Some of the e-mails I get from readers — e-mails that come through channels different from this blog — are too delicious not to share, and the following one fits that bill.

After offering some kind words about my review of the Second Avenue Deli, the reader admitted to being disturbed by my statement in the piece that “I wasn’t much for mustard.”

The reader went on: “Is this with respect to pastrami only or does your indifference to the king of condiments apply to all foods? Either way, this is not good. You are one of the nation’s most influential palates and it is shocking to learn that you might be condimentally challenged.”

“Mustard has a long and revered history,” the reader continued. “Shakespeare wrote about mustard in several of his plays. Louis XI never traveled without the royal mustard pot nearby. As curator of the Mount Horeb Mustard Museum (home of the world’s largest collection of mustards and mustard memorabilia), I urge you to seek condiment counseling at once.”

“ I would be happy to treat you,” the reader added, “should you decide to make the pilgrimage to Mount Horeb, Wisconsin, where ketchup and mayo are not permitted on village streets during daylight hours.

“Condimentally yours, Barry Levenson, Curator and CMO (Chief Mustard Officer), Mount Horeb Mustard Museum, 100 West Main Street, Mount Horeb, Wisconsin.”

Several things: the museum is no joke. I Googled it, and found the web site to which I provided the above link. And if you have five to 10 minutes to giggle about — and revel in — humankind’s ability to turn anything and everything into a kitschy obsession and object of wordplay, I urge you to visit it.

I was particularly amused to learn that “visitors to the Museum are admitted free to the famed Mustard Piece Theatre, where engaging titles such as ‘Mustard, the Spice of Nations’ are shown daily on the mammoth big screen TV.”

On the subject of mustard — “king of condiments,” condiment of kings, recipient of its very own museum (do ketchup and mayo have such shrines?) — I would like to be clearer than I was in the review.

I am not “much for mustard” on a pastrami sandwich. And that’s merely because I love the fattiness, spiciness and smokiness of good pastrami to the point where I don’t want anything extra competing with my enjoyment of that.

When it comes to hot dogs, I’m all about mustard, so much so that I reflexively cringe when I see someone put ketchup on a hot dog. Kids do this all the time. My nephews and nieces do this. It’s a reminder that they still have many years and many meals before they evolve into fully formed human beings. When I see a bright yellow smear on one of their hot dogs, I’ll know they’ve come of age, and I’ll probably get a little weepy.

As I said in the review, condiments are personal, and I don’t think any of us should ever be ashamed of our condiment orientations. We should own up to them, say them loud and proud, maybe even dedicate parades — if not museums — to them.

I’ll end this post with a question. Mr. Levenson, put your hand down. You aren’t allowed to participate — yet — because you hold an advantage and have made clear that you possess this knowledge already. I’ll write or call you in a few days to obtain the information if readers don’t come through.

OK, here goes: Can you name the plays in which Shakespeare (apparently) wrote about mustard?

And, I ask you, was there any — any — mention of putting it on pastrami?