Our conception of the culinary arts is colloquially narrow and contains many more elements than most consider.
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When we consider art colloquially, we think about paintings, sculptures, music, and poetry. You might have a further refined or broader concept of art — it could be a particular craft; it could take the form of a machine or an abstract structure.
The material results of practicing culinary arts are not encased in museum galleries or projected in symphony halls. Aside from the glorified “fine-dining” dishes that one sees at an upscale establishment, people don’t generally think of a culinary dish in terms of creative output; much more simply, it resembles food — something we simply need to live from a biological perspective.
When a dish is placed in perspective as an artistic expression, most will consciously consider only a few of its aspects: namely taste and texture. Viewing culinary creativity through such a narrow lens closes off many peoples’ conscious minds to the sheer depth and complexity that exists within the culinary arts. A culinary experience is more than just consuming material goods. To become truly skilled in the culinary arts, one must master providing not only material but experience.
The Conception of Taste
For starters, the physical act of cooking is simply one piece of the experience puzzle — and it’s no simple act. This piece is filled up with a myriad of aspects to consider, including the most obvious dimension of taste. Fundamentally, we deal with 5 abstract dimensions of the conception of taste: salty, umami, sweet, acidic, and bitter. Heat (in the form of capsaicin) adds another. These dimensions are expressed differently in different instances of ingredients. I’d be tempted to say that no two ingredients are ever the same (it seems obvious enough,) but I think more realistically no ingredient itself is ever the same. The chemistry chefs play with is a dynamic dance that cannot be broken down into an algorithm. The chemistry in a single bottle of balsamic vinegar is affected by time, storage conditions, and how much the bottle was shaken before it was used. The same bottle of vinegar can offer a different profile of acidity or body as its life progresses.
But that’s only one dimension of an ingredient, and few ingredients have but one. Balsamic vinegar offers a wonderful play between sweetness and acidity that makes it so staunchly unique. Any cooking nerd will tell you that it’s this play that varies most within different brands, regions, and batches of vinegar. It’s also this ineffable play that makes balsamic vinegar (and all the other great ingredients) so special.
As if the complexity of one ingredient wasn’t enough, the dual sweetness and acidity that balsamic vinegar offers are not the same as that found in tomatoes. While our abstraction of dimensions is useful to encompass conventional cooking ingredients, it’d be foolish to say that the basic difference between balsamic vinegar and fresh tomatoes is their ratio of acidic to sweet. Their source, lifecycle, and physical nature produce two clearly unique products. To use them together effectively, a chef must find the perfect balance between each ingredient of the dish, to get that perfect balance between our dimensions of taste.
Clearly, there is more to the taste of a dish than 5 (6, counting heat) static dimensions; there exists another unavoidable temporal dimension of time. Throughout the life cycle of a dish’s creation, its flavor profile is in continuous flux. A sauce simmering on the stove is continuously creating and breaking down chemical compounds, and the chronology of one ingredient is exceedingly difficult to track with complete precision. Needless to say, it’s exponentially more difficult to do so with the entire sauce, especially as the number and complexity of ingredients increase.
Another (perhaps simpler) example can be seen with searing a steak. The Maillard Reaction [1] that provides steak with a crispy brown exterior and signature flavor has an extremely complex reaction mechanism. Mere seconds in a pan can notably change the flavor profile of a cut of beef. Furthermore, think of all the variables involved with searing a steak: Room temperature, burner temperature, pan’s heat distribution, cut of beef, the thickness of the steak, room humidity, internal salt content (depending on how early the steak is salted,) and time. It’s essentially Heraclitus’s exclamation that “No man ever steps in the same river twice. For it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” A chef can never cook the same steak twice; for it’s not the same piece of meat and the chef is not the same as before.
Of course, additional variables are introduced with a simple butter baste: type of butter, time of addition, herbs or garlic placed in the pan alongside, etc. The complexity of the flavor profile of even the most simple dish becomes unimaginable- and it can’t possibly be simplified to an algorithmic process.
Abstracting Away from Taste
We’ve seen the complexity of taste, but let’s zoom out and think about what goes on with one’s senses. The most obvious dimension we can consider is texture. Texture prevalently comes from fat, connective tissue, and moisture content. The chewy bite of pasta, the crunch of a fried chicken leg, the delicate crackle of a croissant, and the creamy finish of a risotto all come from utilizing fat differently. The buttery & fork-tender meat obtained from cooking the toughest of meat cuts in a bath of liquid for hours in an oven (also called braising — and my favorite cooking technique in existence) is the result of tough connective tissue layers between muscle proteins slowly breaking down and turning into gelatin. This connective tissue can be dissolved into liquid— water if we’re producing stock — and reduced to give a sticky, glossy demi-glace that stands almost as a physical embodiment of savory rich meatiness.
Consider now how a chef has to balance the innumerable variables of a flavor profile with the perfect texture. It’s not only a game of creating a buttery pie crust but also of creating the perfect flakiness as well. Instead of simply adding salt to eggs before scrambling them or to vegetables before browning in a pan, a chef must consider how the salt will interact with egg proteins and draw moisture out of vegetables, both of which might result in sub-par textures, and potentially ruin a dish.
The senses outside of the mouth play an exceedingly important role in the experience of eating as well. In fact, the aroma of a dish accounts for almost all of the perception of taste (experts believe 80% or more), as opposed to our tastebuds. [2] Black peppercorn, a staple on every American table that is found in almost every cuisine, is essentially completely aromatic. Yes, pepper has no flavor profile — it’s all smell. That’s why dishes are always finished with a few twists of freshly ground peppercorn, be it in the kitchen or by the waiting staff when your dish is brought out. The freshly exposed peppercorn innards release their aromatic compounds, and these compounds’ route to your nose is drawn by the thermally-excited molecules contained in the invisible water evaporating from your steak. This perks up your nostril cells and informs your tastebuds of the delicious dish that you’re about to eat. If you got by as a young child eating gross foods by plugging your nose, you’ll know just how important aroma is to taste.
Positive aroma induces physical hunger and salivation, so it’s not a purely psychological phenomenon. This is bi-directional — not only does browning meat before braising give great color, flavor, and texture, but not doing so will give the pot an odd smell, almost like that of dog food. [3] In fact, chefs must be conscious of this phenomenon, especially when making dishes that require lots of time with slow changes in their flavor profile. We adjust fairly quickly to a constant aroma, sometimes in as little as 3–5 minutes. Given that aroma is such a major aspect of our conception of taste, we begin to taste a dish that we cook ourselves less and less as the time we spend making it increases. It converges to a point where a chef cannot taste his or her dish for final seasoning before sending it out to a table.
I know that I’ll be underwhelmed by a dish when serving it immediately after its completion but be shocked by its punch of flavor the next day after warming it. Consider this aromatic adaptation paired with palate fatigue, a proverbial bad penny that keeps chefs on their toes with starkly contrasting dish elements. Palate fatigue occurs when our taste buds grow used to the food that we are eating. This is why it is so essential to serve a rich, meaty dish like braised short ribs with a “light & bright” side or garnish, such as a mix of herbs and citrus. Palate fatigue and aromatic adaptation combine to dull one’s gastronomic senses, and chefs must often make others taste their food while working the line due to their eventual inability to make taste judgments.
Working our way through the senses, sound plays a supporting role in the experience of eating. A deep crunch from a ball of Arancini or light flaking crisp of a grilled sandwich adds to the wholistic satisfaction that comes from eating. Watching a video of someone crunching down on a piece of crispy onion rings can spur our hunger, though we don’t actually smell or taste anything. We’re further confirming with our tastebuds that, yes, this crust is crisp. Sound is another tool that can be used to give a culinary experience some extra pop in a serving setting as well; serving a dip or sauteed vegetable in a still-crackling cast iron skillet will blow away most.
Perhaps the most surprising (and underappreciated) sense that dictates our conception of taste is visual perception. We mostly see our food before we eat it, and how we ocularly perceive our meal before tasting it has a massive effect on the overall experience. [4] A crackling golden crust on a piece of red meat, deep red of salmon, bright green of vegetables, and visual pop that colorful garnishes give dishes are all examples of this. It’s why chefs put so much effort into blanching vegetables carefully to preserve color and keeping stocks as clear as possible.
It’s also why an herb and citrus-based garnish mentioned earlier is added to rich, meaty dishes. When I refer to a garnish “brightening up” a dish, I mean so in a figurative and literal sense. The acidic and harsh flavors contrast with the mellowed richness of the meat. The bright garnish colors also contrast with the deep colors of the meat, providing a pop in flavor AND sight.
Beyond the Senses
We’ve covered the endless ways through which the direct senses influence the conception of a food’s taste. As can be expected, more factors exist that a chef must consider. You may notice the subtle importance of heat in all of the examples given earlier. Heat is like salt — without it, any flavor is significantly dulled or absent from many dishes. Heat also influences the texture and feel of eating a dish. Notice that the peppercorns ground on a steak (mentioned above in the aromatic section) are released to the nose through heat. Similar aromatic compounds in all foods, especially garlic, onions, and herbs, are released and heightened or mellowed by prolonged heat.
Two soups of equal anatomy starkly contrast in a taste contest if one is warm and the other cold. A warm heat envelops one’s inside and informs the conception of taste to relax, savor, and enjoy the dish. Similarly, ice cream in the summer is a burst of cold sweetness to shift the frame through which one views a park on a hot and sunny day. It’s no wonder that so much effort is put into simply keeping coffee warm through the use of thermal mugs and carafes. Even the majority of those that view coffee as simply a vehicle for caffeine can’t stand a mug of it that’s cooled down — at least, not unless it goes all the way to “iced” temperature. (Funny how that works.)
While temperature can greatly enhance a dish’s effect on our psyche, it can provide endless challenges to providing a proper culinary experience. I won’t delve into the complexities of temperature in cooking, but it’s the difference between a burnt steak with a raw inside and a perfect medium rare edge to edge. It’s also the difference between a tender braised dish and a tough, fatty cut of meat. Once one accounts for all aspects of flavor (umami, salt, acid, bitterness, sweetness,) temperature is the next dimension one must pay attention to.
Instead, I will turn to the more nuanced effects that temperature has on presenting. Restaurants will take up valuable kitchen space with ovens designated to warm dishes, ensuring that food stays hot for as long as possible. A perfectly creamy sauce or risotto can tighten up to undesirable coagulation by sitting on a plate for only a few minutes. The ambient temperature of a frigidly cold day outside is what makes steaming hot cocoa so attractive, just as a sweltering day affects our desire for cold ice cream, as mentioned above.
There are even more than purely physical factors affecting your psyche. Think about the importance of the company you are in and the atmosphere of the environment. Dim restaurants with scattered lights, white tablecloths, and shiny glasses inform you that the food you are to eat is delicate, indulgent, and carefully prepared, regardless of the reality of its creation. This environment is further capitalized upon by the use of candles (also affecting aromatic senses) and flashy dishes, like a flambeed Baked Alaska. There’s a stark contrast between traditional sit-in Asian food and Hibachi preparation, and not just from a quality standpoint. The positive emotions that come from laughing at the skillful dance of an Itamae’s cooking utensils or poofs of flame as your food is cooked right in front of you heightens your mood and prepares you to enjoy a dish potentially much more than if it had been prepared in a closed-off kitchen.
Consider every other factor that we can imagine — the dress code, outside view, music volume, wait staff demeanor, amenities, etc. All of these have such an important effect on the “je ne sais quoi” of a culinary experience that to think of taste as purely defining a culinary experience couldn’t be a more narrow view. It also sheds light on the seemingly infinite dimensions that a culinary experience contains, and how each one must be accounted for when crafting that experience. Multiply this by tens or hundreds of guests, and you understand why I argue that a nice restaurant on a single weeknight can contain more creative output at the hands of an orchestra of restaurant staff than a great public art display.
The more I grow my skills as an amateur chef, the greater my appreciation and awe towards professional chefs grows. I cannot imagine how even a mid-tier restaurant can coordinate all of the dimensions discussed above (or even more that I’m unaware of.) My appreciation for the culinary arts seems to be increasing at a growing rate that doesn’t look like it’ll end. I can only hope to mirror a fraction of my perception to others through writing.
*In this essay, the word “cooking” encapsulates any expression of the culinary arts — namely baking and other activities related to food and its preparation/presentation.
Sources & References
[1] Guerrero, Blanca. “Maillard Reaction — Chemistry and its Consequences in Food Properties.” Published 4/2007. Accessed 12/19/2021. https://catalogo.latu.org.uy/opac_css/doc_num.php?explnum_id=1468#:~:text=The%20Maillard%20reaction%20is%20divided,and%20polymerization%20of%20aldol%2C%20aldehyde [2] Spence, Charles. “Just how much of what we taste derives from the sense of smell?” Published 2015. Accessed 12/31/2021. https://flavourjournal.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s13411-015-0040-2 [3] Anecdotal [4] Spence, Charles. “On the Relationships between Color and Taste/Flavor.” Published 3/21/2019. Accessed 1/1/2022. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7037180
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