notes on taste
on anthony bourdain and reading as a gateway drug
Whenever I gather up the courage to try a new food, my mother utters a wish to resurrect Anthony Bourdain and thank him profusely. Only he could ignite a love affair between a picky eater and the culinary world.
I have a hard time verbalizing the depth of my sheer admiration for Anthony Bourdain. With his irreverent sense of humor, it’s hard for some to recognize his sheer impact on our culture as a whole. His Parts Unknown episode in my mother’s hometown brought tears to my eyes; the episode captured its essence perfectly, immortalizing the streets where I spent my summers. Food may have been his focus, but Bourdain’s respect and care for the places and people he visited transcended the meals he shared.
While I consciously recognize the value of food as an integral aspect of culture, my palette decidedly does not. I have always been - and unfortunately will always be - a picky eater. I toe a dangerous line with my eating habits: I’m specific enough to be considered fussy, but I eat enough that I can find something at every restaurant - effectively removing any pressure to try and change my ways.
I’ve often said that I would be perfectly content if I could get all of the sustenance my body requires from a pill. This typically elicits an extreme reaction from whoever I’m talking to. The truth is, I’ve never really derived much pleasure from food. With the exception of my favorite meal (steak frite and apple tart from the French restaurant down the street), I have never experienced the extreme sensory reaction that many seem to get from eating.
As I get older, I am beginning to crave it. I’ve long admired the food I see from afar. A notable pick from my childhood was the cupcake in Pinkalicious. More recent examples are food described in literature and presented in Nara Smith’s TikToks. Yet, every time I try these foods for myself, they seem like a cheap imitation and I feel like an imposter at the table.
Over the past few months, I’ve read a lot about food. I have become intricately familiar with the verbiage of it. I know when to call a meal light or heavy, how to compare tastes to bottled moments, and how to speak about a meal as if it were sacred. I only wish I could experience it as such.
In all honesty, I don’t quite how to proceed from here. I’ve never felt a desire to do something I have been doing for my entire life; the romance of food seems so tangible, but I am barred from accessing it. Still, I think there’s something deeply romantic in mythologizing the necessary. In choosing how we think about food, we can elevate a daily need into something ritualistic.
As I inevitably pick through whatever is on my plate, I know this to be true: there is something sacred there. I hope one day I’ll be able to feel it.