In beginning this decidedly non-scientific investigation into the nature of hotness in food, I learned many things. The first thing I learned—and you probably already know this—is that heat is not a taste. Even though we experience the hotness in our mouths, when we ingest something, the sense we are experiencing is not taste. Apparently we have these things called nociceptors--basically sensory receptors that respond to pain—that are located all over our body (like in our skin and our eyes), as well as in our mouths, and these, rather than our taste buds, are the apparati that are telling us that our mouths are on fire. Anyone who’s ever cut up a habenero without gloves on can attest to the similarity between the sensation in the hands and in the mouth.
I also found out that this whole concept of taste--which inevitably brings up the concept of smell—is a poetic concept--even when it’s a scientific concept. I think this is worth mentioning, even though it’s a bit outside the main point of this series. Probably this sounds obvious to you: of course taste is a poetic concept, you’re thinking; poets have been using taste in a connotative and evocative way for centuries. True, but what I mean is, the scientific investigation of taste and smell is as much poetry as it is science. How else could a scientific community come to the conclusion that the taste buds in and of themselves are capable of discerning only four flavors: salty, sweet, sour, and bitter, and then, sometime within the last twenty-five years or so, allow the addition of another basic taste called “umami” which is described as “a savory and long lasting and coating sensation” of the tongue. Why can this basic taste only be labeled using a Japanese word? And the words “long-lasting and coating” sound more like “mouth feel” words than like “taste” words. Maybe “ice cream” or “gravy” should also be basic taste sensations, because they also coat the mouth with long lasting flavor.
Then there is the interaction of taste and smell. Why is chocolate a smell, rather than a flavor? This certainly begs more research and more thought, but it just seems to me that any area of investigation that is based, at least in part, upon self-reporting, as taste and smell inevitably are, is an art as much as a science.
I also learned about the difference between analytic and synthetic combos, which was something I had no idea of before. Analytic means a combo like a chord, where you can determine what the simple strains are that create the harmony. Synthetic doesn’t mean what I thought it meant—which is “fake” like something that emulates fur, but is actually polyester--it means combining stuff so that the strains of the original stuff that were combined disappear into the new synthesis of the combination. One can no longer determine what the original ingredients were. It sounds kind of like alchemy, but it also sounds. . . well, subjective. I mean maybe the scents and the flavors all come together, so that, for me, a new flavor delight has been synthesized. But you still taste hint of carrot, bouquet of chocolate, after-shock of mushroom. That doesn’t necessary mean you enjoy your food any the less (think of the wide range of food associations used by expert wine tasters).
Lastly (but only lastly for the moment), I found out that, although many people think of capsaicin as the only way that food can be made hot, they are wrong. Capsaicin is found in peppers, I mean, those peppers that are related to the vegetables in the nightshade family, some of which are not hot—like tomatoes and eggplants—and some of which are—like jalapenos, habaneros, chili peppers, etc.. Things like peppercorns, mustard, horseradish, ginger, alcoholic beverages, mouthwashes, etc., derive their heat from other chemical sources.
More ruminations, investigations, as well as hands-and-mouth-on taste tests commence in the next post.
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