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“Don't believe vegetarians who tell you that meat has no flavor, that it comes from the spices or the marinade. The flavor is already there: earth and metal, salt and fat, blood.
My favorite meat is chicken. I can eat a whole bird standing up in the kitchen, straight from the oven, burning my bare hands on its flesh. Anyone can roast a chicken, it is a good animal to cook. Lamb, on the other hand, is much harder to get right. You have to lock in the flavor, rubbing it with sea salt like you are exfoliating your own drying skin, tenderly basting it in its own juices, hour after hour. You have to make small slits across the surface of the leg, through which you can insert sprigs of rosemary, or cloves of garlic, or both. These incisions should run against the grain, in the opposite direction to which the muscle fibers lie. You can tell the direction better when the meat is still uncooked, when it is marbled and raw. It is worth running your finger along those fibers, all the way from one end to the other. This doesn't help with anything. It won't change how you cook it. But it is good to come to terms with things as they are.
Preparing meat is always an act of physical labor. Whacking rib eye with a rolling pin. Snapping apart an arc of pork crackling. And there is something inescapably candid about it, too. If you've ever spatchcocked a goose- if you've pressed your weight down on its breastbone, felt it flatten and give, its bones rearranging under your hands- you will know what I am talking about. We are all capable of cruelty. Sometimes I imagine the feeling of a sliver of roast beef on my tongue: the pink flesh of my own body cradling the flesh of something else's. It makes sense to me that there is a market for a vegetarian burger that bleeds.”
― Lara Williams, Supper Club

“And my arm, where Tessina had touched me... I raised it to my mouth, kissed the cloth of my sleeve. And there, jumping from the weave to my lips, a taste.
Saffron- of course: what else would she be? A flavor that takes the lives of ten thousand lovely flowers. As it had done all those years ago, the taste rose again on my tongue as a ravishing, barbarian palace of domes and spires. Tessina. There she was, all of her: salt, the crystals that grow on oyster shells that have dried out in the sun; violets; lemon leaves; nutmeg; myrrh.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing: Bitter orange cracknell. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat à croquer, fifteen percent cocoa solids- twenty for the dark- with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Süchard from the supermarket, but at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside.... There are layers of flavor like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavor to life, and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus that has me moaning.”
― Joanne Harris, Chocolat

“We came on the wind of the carnival. Eight and a half long years ago, on a wind that seemed to promise so much; a mad wind, full of confetti and scented with smoke and pancakes cooked by the side of the road. The pancake stall is still there, and the crowds that line the side of the street, and the flower-decked cart with its motley crew of fairies, wolves and witches. I bought a galette from that very stall. I bought one now, to remember. Still as good, just the right side of burnt, and the flavors- butter and salt and rye- help reawaken the memory.”
― Joanne Harris, Peaches for Father Francis

“I took out my last batch of chocolates; a handful of dark and light truffles rolled in spiced cocoa powder. There's cardamom, for comfort; vanilla seeds for sweetness; green tea, rose and tamarind for harmony and goodwill. Sprinkled with gold leaf, they look like tiny Christmas baubles; prettily scented; perfectly round- how could she resist these?”
― Joanne Harris, Peaches for Father Francis

“The sun-dried tomatoes were robust and sweet and played well with the salty Parmesan. The oregano added a floral note, and the fennel made it energizing and playful.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“Lemon and... blueberries, right? No, hold on- blackberries, I think. And... lavender? Lavender, for... excitement? I think there's an old saying that lavender is good for something like that."
That sounded familiar. "Just a second." I took the book out of my backpack and flipped through the beginning again. "This isn't in alphabetical order, or any kind of order at all. Oh, here it is. Lavender brings luck and adventure for those who choose to embrace it," I said. "You were right."
"What book is that?" asked Vik. "It looks ancient."
"I just found it. It's got all these drawings and descriptions of herbs and spices."
"Cool! Can I take a look?"
I handed him the book, and he spent the next few minutes leafing through it, but then returned to eating the cupcake.
"I love this. It's so different from the usual boring things people make. Although..." He took another bite. "I have a suggestion." He studied the cupcake. "The cake is light, fluffy, and complex, and the creamy, tangy frosting complements it so well. It might be even better with an edible garnish. Like a sugared mint leaf." He took another bite. "Or a sugared violet," he said with his mouth half full. "That would be lovely."
I gaped in surprise. He was right. It would be lovely. I'd thought about topping them with fresh, mouth-puckering blackberries, but these suggestions were so much more elegant.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“I drank the kehva tea greedily. It was delicious! Strands of saffron floated on top, releasing the color. It had come right out of the samovar and the brew was strong. I detected crushed cardamoms, kagzee almonds, and asked myself: why is it that places with the worst possible hygiene manage to manufacture the best possible tea?”
― Jaspreet Singh, Chef

“Again I linger over the names. Crème de cassis. Three nut cluster. I select a dark nugget from a tray marked Eastern Journey. Crystallized ginger in a hard sugar shell, releasing a mouthful of liqueur like a concentration of spices, a breath of aromatic air where sandalwood and cinnamon and lime vie for attention with cedar and allspice... I take another, from a tray marked Pêche au miel millefleurs. A slice of peach steeped in honey and eau-de-vie, a crystallized peach sliver on the chocolate lid.”
― Joanne Harris, Chocolat

“It's not just the taste, she will try to explain. The rich dark truffle, flavored with rum; the hint of chili in the blend; the yielding smoothness of the center and the bitterness of the cocoa-powder finish... none of these explain the strange allure of Yanne Charbonneau's chocolate truffles.
Perhaps it's the way they make you feel: stronger, perhaps; more powerful; more alert to the sounds and scents of the world; more aware of the colors and textures of things; more aware of yourself; of what's under the skin; of the mouth, of the throat, of the sensitive tongue.”
― Joanne Harris, The Girl with No Shadow

“A smell hit me- sharp, garlicky, vinegary.
Pulling out all four flaps revealed a casserole dish, the clear glass lid resting atop plain white rice. The condensation on the lid indicated this had been made very recently.
Valimma, my grandmother, stepped onto the driveway behind me.
"That is Simeona's food, moleh. She just called to say her son dropped it off on the driveway." Valimma spoke her English slowly but surely, with a lilt that was the result of years socializing with neighbors from a variety of backgrounds. "Simeona can't come to Thursday Club today but still wanted to send her delicious shrimp adobo."
"This is just rice, Valimma." I pointed at the casserole dish.
"Check under. The tasty mix, the bountiful flavor, must be below."
Sure enough, under the rice container was another, shallower dish housing large shrimps coated in dark brown sauce. Yup, sharp, garlicky, vinegary.”
― S.K. Ali, Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love

“I wonder, just for a second, how it will taste on Gael's tongue, the cinnamon and chile en polvo laced into our vanilla cake, the spice a little like what he adds to his family's tamales.”
― Anna-Marie McLemore, Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love

“Well, Mimi Mackson, tell me what you like to bake."
"Lots of things- brownies, cookies, pies, tarts, scones. But cupcakes are my favorite. I like to flavor them with unusual spices and herbs."
"I see. And what's the last thing that you made?"
"Double-chocolate brownies with cinnamon and cayenne, to welcome someone home."
"And prior to that?"
"Cheddar-chive biscuits."
She waved her hand in front of her face like she smelled something bad. "No, no, my word, that will not do at all. Just sweet things, please." She stood and paced behind the desk. "Ha! Cheese and chives! I wouldn't dream of baking, eating, or even serving those, not to win the world."
Well, that was strange. Sweet isn't sweet without savory. One isn't good without the other- I thought everyone knew that. Even the most sugary dessert needs a dash of salt.
Mrs. T sat again. "So tell me then, young Mimi. The best sweet thing you've ever, ever made?"
"Hmm... lemon-lavender cupcakes, I guess. To celebrate friendship.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“He opened the little box, popped the chocolate into his mouth, and made a face. "Oh! That's bitter. Must be extra-extra-dark. But there's a very sweet center that tastes of almonds and honey, and..." He smacked his lips. "Something floral."
I was glad I hadn't eaten it myself. I hated bitter chocolate except as a garnish.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“The bowl was warm, and I inhaled the comforting aroma. It was kesari bhath, a dessert Mom had learned to make from her mom, who'd learned it from hers in India, and on and on and on for who knew how many generations. It was made with semolina, sugar, milk, and ghee, flavored with saffron and cardamom, and studded with raisins and cashews. I tasted a spoonful of the thick, golden pudding. It was perfect.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“I let the sweetness of the sugar and ghee, the sunniness of the saffron, and the gently grainy texture of the semolina play in my mouth. It was the perfect combination of sweet and savory, smooth and gritty, fragrant and the tiniest bit bitter.
It tasted like home.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“It was my favorite meal. The slivers of bread were full of vegetables and tender chicken, salty and chewy and the perfect amount of spicy. The green beans were sweet with pops of pungent flavor from black mustard seeds and complemented the lemony rice. The salad and yogurt cooled everything off.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“They smelled fresh, green, chocolaty, and citrusy. After the cookies had cooled, I tasted one. Now, this was how I liked to bake. The sea salt set off the sweetness of the chocolate, and the tangerine zest woke up all the flavors. The thyme was subtle but definitely noticeable.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“By the time everyone was ready to leave, I was filling the last cream puff with pale green pastry cream. I licked a bit off my finger. It was good- an intriguing mix of warm pistachio, floral cardamom, and invigorating ginger. And ginger, of course, was a root. I only wished I knew what The Book would say about it. And was it good enough? Spotting the last of Mom's batch of kulfi- Indian ice cream made of thick sweetened cream and flavored with pistachio, ginger, and cardamom- had inspired me to make a pastry cream with the same flavors.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“I let all the tastes play in my mouth. The cupcake was light and creamy and subtly infused with aromatic cardamom. It was covered in a luscious rose-cardamom frosting. There were rose petals in the cake and on top, red and pink. They were fragrant and sweet and the tiniest bit salty.
"Joy and sorrow. Laughter and tears," I said. "These cupcakes do taste like love. And love that you wished you still had.”
― Rajani LaRocca, Midsummer's Mayhem

“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

“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

“The waiter returned with a pre-appetizer amuse-bouche, a soup spoon filled with diced radishes, shortbread crumbs, and a black pepper gastrique. After the waiter left, Michael Saltz said, "They're trying. Hard."
The radishes had been pickled, articulating their peppery bite and giving them a sharpened edge. The shortbread grounded the bite with a bready, buttery mouthful and the black pepper-vinegar sauce finished it with an elegant and seductive wisp of sweet, salty, and spicy.”
― Jessica Tom, Food Whore

“The wrinkly texture of the yuba is interesting. Does it add much to the flavor though?"
I took my first bite. "Hm. Yes, I think so. It's very thin and crackled, almost like chicken skin. And, look, it's bonded to the fish somehow. But what I really like is this gingerbread puree and cranberry bean soil. It's so unique. The gingerbread spices sort of unlock the monkfish's meatiness and muscle. Then the bean soil scratches your tongue and sort of forces the flavors into deeper levels of taste. And I love how you can't place it. It's not ethnic, it's not market-driven, it's its own thing.”
― Jessica Tom, Food Whore

“Beef with raw quail egg tasted elegant and savage, perfect with some delicate pickled chives, slicked close like veins. Bluefish came slashed with a streak of hot oil that blistered the flesh in a caramel-colored scar. The herring was paired with a curried goat cheese curd with blueberry jam. The duck breast arrived sliced like sashimi, with a smear of fresh American horseradish.”
― Jessica Tom, Food Whore

“Oh wow. Bliss. The adobo was perfectly calibrated between my two favorite flavor juxtapositions: sweet and tangy. And the shrimp: practically dissolving in my mouth.”
― S.K. Ali, Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love

“The foil packet sighed as I pulled it open, hissing as it yielded its bounty. Clouds of steam puffed upward, releasing the tantalizing aroma into the air. The fish's reddish skin had a beautiful overlapping pattern that looked as if it had been painted by some wayward mermaid. My sharp scissors snipped the stitches in its belly, spilling the filling onto the plate.
I scooped us both two helpings of the garlic fried rice and portioned the desirable parts of the fish, the head and the belly, for Celia, while I took the tail.
The piece of fish on my fork bore the sign of perfect execution: moist, milky translucence, and a silky texture that sprang to the touch. Infused with the fragrant stuffing, the tender fish melted in my mouth, dissolving in a mélange of delicious flavors- the trio of boldness from the coriander, garlic, and red onion tempered by the sweet tanginess of the tomatoes.
Success.”
― Roselle Lim, Natalie Tan's Book of Luck & Fortune

“I had my feast out on the kitchen table. Draped over beds of jasmine rice, thin pork chops seasoned with lemongrass showcased charred stripes from the grill. Cold summer rolls with translucent rice paper glimmered with riotous colors from the mint leaves, vermicelli, and shrimp filling. Emerald coriander leaves peeked out amid slices of barbecued pork, in golden, crusty baguette sandwiches called banh mi. I placed a few pieces of the pork onto a plate for the cat. I bit into the cold rolls first. The thin wrapper yielded to my teeth, giving way to the crunchy pickled vegetables and plump shrimp underneath. The mint leaf inside complemented the sweet sauce with crushed peanuts. The two small rolls vanished into my belly.
I attacked the banh mi next. The crisp crust highlighted the varying textures of its filling: crisp from the pickled radish and carrots, textures sang on my tongue.”
― Roselle Lim, Natalie Tan's Book of Luck & Fortune

“The chicken first, because saffron is a lazier flavor in terms of how long it takes to surface and register. Then the roti, because truffle oil and fennel both can overwhelm, unless tempered by a palate already coated with a softer spice.”
― Sonali Dev, Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

“Then there was the craving. Consuming. Incessant. Brutal. The flavors from the tasting were a wild, live thing inside her. She wasn't able to taste one damn thing she put in her mouth. When she had stopped at the restaurant, Ashi had given her some chicken kababs in a mint chutney. They had tasted like coming home. Even before Ashna told her who had made them, she had known. After that she had found herself at the restaurant again this morning. Ashi had given her all the kababs she had left over and Trisha had pulled over to the side of the road and eaten them in her car, chewing at them slowly, reverently, desperately stretching out the pleasure of his flavors.
It had only intensified her craving for everything about him that the taste of his food invoked. The strength that poured from him in waves, the steadiness, the gentle humor, the merciless challenge of things she had always accepted without question.”
― Sonali Dev, Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors