the illusion of taste

what if taste is just code we use to signal where we belong in society

we like to think our tastes are innate,
but most of what we crave we learned at a kitchen table,
in grocery aisles, from the foods our families cook,
and the ads that tell us what’s cool.

sociologists call these performances cultural capital.
pierre bourdieu argued that tastes are codes we use
to signal where we belong in society,
but you don’t need theory to get it.
you’ve felt it if you’ve ever nodded at wine talk you didn’t understand,
or relaxed when someone said, “honestly, i have no idea what pét-nat is.”

taste is a passport.
it lets you into rooms that feel exclusive
and locks you out when you don’t know the password.

we swirl and sniff and make judgments,
not just about food but about people.

for those of us who straddle different worlds,
taste can feel like a tightrope.
we hide the strong smells we grew up with
and try to fit into new palates.
after a while, even eating can feel like a performance.

but if you zoom out,
you realize taste is shaped by culture,
not a measure of worth.

in new york, taste is its own currency.
people trade opinions on omakase,
natural wine, heirloom tomatoes.
i’ve seen friends hesitate to invite me to their favorite spots
because they assumed i wouldn’t “get it.”
i’ve seen others gush about a taco truck
because a celebrity chef posted it.

maybe you’ve felt that too:
the pressure to like what’s trendy,
to act unimpressed by what’s “basic.”
it can turn a simple meal into an unspoken competition.

what if taste wasn’t a test,
but a conversation?
instead of asking what’s “good,”
we could talk about why
certain flavors resonate.

there’s joy in trying new things,
but also freedom in saying,
“this isn’t for me,”
and still enjoying what is.

our taste evolves with us.
i once thought bitter melon was inedible;
now i crave its clean bite.
you might have hated oysters
until you slurped them by the ocean.
you might have loved instant ramen
until you discovered hand pulled noodles.

your preferences will expand and contract
as you move through life.
we’re allowed to evolve,
it’s proof that we’re paying attention.

so i’m inviting you,
as i invite myself,
to step out of the performance.

ask what your tastes really say about you.
ask where you might be judging others, or yourself,
based on old rules you didn’t know you learned.
ask if chasing the “right” taste actually makes you happy.

let your palate be a story of where you’ve been,
not a test of where you belong.
let your next meal be about curiosity, not validation.

the illusion of taste
is that it’s purely personal, and purely innate.
the truth is messier, communal, and more interesting.
once you see that,
you can enjoy the fancy wine without feeling like a fraud
and the corner slice without feeling shame.
you can drink the sour cider
because you genuinely enjoy its funk,
or because it reminds you of sour plum candy,
not because someone told you to pretend.

and the best part?
you can offer that same freedom to the people around you.
taste isn’t neutral,
but it can be honest and generous
an invitation to conversation,
not a gatekeeping tool.

when we let it,
the table becomes a place of connection,
not comparison.

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snack on this
taste is a compass, not a crown.
follow what stirs you, not what scores you points.

spiral prompt
what do you secretly love that your curated self would never post about,
and what would change if you let that version be visible?

till the next bite.

stay hungry,
hungry helen