Sense Of Taste Quotes

“As it turned out, the purée of spring vegetables exceeded Mr. Ravenel's description. The soft reddish-orange emulsion really did taste like a garden. It was a bold, creamy harmony of astringent tomato, sweet carrots, potatoes, and greens, bound together in a lively snap of springtime. As Phoebe bit into a half-crisp, half-sodden crouton, she closed her eyes to savor it. God, it had been so long since she'd really tasted anything.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Devil's Daughter

“Signor Renzo's lodge stood on a grassy knoll near the crest of the hill. It was a modest place, just a low stone hut, before which stretched a woven ceiling of vines. My dinner was cooked on an open fire by the table. This was no banquet, but what the cook called a pique-nique, a meal for hunters to take outdoors. After Renzo had chosen two fat ducklings from his larder, he spitted them over the fire. Then he made a dish of buttery rice crowned with speckled discs of truffle that tasted powerfully of God's own earth.
'Come sit with me,' I begged, for I did not like him to wait on me. So together we sat beneath the vines as I savored each morsel and guessed at the subtle flavorings. 'Wild garlic?' I asked, and he lifted his brows in surprise as he ate. 'And a herb,' I added, 'sage?'
'For a woman, you have excellent taste.'
For a woman, indeed! I made a play of stabbing him with my knife. It was most pleasant to eat our pique-nique and drink the red wine, which they make so strong in that region that they call it black or nero. I asked him to speak of himself, and between a trial of little dishes of wild leaves, chestnut fritters, and raisin cake, Signor Renzo told me he was born in the city and had worked at a pastry's cook shop as a boy, where he soon discovered that good foods mixed with ingenious hands made people happy and free with their purses.”
― Martine Bailey, An Appetite for Violets

“I see there's a choice for the fish course: turbot with lobster sauce, or sole à la Normandie." She paused. "I'm not familiar with the latter."
Mr. Ravenel answered readily, "White sole filets marinated in cider, sautéed in butter, and covered with crème fraîche. It's light, with a tang of apples."
It had been a long time since Phoebe had thought of a meal as anything other than a perfunctory ritual. She had not only lost her appetite after Henry died, she'd also lost her sense of taste. Only a few things still had flavor. Strong tea, lemon, cinnamon.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Devil's Daughter

“This is an item used in Chinese cuisine. It's made from the same beans you use to make Chinese vermicelli, but it's been formed into a thin sheet instead of into noodles.
Because it's tasteless and odorless in itself, we're obviously meant to focus on the mouthfeel, enjoying the firmness with our teeth and the silkiness with our tongues. As far as the taste goes, the important thing is the dressing...
Hmm... the dashi is perfect, and the balance of flavors is well done too. There's vinegar in it, but the strength of the vinegar has been skillfully toned down.”
― Tetsu Kariya, Japanese Cuisine

“True to being the firstborn, Caraline's magic was louder and warmer. It thrived in her cooking, when she folded it into dough and steeped it in broth. Rowan didn't know how hibiscus rolls could soften an argument, or why rosemary bread helped someone remember things that had long ago started to fade, but somehow they did. Caraline called it comfort, but Rowan knew it was enchantment.
Saoirse could coax flowers to bloom out of season and lure herbs to grow even in the heaviest clay soil. Her teas did more than soothe. Rowan had seen them ease fevers, quiet grief, and silence nightmares. Saoirse didn't call it magic, but Rowan had always felt it in the way a room calmed when she entered. She carried stillness like a cloak.
And then there was Rowan. She didn't brew curative tinctures or bake healing breads. Her magic, such as it was, served no purpose. It didn't look like theirs.
In fact, it didn't look like anything.
Her eyes, green like clover and threaded with gold, drew stares she couldn't explain. And her hair, with a single streak of impossible red, practically glowed in the moonlight. She tried to hide it, oh, how she tried. She used to bleach to turn it Marilyn Monroe blonde, but it didn't work. She dyed it every shade of brown, then black, thinking she could bury the flame. But it never lasted. The ruby streak always returned, a mark she couldn't shake.
People always looked at her a second too long, as if they could sense something inexplicable about her. Sometimes she even felt it too. But most of the time she felt like the odd one out with her sisters.
Saoirse had a head of red hair and her eyes were dark like pine needles. Unlike Rowan, she didn't long for friends. All she needed were her plants, herbs, and whatever flower she held at any given moment, plus the apothecary she always created wherever they lived. And, of course, the swallows, which she could make behave.
Caraline's hair was the color of midnight, which set off the flecks of amber in her eyes. She was the opposite of both Rowan and Saoirse. Friendships with women she could do without, but the attention she got from men? That practically fed her soul. At every new place they went, Caraline had herself a new beau within days.
And Rowan had her red streak.
But it wasn't just her hair. It wasn't just her eyes. Worse were the unexpected tastes that bloomed on her tongue whenever she was around people. Her magic stirred, and it was as if she could taste their emotions and who they were, deep down inside.”
― Ivy Cassidy, House of Spells and Secrets

“Sweet.
Chocolate drizzle with a hint of orange zest.
Salty.
Toasted hazelnuts with a smoky crunch.
Soft.
Dollop of pudding with vanilla bean and bourbon.
Sentiment.
Indigo violets sprinkled over the plate like a wash of spring.”
― Penny Watson, A Taste of Heaven

“She lifted a piece of sourdough bruschetta slathered with seafood and a light-colored sauce. She bit carefully into the creation.
Her mouth exploded with flavor. Prawns and lobster swimming in the most delectable sauce. Buttery and layered, with whisky and leeks and onions and simple herbs.
Sophia moaned.
There was more than just one bite on this plate. Thank God. Not strictly a true amuse-bouche, but Sophia didn't care.
Was it bad form to lick the plate in a cooking competition? This drab little plate had miraculously fixed her taste bud deficiency. Unbelievable. The moment had just shifted from black-and-white to color, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Who had created this dish? Someone with a sophisticated palate but no eye for visual presentation.
The last plate beckoned, but she already knew it was a lost cause. There was no way it could best that seafood stew. It was a lovely crepe, packed with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. And now that Sophia's taste had been awakened from hibernation, she was able to enjoy every bite.
But it still wasn't enough to out-shine the prawns.
Those prawns sang to her, and they needed her. They demanded color and brightness. The sauce was bold and rich. That plate clamored for the balance of her garden. She could imagine a prickly little salad to offer texture and bite, to complement that exquisite sauce.
Those prawns needed her.”
― Penny Watson, A Taste of Heaven

“The flavors settle across my tongue in shapes and colors. Sweetness pools, smug and tarry, like pitch seeping from a sun-warmed beam. Quicksilver balls of sourness skitter for a moment, then freeze into shards and fall like icicles brushed from a window sill. Tiny pricks of vinegar mark out the footprints of the wasp. I let it all dissolve into golden light.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“All the flavors lined up, an army getting into ranks: peeled, ground almonds; elderflowers; bread, sugar, the lush heat of ginger. It is hard, looking back, to remember exactly what a mouthful like that would have done to me, but I think it would have told me some kind of small but complicated story, or perhaps I would have seen a piece of carved ivory, for all the white things: almonds, bread, flowers, sugar. Something obvious like flames for the ginger, or less obvious: a sun-warmed brick or a cockerel's comb.
What do I remember about this particular bowl of menestra, though, is that nothing like that happened. I tasted... almonds. I still saw them as bright green in my mind's eye, but somehow it didn't take over the whole world. Instead I thought to myself: There are almonds in this. An almond is a nut. It grows on a tree. A tree with sweet white flowers, of course, and there's the nut itself, nestled inside its speckled, woody shell. I found myself savoring the milky bitterness of almond meat, noticing how the sugar seemed to flow over the bitter, not destroying it but creating a separate taste. The ginger and the elderflowers fell into each other's arms, and all four things sank into the comforting blandness of the soaked bread. To my amazement I discovered that I could keep each clamoring taste, with its color, in its place; and pick out other flavors too, each with its own color and image. I dipped my spoon in again, tasted, swallowed. Another spoonful, then another. The flavors weren't disappearing into nothingness, they were becoming part of me.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“One day they let me knead the ingredients for sausage meat, and the raw foods themselves seized me: lean pork and soft, white fat- The one talks to the other, said Carenza. Without the fat, the lean is too dry, and without the lean... she stuck out her tongue, too much. I grated some cheese: dry pecorino that had been in our larder for months, and some fresh marzolino, tasting both. Mace went in, and cinnamon, and black pepper. How much salt? Mamma showed me in the palm of her hand, Let me sweep it into the bowl. Then she broke some eggs onto the mixture.
This is my secret, she said, and grated the rind of an orange so that the crumbs covered everything in a thin layer of gold. Do you want to mix it, Nino?
Almost laughing with excitement, I plunged my fingers through the cold silkiness of the eggs, feeling the yolks pop, then made fists deep inside the meat. I could smell the orange, the pork, the cheese, the spices, and then they started to melt together into something else. When it was all mixed together I licked my fingers, though Carenza slapped my hand away from my mouth, and after we'd stuffed them into the slimy pink intestines and cooked up a few for ourselves, I discovered how the fire had changed the flavors yet again. The clear, fresh taste of the pork had deepened and intensified, while the cool blandness of the fat had changed into something rich and buttery that held the spices and the orange zest. And the salt seemed to have performed this magic, because it was everywhere, but at the same time hardly noticeable.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“Try the cheese," said Leonardo. He was standing to one side, watching me.
I shrugged and nodded at the man, who shaved off a sliver of the ivory-colored stuff and gave it to me. Again, nothing special: a pecorino, aged, but a good one. I could taste the sheep's teats, buttery caramel, earth...
"Are you from up past Pistoia?" I asked. The man beamed.
"Yes! From San Marcello," he said.
"Thought so. This is pecorino di Cutigliano, yes?"
"Of course! The best cheese in Italy!”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“It's just cheese from the Pistoiese Mountains. It has that taste."
"Tell me."
"The sheep eat the grass, and their milk tastes like what they eat," I explained patiently. "There are certain kinds of wild flowers that grow on the hills around Cutigliano, I suppose, and they flavor the cheese. There's something a little bitter- someone told me there are a lot of gentians up there. Then they age the cheeses on spruce boards, and you can taste that."
"Can you?"
"Yes. It's strong." I took a bite and smacked my lips. "Like pitch.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“Cinta Senese does not taste like pork, exactly. It is gamey, almost ripe, like well-hung pheasant or bustard, but with an almost muttony texture and juiciness and an aftertaste of briny sweetness. I could taste the woods where this pig had rooted: the wild garlic it had found, the lily bulbs, last year's acorns. I sipped the gravy. The milk had been curdled by the wine and the curds had soaked up the juice from the meat, along with the herbs. It was rich, and almost caramel-sweet, shot through with the resinous bite of the rosemary and the woody, slightly overripe tang of the pork.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“I had been rolling the cherry around in my mouth, letting it slip across my tongue. There was the flicker of salt from Tessina's fingers, and her own flavor: saffron, violets, the liquor of oysters.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“She had brought me more of the ricotta, which I ate, slurping at the spoon like a child while my companion watched, beaming. My mind showed me the bees working high in the chestnut trees, swarming through the polished, ridged leaves and over the long white brushes of flowers. I saw the dark heart of the nest, dripping gold. Goats clattered over rocks and tore at cushions of herbs.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“I speared a sausage with my knife, bit off the end. Juice and fat exploded: the pork melted. I tasted chestnuts, moss, the bulbs of wild lilies, the roots and shoots of an Umbrian forest floor. There was pepper, of course, salt and garlic. Nothing else. I opened my eyes. The Proctor was staring at me, and quickly looked away. I thought I saw a smile cross his lips before he opened them to admit another wagon-load of lentils.
I tried a spoonful myself. They were very small and brown- earthy-tasting, of course. That I had been expecting. But these were subtle: there was a hint of pine, which came partly from the rosemary that was obviously in the dish, but partly from the lentils themselves. I did feel as if I were eating soil, but a special kind: some sort of silky brown clay, perhaps; something that Maestro Donatello would have crossed oceans to sculpt with, or that my uncle Filippo would have used as a pigment to paint the eyes of a beautiful brown-eyed donna. Maybe this is what the earth under the finest hazelnut tree in Italy would taste like- but that, perhaps, was a question best put to a pig.
"Make sure you chew properly," I mumbled, piling my plate high.
The serving girl came back with a trencher of sliced pork meats: salami dotted with pink fat, ribbons of lardo, peppery bacon. The flavors were slippery, lush, like copper leaf or the robe of a cardinal. I coiled a strip of dark, translucent ham onto my tongue: it dissolved into a shockingly carnal mist, a swirl of truffles, cinnamon and bottarga.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“It was a good-sized trout, opened out, salted, pressed, floured and fried. The entrails had been cooked with some vinegar and mint, mashed up and spooned onto the plate as a sort of afterthought. It was delicious: simple and honest. I ate it all, and didn't give a single thought for what it might do to my humors. I sucked every bone, washed it down with some thick, spicy red wine- peasants' wine- from the hills above the town. I knew that I was tasting the place itself: the fish from the river I had crossed on my way into the town, the pig that had rooted in the woods I had ridden through, olives grown a short walk away. The pig had snuffled under the pine trees whose nuts had adorned its sausages. I had eaten the land. The town itself will always be nameless in my memory, but even now I can assemble it from its flavors, because I have never forgotten any of them. A meal of pigs' liver and fish, served with apologies.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“And then I understood: only then, sipping nettle soup, tasting the green shoots, the force of life itself that had pushed the young nettles up through paving stones, cobbles, packed mud. Ugolino had flavored his dishes with this. With everything: our food. The steam that drifted, invisible, through the streets. The recipes, written in books or whispered on deathbeds. The pots people stirred every day of their lives: tripe, ribollita, peposo, spezzatino, bollito. Making circles with a spoon, painting suns and moons and stars in broth, in battuta. Writing, even those who don't know their letters, a lifelong song of love.
Tessina dipped her spoon, sipped, dipped again. I would never taste what she was tasting: the alchemy of the soil, the ants which had wandered across the leaves as they pushed up towards the sun; salt and pepper, nettles; or just soup: good, ordinary soup.
And I don't know what she was tasting now, as the great dome of the cathedral turns a deeper red, as she takes the peach from my hand and steals a bite. Does she taste the same sweetness I do? The vinegar pinpricks of wasps' feet, the amber, oozing in golden beads, fading into warm brown, as brown as Maestro Brunelleshi's tiles? I don't know now; I didn't then. But there was one thing we both tasted in that good, plain soup, though I would never have found it on my tongue, not as long as I lived. It had no flavor, but it was there: given by the slow dance of the spoon and the hand which held it. And it was love.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“He could smell the readiness of onion in every one of its stages of cooking and knew exactly what stage worked best for each dish. He could identify the exact rapidity with which milk had to boil before adding the lemon to make the cheese curd separate into paneer. He could sense exactly when to add the tomatoes to tie together the onion, garlic, and ginger so that the curry came together perfectly with the oil separating from it in syrupy rivulets.”
― Sonali Dev, Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

“I went with something simple- whitefish slow cooked in butter on low heat!
That way the fish keeps all its delicate texture with added moisture and buttery flavor!
Well? Whaddya think?!"
"The natural flavors of the ingredients are adequately retained, yes."
"YEAH! AIN'T THEY?"
"However...
while cooking in butter on low heat does give the fish extra juiciness, the flavor becomes too thick and heavy. Did it not even occur to you to add something tangy like wine vinegar to properly rebalance the flavors? That is an egregious failing.
Not only that, you used Vin Juane and Macvin du Jura wines in the sauce, correct? That you neglected to come up with some means of accenting the nutty bouquet unique to those yellow wines is another failing.
As for your garnish, the hints of buckwheat flour in the Crozet pasta do not at all go with the Comté cheese. More negative points.”
― Yuto Tsukuda, 食戟のソーマ 17 [Shokugeki no Souma 17]

“When my teacher asked, "Linda, where did the English first settle in North Carolina?" the question would come to me as "Lindamint, where did the Englishmaraschinocherry firstPepto-Bismol settlemustard in Northcheddarcheese Carolinacannedpeas?"
My response, when I could finally say it, I experienced as "Roanoke Islandbacon."
Many of the words that I heard or had to say aloud brought with them a taste- unique, consistent, and most often unrelated to the meaning of the word that had sent the taste rolling into my mouth.”
― Monique Truong, Bitter in the Mouth

“Dill" tasted of fresh dill, a bright grassy entryway leading into a room where something faintly medicinal had recently been stored. This happy coincidence of meaning and flavor, however, didn't leave the word neutralized and without power. The word could still disrupt, dismay, or delight. In this instance, "Dill" was a promise ring. Inside its one syllable was a summer that would bring, along with the fireflies and the scuppernongs, a boy who would kiss me when my brother, Jem, wasn't looking.”
― Monique Truong, Bitter in the Mouth

“Babyhoney Harpercelery."
The honey, a percolating bubble full of flowers and citrus, bursts wide open when the sea pf celery- the only vegetable I know that comes pre-salted- washes in. An unexpectedly pleasurable combination of flavors that made me wobbly in the knees.”
― Monique Truong, Bitter in the Mouth

“My period began when I was eleven years old, three months after DeAnne thought it had. I woke up one morning to stickiness between my legs and the smell of raw meat in my bed. There was no one to tell. The news had preceded the occurrence. I practiced saying it anyway, "My periodblueberrymuffin starteduunsaltedbutter today oatmeal." This was a comforting sentence for me. I had just learned the trick of stringing together words to produce the tastes that I wanted. I was particularly fond of this thread: "walnut, elephant, candle, jogger." These words brought forth the following in this satisfying order: ham steak, sugar-cured and pan-fried; sweet potatoes baked with lots of butter; 7UP (though more of the lime than the lemon, like when it's icy cold); fresh strawberries, sweet and ripe.”
― Monique Truong, Bitter in the Mouth

“My period began when I was eleven years old, three months after DeAnne thought it had. I woke up one morning to stickiness between my legs and the smell of raw meat in my bed. There was no one to tell. The news had preceded the occurrence. I practiced saying it anyway, "My periodblueberrymuffin startedunsaltedbutter todayoatmeal." This was a comforting sentence for me. I had just learned the trick of stringing together words to produce the tastes that I wanted. I was particularly fond of this thread: "walnut, elephant, candle, jogger." These words brought forth the following in this satisfying order: ham steak, sugar-cured and pan-fried; sweet potatoes baked with lots of butter; 7UP (though more of the lime than the lemon, like when it's icy cold); fresh strawberries, sweet and ripe.”
― Monique Truong

“The fragrant berry scent informed me the fruit was perfectly ripe. I picked up the refrigerated bar and took a bite. The delectable crust had a nice texture and buttery flavor. The bar had a solid flavor profile and a nice crust-to-fruit ratio. It was a decent bar, good even.
"Tell me." Jena Lynn's irritated tone let me know she was referring to her dough.
Since it was too late to do anything about that now, I told her about the bar instead. "Well, they're good." I placed the bar back on the plate. "They would be great with some lemon zest to freshen them up, reduce the sugar because the fruit is sweet enough, and add a dash of cardamom. Replace the cornstarch with flour. It makes it too gummy. Then it'll be perfect.”
― Kate Young, Southern Sass and Killer Cravings

“Luckily, we always had chicken legs in the fridge and plenty of soy sauce and brown sugar. But what else was in it? The salty sweetness was the dominant flavor, but it was more well-rounded than that. There was a depth and brightness.
Calamansi! My eyes alit on the bottle of citrus juice we kept on hand when we couldn't find the fresh fruit. That must've been what she used. And what else...
I closed my eyes, picturing myself at this kitchen table, the fragrant chicken piled on top of a steaming bowl of white rice, a tiny dribble of dark sauce squiggled across.
I smiled and opened my eyes. Garlic. Of course.”
― Mia P. Manansala, Homicide and Halo-Halo

“Georgia held the jar up to the light, gazing at the dark golden color of the honey, remembering the buzzing of the bees, the fragrance of the apple orchard laced with the briny scent of the sea.
On impulse, she twisted the lid off the jar and swirled her finger through the honey. She licked it clean. She could just catch a hint of lavender in the creamy goodness. She scooped up another little dollop. Strange. Somehow, the honey tasted like love, like the answer to a question, like coming home.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“The closer Rowan got to the woman and the house, the stronger the taste of blackberries became. She thought of what she knew about blackberries. Saoirse had once told her they were part of the rose family. Was this woman before them complicated in the same way? Was that why Rowan’s mouth filled with a strange mixture of sweet, tart, and tang?”
― Ivy Cassidy, House of Spells and Secrets

“Minha's gift was her sense of taste. Her ability to savor. Big, bold tango and fandango on her tongue. The shift, the hint, the smallest component of flavor eked out and found, considered, remembered. When the unwanted fairy godmother, unseen and unknown, turned up at her birth, she did not bequeath a prophecy, or a fairy-tale ending. No. She endowed the infant Minha with the ability to experience, wildly, vividly, appetite.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast