The Logic Of Deliciousness
"Our outer layers might have expensive taste but your tongue doesn’t care about capitalism; it just cares about what it likes."
“Taste is just a way of filtering the world, of ordering information,” says Tom Vanderbilt, author of You May Also Like. “You saw your neighbor consume something, you saw that he didn't die, so you decided that would be a pretty good thing to eat too. Then as society became more complex, you start to have prestige models of, well, not only did he like that food, he's the most important person in the village, so of course I should really check it out. More began to be attached to those choices than sheer functionality.”
Sometimes I conflate what is good with what I like. It’s the difference between asking ‘what is your favourite…’ and ‘what is the best…’? I watch countless TikTok videos of people being interviewed on the street, answering what the best neighbourhood in London, where does the burger, cocktail, roast, pizza. Framed differently, the answer might change each time.
Up until recently, what is deemed ‘good’ in culture has been gatekept by journalists, publications and early influencers. Thinking specifically about food, widely-read newspaper critics have traditionally wielded the power to make or break restaurants. I listened to chefs Jeremy Chan (Ikoyi) and Mandy Yin (Sambal Shiok) talk about this at the (first ever!) East and South East Asian literary festival yesterday. They were asked what they thought the role of restaurant critics were now, and both of them offered different perspectives that perhaps led to the same idea.
Chan, whose restaurant defies definition when it comes to specific cuisines, talked about an early review from Giles Coren (insufferable, sensationalist, irrelevant, IMHO). After a slow and empty first few weeks, Coren’s rave review brought in a litany of guests – all of whom seemed to be overwhelmingly white, middle-class, middle-aged women. Chan suggests that the most successful and influential critics tend to be those who use their reviews or columns to fulfil a certain personal agenda. It’s the cult of personality of the critic; they write through a specific lens, using their words as a way to gain more influence themselves, and in doing so, they write to a specific type of audience who affirms that preference (and that displaced cult of personality).
Mandy Yin describes an early review from Jay Rayner, which was altogether really positive, but mentioned the price of Sambal Shiok’s beef rendang. “He really did us a disservice,” she explains, “because he wrote that he thought our beef rendang was too expensive.” There’s such a misconception amongst western diners that what is considered ‘ethnic food’ should be cheap; that the likes of Malaysian or Chinese cooking could not be priced like a modern European tasting menu (Ikoyi perhaps challenges this – although as Chan explains, the restaurant confidently does not describe itself as ‘West African’ or ‘Chinese’. It simply is what it is). Jonathan Nunn alluded to this idea earlier in his newsletter Vittles: “When these foods’ value is assessed, it is too often in terms of cheapness, convenience, some nebulous idea of ‘authenticity’ or, worse, it is assumed that their value is related only to it having just been ‘discovered’, thereby having a niche appeal. The thing that is rarely discussed is quality.”
In this way, taste as cultural capital is so rooted in our perceptions of what we think is ‘right’, not what is actually good. Chan makes the interesting point later on that there are two avenues for the concept of good food. It’s either something nostalgic, familiar or comforting that doesn’t necessarily take into account the actual quality of the food; or it’s solely about the quality – the fact that the beef might be grass fed and slaughtered humanely which means it will inevitably taste better. Sometimes it is both (the holy grail of taste) and sometimes it is hard to distinguish one from another. To him there is simply a logic of deliciousness (I love this idea). Who knows, perhaps I was captivated by Chan’s ideas on taste because I think he’s unbelievably attractive: the perennial question of whether we like what someone likes because that person is what we like. The truth of taste can be so easily thrown off track by attraction.
I used to think that taste was built into your identity – a paper trail of preferences passed down from generation to generation. How else could I explain my obsession with rice, or my propensity to reach for salt? This played into my theory about food as a vehicle for belonging. bAnd while our taste buds can be informed by external factors, they do not lie. Would I be as curious and emotionally connected to Korean food if I did not have a Korean mother? But there are of course layers and layers of taste that are formed on top of what feels innate and deeply embedded in our bodies: memories of eating meals with family and lovers and friends. For a while I convinced myself that I loved pizza because it was my ex’s favourite meal and something we shared together once a week. And although the flavours of tomato, dough and cheese are undeniably pleasing, I would never choose to get a pizza myself. It is simply not something I ‘like enough’.
My mum thinks it’s funny how trendy Korean food has become. The ubiquity of kimchi or even tteokbokki and bibimbap is so fascinating to her. In the ultimate showing of cultural hierarchy, the West has decided that Korean culture is cool, and they’re going to capitalise on it as much as they can.
But our tongues do not care about trends. Place a crystal of salt on your tongue and it will either delight or recoil. While the external world might influence our thoughts on health, on what we should or shouldn’t eat, or what’s popular in restaurant land, our tongues cannot lie. Our tongues do not care about small plates or whether asparagus is in season or the rising price of truffles. Our outer layers might have expensive taste but your tongue doesn’t care about capitalism; it just cares about what it likes.
What I find so interesting about taste is that it provokes such a physical and visceral reaction. You just know when you like something, and you just know when you don’t: but these binary instincts never take into account the ability to build or develop a taste from the ground up. When it comes to appetite – for food, for love, for sex – are we too quick to dismiss because we assume we always know what we like?
There is no easy explanation for why we like what we like. It’s an indefinable combination of collective taste gathered and refined over thousands of years; what we are exposed to and how long for; and what plays into the hierarchical structures of our own individual worlds. The more interesting question to me is: why do we want what we want? And further to that: why do we sometimes want things that we don’t like, or not want things that we know we like? It’s in these subtle tensions where a certain truth is revealed – and I think the seeking of that truth is what keeps us going (in life and to therapy).
