On the Complexity of Flavor 

I helped make chocolate last week (this is what I get for having amazing foodie family friends that farm in Hawaii). From scratch. Bean to bar. From teeny weeny fermented cacao beans to bizarro chocolate paste to satiny beautiful liquid gold to hand molded nuggets of mouth-melting goodness.

When you think about what it takes to transform this food item from one few people have seen to one of the most craved items in the world, we rarely think about where it started. I’m not talking politically or agriculturally (though after I helped make chocolate, that is most definitely on my mind, too), but the process by which we change food to thoroughly manipulate its taste and structure and how, if you try hard enough, you can taste all kinds of flavors, from every step of the creation process, in each bite.

Not everyone has the luxury of sitting and watching or helping throughout the full production process of something like chocolate (nor should most of us, it’s a two day process involving lots of equipment, and besides, chocolate is special — after going through the process in full, I understand that even more), so I offer a few more tangible and replicable examples of food creation lending itself to flavor complexity for the humble home cook, invited guest, or restaurant diner:

My mom made an umeboshi plum tart a few days ago. Umeboshi plums are usually known in their preserved state: a paste made of unripe green plums with salt. Turns out those lil suckers ripen, too, into a mouth-puckering bite of taut bitter plum skin that gives way to a sweet explosion of flesh before you’re left with a tiny stone, discarded quickly for another bite of fruity adventure.

The same friends that invited me make chocolate gifted us a huge basket of amethyst jewels of these ripened plums, and to use them up, my mom went for a safe but sound recipe that featured the plums… You see, there are few recipes out there (that we could find) for ripe ume plums. The tart’s flavor was reminiscent to the most controversial (at least for me) parts of marmalade: sweet, sour, and bitter, all in the same mouthful. It was so good, we made it twice.

My dad has always been an amateur homebrewer, making wine from homegrown ingredients since before I was born. He’s currently working on a mead, clear and crisp and effervescent (I asked for a sample before I left, even though it won’t be done for a few more weeks). You can taste hints of the complex honey that began as the base for this beverage as you sip it: hints of sweet and tart lurk between the almost bubbly sips.

A few weeks ago at #PSUweb13 in State College, Pennsylvania, I was introduced to the Dirty Gretchen: freshly poured Guinness with a scoop of chocolate ice cream. Sure, it sounds like a grown up root beer float, but it also had a similar complicated flavor profile that keeps me up at night thinking about it: sweet (several kinds, actually) and bitter. Try this one at home. Totally worth it.

Okay, you may think, this kind of food is a bit out there, Ma’ayan. Where am I going to have access to these things, either to cook with or to eat? Think about it: it’s a huge trend to add bacon to anything — especially sweet things, like cookies, ice cream, and chocolate. Spiced — and spicy! — chocolate has been on eaters’ radar for centuries. Cucumber — or even olives or other pickled or brined vegetables — fresh citrus, and now fresh herbs are common add-ins for drinks based in clear liquors (but not just). We didn’t just start this stuff out of nowhere: the way our taste buds work, we instinctively know and crave these kinds of combinations.

It’s so hard to write about flavor. We lack a vocabulary to describe the most basic to the most complex. Most of the time, we eaters talk about ingredients and individual associations with each of them. These building blocks are essential to make food happen, but to make flavor combinations sparkle too. Reading a recipe or even a spot on a menu that lists a dish’s ingredients should make your mouth water. My new challenge to myself: I want to read, describe, or taste a dish that makes my mouth wonder.

What this means for me/my mouth/my dining companions:

My summer task to myself is to add the unexpected to what I cook. Wherever I expect a single flavor profile, I’ll be adding another. It’s a challenge for me, one to make my food more complex without necessarily adding more cooking time. To make singular bites more memorable. To make my tongue say, hmmm, what’s that thing? How does it make the rest of these ingredients work? What does the addition of bitter, sour, sweet, salty, spicy, umami do to my mouth? My brain? My friends?

It’s time to dig into my spices and seasonings, my herb garden, and my local farmers market to taste, match, and take a leap in a different food direction. And if you’re eating with me this summer, get ready to jump with me.