empty whiskey bottle filled with something worth the weight of his small pouch of gold, and thought just plain whiskey wouldn’t cut it. So the bartender filled it with a concoction of lesser-known spirits hidden behind the bar, plopped an olive in it, and labeled the drink after the town.” My gut feeling is that the chance of this being true is approximately zero. What do you think?– Carl Delo.

Well, I think that your gut feeling is probably correct, at least as far as that story being literally true goes. First of all, prospectors wandering into saloons in dusty western towns are second only to sailors on 18th century frigates as heroes of bogus word-origin tales. In this case, the probability of a prospector trading even a small bag of gold for a single bottle of anything strikes me as unlikely. If I’d been crawling around in the desert for a few weeks, I’d definitely be interested in quantity (probably of “just plain whiskey”) over the quality of a bartender’s inventiveness. On the other hand (and it pains me to even partially validate that silly story), the town of Martinez, CA, may actually have been the source of “martini.”

This seems like a good time to note that I don’t drink at all, and have actually never had a martini. Weird, right? My idea of fun is black coffee and oatmeal cookies. Anyway, a “Martini,” which the Oxford English Dictionary insists on capitalizing, is a cocktail usually made from gin and vermouth, although vodka is sometimes substituted for the gin. Incidentally, according to Cecil Adams’ Straight Dope web page (www.straightdope.com), James Bond’s famous “shaken, not stirred” martini was actually a hybrid of the two types, mixing both vodka and gin with the vermouth. Apparently Bond also had a license to annoy bartenders.

There are two theories about the origin of “martini,” and the truth may actually be a blend of the two. Early print citations mentioning the drink, around 1884, call it a “Martinez cocktail,” and assert that it took its name from the California town, which is certainly not impossible. But within a few years (1887), the Brooklyn Daily Eagle was calling the concoction a “Martini cocktail.” The second theory ties “Martini” to Martini & Rossi, Italian makers of vermouth, which was definitely in business and exporting to the US at that time.

The connection of “Martini” the maker of vermouth to the “martini cocktail” containing vermouth seems a no-brainer, but the earlier citations for “Martinez cocktail” pose a problem. The Oxford dictionary suggests that the original name was “Martinez,” perhaps commemorating its invention there, but that the name gradually was “remodelled” after Martini & Rossi vermouth became well-known. This seems very plausible, especially since Martini & Rossi bottles would have been clearly visible in nearly any bar, while Martinez, CA, is an awfully long way from Brooklyn.

Dear Word Detective: My love of words and their history has made me a sort of nerdy celebrity among my friends (we are grad students in Environmental Education, so we’re mostly science nerds). Usually when my pals come to me with word queries, I’m able to use a little investigative work (a dictionary and your column, basically) and then stun them with my etymological prowess. Alas, I have been stumped. If “predation” and “depredation” mean the same thing, why do we have the two different words? Why does one have that confusing “de-” prefix? Did they always mean the same thing, or did they diverge at one point? Is “depredation” in any way related to “deprive” instead of “prey”? — Crysta.

Well, lookie there. Signs of intelligent life on Earth. Good to see, because lately I’ve been getting a lot of questions about Sparta, inspired (if that’s the right word) by some silly movie made from a comic book. (Excuse me, “graphic novel.”) Curious, I actually looked up the movie on Wikipedia, and they had posted a big “spoiler warning” before the plot summary because it apparently reveals the super-secret ending of the Battle of Thermopylae. I guess if that’s the sort of thing you like, that’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t know.

“Predation” and “depredation” do mean essentially the same thing in standard usage, “plundering, pillaging, ravaging, exploitation, destruction or ruthless consumption.” Since you and your friends are students in Environmental Education, you are no doubt aware that “predation” is also used in scientific contexts to mean “the preying by one animal upon another; the behavior of a predator,” a usage which lacks the moral judgment implicit in the more general use of the word.

The root of both words, the Latin “praeda,” meaning “booty or prey,” is indeed shared with our English “prey.” This “praeda” begat the Latin verb “praedari,” meaning “to plunder, to rob, to make prey of,” which eventually produced our English “predation” (appearing around 1500) and “depredation” (1626). Neither of these words is related to “deprive,” which harks back to the Latin “privare,” meaning “to isolate or deprive” (also the source of “private,” from the sense of “a single person”).

As to how “predation” and “depredation” can mean the same thing when the prefix “de” usually plays the same negative role as “un” (as in “depopulate”), it’s time to blame those tricky Latin prefixes again. In “depredation,” the prefix “de” means not “un” but “thoroughly, completely,” a role it also plays in words such as “denude” (make completely naked), “declare” (make completely clear), and “despoil” (thoroughly ruin). So “depredation” means “utter, total predation,” damaging or destroying something severely.

Dear Word Detective: Does anyone know the origin of the phrase “to do something at a fiddler’s bidding,” meaning that you have been invited to participate in some activity as an afterthought and you refuse because you won’t do something “at a fiddler’s bidding”? — Lesley Shave.

Anyone? It’s just me and the chickens here, and the chickens have gone shopping. But thanks for a darn good question. You can have it back now, and I don’t ever want to see it again.

Just kidding. “Fiddler’s bidding” is a new one on me, which made it fun to research, and I’m sure the results will be fun to read, provided that your definition of “fun” in this case doesn’t include the words “definite answer.”

Since your email address indicates that you are in the UK, you’ve probably run into “fiddler’s bidding” more often than we do in the US, as it seems to be British (some sources say Scottish) in origin. Your definition of the phrase agrees with what I’ve found, except that refusal to accept the last-minute invitation isn’t necessary. One can show up for the party and still be miffed.

Even in the UK, however, the phrase must be fairly rare, because a Google search for “fiddler’s bidding” turns up a mere 26 hits, making for meager pickings. In her novel “Penny Plain,” Anna Buchan (1877-1948) describes a dinner party where few of the intended guests were able to come, and the substitutes, once they realized the reason for their presence, were not thrilled: “It was trying for everyone: for Mr. Elliot, who was left with the impression that people were apt to be engaged when asked to meet him; for the Jowetts, who now knew that they had received a “fiddler’s bidding,” and for Mr. Jackson, who felt that he was only there because nobody else could be got.” Elsewhere, a musical group called Wild Asparagus has recorded a song titled “Fiddler’s Bidding.” And just last year the question-and-answer feature of the Sydney (Australia) Morning Herald (called “Column 8″) went looking for the story of the term with several suggestions from readers but no definitive results.

Still, based on these and other sources, I think we can piece together the logic of “fiddler’s bidding.” The phrase probably dates back to the 17th or 18th centuries in England and Scotland, when wandering minstrels (often bearing fiddles) were apt to appear unannounced at one’s door offering a performance in return for coins or food. If the fiddler appeared at mealtime, and there happened to be a vacant seat at the table and enough food, he might be invited (“bid”) to join the party. Thus “fiddler’s bidding” came to mean a last-minute invitation to someone not on the original roster of guests.

Dear Word Detective: Recently, my new hubby and I were discussing what to tile the patio with, and he kept calling it “the floor.” Ever since childhood I have thought that “floor” is for inside, but “ground” is for either. Is either of these right? — Megan.

Well, this just bolsters my theory that home improvement, especially the “DIY” kind (“DIY” standing for “done in years” in most cases), is a leading cause of marital discord today. Just swing by Home Depot or Lowe’s some Saturday afternoon and take a good look at the couples picking out bathroom tiles or window blinds. Do those people look happy with each other? No wonder “home” and “homicide” both begin with “hom.” In fact, your first sentence could pass muster as a classic New Yorker cartoon caption.

I’m not certain I’m the right person to answer your question, since my standard reply to “What’s it like outside?” is “The ceiling is blue and very far away,” but I’ll take a shot.

The use of “ground” outside and “floor” inside is purely a convention, albeit one so old it is nearly universally observed. The only use of “ground” inside a house I can imagine is, perhaps, when the SWAT team kicks in your door shouting, “Get on the ground!”

“Floor” and “ground” are both, as you might suspect, very old words. “Ground” is one of a family of words in various Germanic languages (of which English is one) derived from an ancient Germanic root with the general sense of “very deep place” or “abyss.” When “ground” first appeared in Old English, it meant “bottom, lowest point,” especially the bottom of of the ocean (a sense still found in the phrase “run aground” when the water turns out to be a bit too shallow). “Ground” went on to develop a great varieties of meanings, most focusing on the idea of “foundation” or “surface of the earth,” although we still use the archaic definition “sediment settled from liquid” when we speak of “coffee grounds.” (Surprisingly, calling these “grounds” has nothing to do with the coffee having been put through a grinder. Before filters and similar froo-froo, the coffee was simply stirred and allowed to settle in the bottom of the cup.). But apart from metaphorical uses (e.g., to “stand your ground” in an argument, or “to ground” a fractious child), almost all uses of “ground” in the general “surface” sense take place outdoors.

“Floor” also first appeared in Old English and is based on a Germanic root, in this case carrying the general meaning of “flatness.” Throughout its history in English, “floor” has pretty much been confined to meaning “the level surface underlying the interior of a room” or metaphors invoking that image (as in “floor of the mouth” or “ocean floor”). So “floor” isn’t quite right for a patio, unless it is perhaps somewhat enclosed. If all else fails, I’d just refer to “the surface” of the patio.

Dear Word Detective: I am curious about the origins of the Southern U.S. slang words “goomer” and “gomer.” I think they are insulting words, probably close to meaning “moron” or “slack-jawed yokel.” I have only seen them used in 1960s TV programs such as “The Beverly Hillbillies” and “The Andy Griffith Show” (and that show’s offshoot, “Gomer Pyle, USMC”). We’re not talking Faulkner scripts here, but still, I don’t believe the writers for these series came up with the words out of thin air; there probably is some basis in real language. I’ll be darned it I can find it. I suspect that the “gomer” is an offshoot of “goomer,” based on the dates of the TV programs’ creation. “GOMER” these days is an insulting term among medical personnel for a person who goes to the Emergency Room for no valid reason (standing for “Get Out of My Emergency Room”). I would suspect a Scottish or Irish root for the word, but again, darned if I can find it. Can you help? — Barb H.

Wow, flashback time. The shows you mention, along with “Petticoat Junction,” “The Real McCoys,” “Green Acres” and the “Andy Griffith” sequel “Mayberry RFD,” were staples of US television in the 1960s, a period when “rural sitcoms” were enormously popular. Set mostly in the American South (“The Beverly Hillbillies,” set in Beverly Hills, being an obvious exception), they portrayed small town life as simple, safe, and valuing family and tradition instead of the modern foibles of “city slickers.” Well, maybe. As a city slicker living the “Green Acres” lifestyle in rural Ohio the last few years, I’ve seen no lack of weirdness around here.

There seems to be a bit of debate over the origin of “gomer” (or its variant “goomer”) as a derogatory term meaning “stupid or inept person.” It first appeared in print in 1967 as military slang meaning “a clumsy or stupid trainee,” a sense almost certainly derived from Jim Nabor’s character Gomer Pyle, a dimwitted but sweet-natured garage attendant, on The Andy Griffith Show. Nabor’s character was spun off in 1964 to star in “Gomer Pyle U.S.M.C.,” wherein Gomer spent five years in training (bad sign right there) driving his drill instructor nuts with his ineptitude.

The proper name “Gomer” is rare but not unknown (there are two “Gomers” in the Bible, one of them a woman), but prior to Nabor’s TV portrayal there is no record of “Gomer” ever being used as a synonym for “idiot” or “yokel.”

The use of “Gomer” as hospital slang for an unwanted ER patient actually appeared in print a few years before the military usage, but most authorities also trace it to Gomer Pyle and “gomer” as slang for “fool.” The acronymic explanation (“Get Out of My Emergency Room”) shows signs of having been concocted after the fact (the explanation didn’t show up in print until 1978) and is considered implausible. Among other problems, it’s very unlikely that an imperative verb phrase (“Get out…”) would be used as a slang noun (“Here comes that gomer again”).

So the writers of “The Andy Griffith Show” didn’t invent the name “Gomer,” but they probably did pick it for its rural sound (there have been suggestions that “Homer” was considered but rejected as over-used), and Jim Nabor’s talent as an actor did the rest.

Dear Word Detective: I’ve read several egg-headed histories for the word “mayonnaise.” One suggests a chef concocted the sauce in celebration of a French military victory at Mahon. Another has it named for the French word “manier,” meaning to mold or handle, or magner (as in blending the egg yolks with oil), combined with “aise” meaning “easy” or “ease.” Yet a third suggests it was named for the Duke of Mayenne, because he wouldn’t join the losing battle against Henry IV until he finished his chicken with mayonnaise (called “cold sauce” prior to the event). I have the feeling a “none of the above” response may be in order. — George.

Mayonnaise came from Heaven. Look it up. Seriously, I grew up in Connecticut, where mayonnaise is considered one of the major food groups all by itself. For most of my life I thought “too much mayonnaise” was an oxymoron. Then I moved to Ohio and watched someone slathering the stuff on white bread, upon which they then piled chicken salad (itself consisting of at least 80 percent mayonnaise). There is such a thing as too much mayonnaise.

Mayonnaise is, of course, a thick, creamy sauce made from egg yolks and (usually) vegetable oil, flavored with vinegar, salt, sometimes lemon juice, and often mustard. Mayonnaise definitely came to us from France, but just where the name “mayonnaise” came from is a major mystery.

You’ve given a good rundown of three leading theories, of which the “Mahon” story is probably the most well-known. Mahon is the capital of Minorca, one of the Balearic Islands off the east coast of Spain, captured by the French from the British in 1756. Mayonnaise (supposedly originally “sauce mahonnaise,” sauce of Mahon) was, in this tale, created as a tribute to the victorious Louis Francois Armand du Plessy, duc de Richelieu, by his chef. Unfortunately, “mayonnaise” didn’t show up in print in France until nearly 50 years later, which makes this story less than convincing.

The “manier” (“handle”) theory is also possible, but lacks any real evidence. Another theory posits that mayo was invented in the French city of Bayonne and originally known as “Bayonnaise,” a cute story that also lacks evidence. It also possible that the inventor was Charles of Lorraine, Duke of Mayenne, who supposedly insisted on finishing his meal of cold chicken and his chef’s “special sauce” before engaging in battle with (and losing to) Henry IV.

I’m as fond of French nobility as the next guy, but if I had to pick a theory it would be the one that ties “mayonnaise” to the old French word “moyeu,” which meant “hub of a wheel” but was also used to mean “the yolk of an egg,” the central ingredient of mayonnaise. It’s not a glamorous theory, but it has the virtue of making perfect sense.

Dear Word Detective: How did the phrase “how come” come to mean “why”? How come we needed a longer, less obvious way of saying “why” when we already have the word “why”? Is this a southern colloquialism, or do people everywhere use “how come?” to mean “why”? — Gary Henderson.

Now here’s an interesting coincidence. My wife, Kathy Wollard, just happens to write a weekly newspaper column called “How Come?” in which she answers science questions from inquisitive children (and many adults as well). She is, in fact, even as I write this, hunkered down in the next room, putting the finishing touches on the third “How Come?” book, which will join “How Come?” and “How Come? Planet Earth” (all published by Workman Publishing) in bookstores next fall. And that, kiddies, is how proper product placement is done. Maybe someday she’ll answer a question that has been bothering me for years: Do trees sleep? They must, right? But every time I ask she rolls her eyes and tells me to be quiet.

“How come?” is actually a very interesting phrase. It seems to have been an American invention of the 19th century, although similar forms date back several hundred years in English. The first appearance of “how come” in print dates to 1848, but since that was in Bartlett’s Dictionary of Americanisms and the phrase was described as being common at that time, it is almost certainly older. That was, after all, an age when slang and colloquial phrases were usually avoided, not memorialized, in print.

The basic sense of the verb “come” is, of course, “to move towards, approach” or “to arrive.” One of the specialized, and now archaic, meanings of “come” is “to happen,” as in the phrase “to come to pass,” reflecting the idea of a condition, time or event “arriving” (also found in such uses as “Come next summer, Dwayne Junior had better have a job”). “How,” used as an adverb modifying a verb (such as “come”), means basically “by what means?” or “for what reason?”

The final piece of the puzzle of “how come” is the fact that it is actually an abbreviation of a longer phrase, which, although not known with certainty, was probably “how comes it” or “how does it come,” meaning “how did this (event, condition, etc.) happen to be this way.”

“How come?” is, as you note, essentially synonymous with “why?”, but in popular usage it often serves a slightly different function. “How come?” carries a challenging, more emphatic tone than a simple “why?” would convey (“How come Jimmy never has to wash the dishes?”). Unlike “why,” “how come” strongly suggests that the questioner has already developed an opinion on the situation and has decided that something is not proper or fair.