Flavors Quotes

“Human beings, in a sense, may be thought of as multidimensional creatures composed of such poetic considerations as the individual need
for self-realization, subdued passions for overwhelming beauty, and a hunger for meaning beyond the flavors that enter and exit the physical body.”
― Aberjhani, Splendid Literarium: A Treasury of Stories, Aphorisms, Poems, and Essays

“Raven has always been nice in the same way vanilla is nice but you’d rather have cookie dough.”
― Jessica Goodman, They'll Never Catch Us

“A memory that costs you something," he said aloud, almost to himself. "One that hurts to remember. That makes you regret what you did or didn't do. Or makes you remember how happy you used to be when they were here. Something that makes you really feel your grief."
Those were the memories that summoned the ghosts: the ones that came at a price, that took a little something from the person remembering. These were emotions complex as flavors, sweet articulated by bitter, acid cutting through umami, fat neutralizing heat.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“I sprinkled a dose of Momma's seasoning into my cupped hand and dipped my tongue into the tiny pool of memories I knew one taste would evoke. Salty, savory, smoky, full of earthy flavors that somehow blessed everything it showered.
As the flavor crystals and bits of dried herbs dissolved in my mouth, I closed my eyes and swallowed the heavenly fusion.”
― Michelle Stimpson, Sisters with a Side of Greens

“The first thing Rika felt was a strange breeze emanating from the back of her throat. The cold butter first met the roof of her mouth with a chilly sensation, contrasting with the steaming rice in both texture and temperature. The cool butter clashed against her teeth, and she felt its soft texture right down into their roots. Soon enough, just as Kaiji had said, the melted butter began to surge through the individual grains of rice. It was a taste that could only be described as golden. A shining golden wave, with an astounding depth of flavor and a faint yet full and rounded aroma, wrapped itself around the rice and washed Rika's body far away.
It was, indeed, a lot like falling. Rika stared down intently at the bowl of rice with butter and soy sauce and let out a long sigh, feeling her breath rich and milky.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“I'm no expert when it comes to confectionery, but I understand that unsalted butter is used as standard in baking. By contrast, the West buttercream uses salted butter. That salinity really brings out the overall sweetness of the cake, adding depth to its richness. The sponge has a satisfying density to it, declaring itself roughly on the tongue, scented like eggs and flour. The Christmas cakes I've eaten up until now have all been shortcakes, and it's always seemed to me that the delicate, fluffy whipped cream and the sweet sourness of the strawberries obliterate the aroma and the texture of the sponge.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“Sitting on a recently cleaned chair, she bit into one of the buns. Sugary sweetness exploded in her mouth, and she sighed through the bread. Closing her eyes, she savored every morsel. It was light, fluffy, sweet, and perfect. Had he made this? How? She added "baking" to the growing list of useful skills she didn't possess.
Eagerly, she picked up the wedge of cheese and bit into it. Sharp, woody flavor filled her mouth, and she swayed a bit as she shoved more into her mouth. Cheese in the city was typically soft and bland, intended to be spread or melted, a side note to the main dish, but this... It demanded to be devoured.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“He was deeply in love with her. Truly. Madly. A kind of love he'd never dared fathom. It hadn't happened in an instant--- a flash in the pan, quick sear, raw within--- but over time, his initial wallop of attraction so thin and bland beside the concentrated feeling that consumed him now, this love that had simmered slowly, sauce marrying over long, low heat.
Maura with the tarot, shuffling his cards, dashing his dreams, telling him to quit in a way that only drove him to think about her: the tartness of tomato, stewing over flame.
Maura in the dark, pulling down his mask, kissing him in the stairwell of that strange immersion theater: the heat of hot pepper flakes.
Maura in his bed, in his T-shirt, eating grilled cheese in the middle of the night, feeding it to him, crumbs on the comforter, her fingers in his mouth: the sweet emulsion of butter.
Maura arguing with him, one hand on her hip, pissed the hell off: basil, torn.
Maura working through a problem, her forehead furrowed, eyes in such sharp focus: the concentration of tomato paste.
Maura walking into a room, the air shifting, his eyes finding hers: garlic, caramelized.
Maura when she said his name, when she whispered it, when she traced it into his shoulder, gasped it, screamed it, held it in her mouth like a secret: pepper--- red and black and white--- grinding in a mill.
Maura in the world, living with so much life, so much yearning, so much hunger, that all he ever wanted to do was feed her, satisfy her, love her, make her feel as full as she made him: streams of salt and salt and salt.
It had all stirred together inside him until there it was--- love--- and everything else he'd ever tried just fell away, tasteless.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“Your flavors determine your favors.”
― Lebo Grand

“Raven has always been nice, in the same way vanilla ice cream is nice but you’d rather have cookie dough.”
― Jessica Goodman, They'll Never Catch Us

“When I was a child, I associated my parents with individual flavors. It was the same way you might filter someone through a prism of color--- thinking of some people in blues, other people in reds--- but instead of color, the sensation I latched on to was flavor. My mother's flavors were always those of the desserts she made--- suave caramels and milk chocolates and the delicate, utterly feminine accents of crystallized violets or buttery almonds. But my father's flavors--- my father's flavors were something else altogether. They were subtle and elusive and melted on the tongue only to vanish before you could place them. Dark, adult flavors, and slightly bitter: veal carpaccio. silvery artichokes. And, most of all, mushrooms: chanterelles, chicken of the woods, and--- my father's favorite mushroom of all--- trumpets of death.”
― Charlotte Silver, Charlotte Au Chocolat: Memories of a Restaurant Girlhood

“Berthillon's ice cream is dense and creamy--- served, in keeping with French rules of moderation, in golf-ball-size scoops. You have to be a real purist to order a simple (pronounced samp-le"). I usually ordered a double (doob-le"). Menthe (fresh mint), Créole (rum raisin), and nougat-miel (honey-nougat) are at the top of my list. But as good as the ice cream is, it's the sorbets that are Berthillon's real standouts. I almost always order cacao amer, a bitter chocolate sorbet so dark it's closing in on black. My second scoop depends on the season: pear, melon, rhubarb, or framboise à la rose (raspberry with a hint of rose). But habit often sets in and I go back to my old favorite: fraise des bois (wild strawberry). These tiny gem-like fruits are the equivalent of strawberry grenades, releasing a tart, concentrated flavor that downgrades every other strawberry I've tasted to the level of Bubblicious.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The French take their bûche de Noël, the traditional Christmas Yule log cake, much more seriously. Gwendal had been training at school, and he came back with snapshots of his gleaming white glaçage, slick as black ice, decorated with a forest of bitty spun-sugar pine trees and spotted meringue mushrooms. Who knew my husband had such talents? I was bordering on jealous when he came home with a foolproof recipe for proper Parisian macaroons. We decided to use one of our signature flavors, honey and fresh thyme, for the outside of our bûche, with a layer of tonka-bean mousse and a center of apricot sorbet for acidity and pizzazz.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The honey-and-thyme ice cream was a hit, and so was the pastis sorbet. We decided we needed to change the name of our ras-el-hanout ice cream with grilled almonds. Even the adults wrinkled their noses at the idea of couscous-spice ice cream, but everyone loved it when it was called One Thousand and One Nights. The kids were attracted to the bright colors, so in addition to the strawberry sorbet (Gwendal was right), we had a lot of takers for our fuchsia beetroot sorbet.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“It's a creamy lobster mashed potato, but it's so much more than that. She can taste the the sweet meat of the shellfish, the salinity of the butter, the earthiness of finely chopped chives. The potatoes are soft, lighter than air, almost like they've been whipped for hours. Eden determines that he's used brie instead of cheddar, giving the whole thing a much milder taste.”
― Katrina Kwan, Knives, Seasoning, & A Dash of Love

“The oysters arrived on a deep bed of ice. She had never eaten an oyster, and she stared down at the platter. A ruffle of black encircled each opalescent heart; she thought of orchids. Triangles of lemon sat on the ice, and she picked one up and squeezed it, inhaling the prickly aroma. Then she reached for an oyster, tipped her head, and tossed it back. The oyster was cool and slippery, the flavor so briny it was like diving into the ocean. She closed her eyes to savor the experience, make it last.”
― Ruth Reichl, The Paris Novel

“She took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth, straining to identify the flavors. Cherry, she thought. Licorice. Thorns. She imagined a forest in late autumn, damp leaves on the ground, a blaze of color. She took another sip.
The man--- he must be Robert--- set a dish in front of her and she looked down, dismayed. What could it be? She'd never seen anything like it. It glistened up at her, a red-black sausage bursting from a shiny case. She inhaled the aroma: It was exotic, mysterious, almost intoxicating.
"Taste it," he urged.
It was pillow-soft, very rich, laced with spices. She identified the prickle of black pepper, the sweetness of onions. Parsley, she thought, nutmeg, and... was that chocolate? Bite by bite she chased the flavors, but they kept skipping away.
"Did you like it?" Robert was back.
She gestured at the empty plate. "It was wonderful. What kind of meat was in it?"
"Not meat, exactly." He watched her face as he said, "That was blood sausage.”
― Ruth Reichl, The Paris Novel

“They have flavors like Hong Kong milk tea and ube and Vietnamese coffee. Spiced persimmon. Mango lassi. Jasmine tea."
There's something sexy about Mark listing off gelato flavors for me.”
― Jackie Lau, Love, Lies, and Cherry Pie

“Betty returns in a couple of minutes, setting down our pots of tea and two towers of treats. There are small tea cakes dressed as mini presents, tarts in the shape of flowers, chocolate-covered strawberries sprinkled with edible pearls, macarons decorated with pressed violets, and a tray of scones accompanied by tiny finger sandwiches. She explains each tea before leaving us to indulge.
Aphrodite's Ambrosia--- a blend of caramel, rose hips, white chocolate, and raspberry.
Midsummer Moondrop--- a confection of violets, butterfly pea flower, and sugar plums.
I lift the porcelain cup to my lips, hand painted with tiny cornflowers and gold leaf. The sweet, dark blend relaxes my muscles like a dreamspell.”
― Kiana Krystle, Dance of the Starlit Sea

“The grits were lumpy, but the flavor was incredible: the garlic and onion powder, the cayenne's heat lingering after every bite, the creamy tang of the cheddar. It had all the savory, carb-laden richness of mashed potatoes, but better. If this dish was anything like her grandma's, no wonder her dad was so disappointed by the Skyline Diner's pale imitation.
"I'm amazing," she decided.
"Of course you are."
She grinned and went for another bite, this time with the shrimp. She doubted her grandma's shrimp and grits involved Chinese takeout, but it sort of worked, the sweet, spicy shrimp and the creamy grits.”
― Shauna Robinson, The Townsend Family Recipe for Disaster

“The faerie's creamery was not too deep, happily, or at least it did not feel so; a chimneylike skylight cut into the stone roof admitted the warm gold-green light of the forest. Given the faerie's size, the workspace was expansive--- even Wendell, the tallest among us, did not need to duck--- with a hard-packed earthen floor and an array of shelves, some of which held blocks of butter wrapped in paper and twine. In the middle of the workshop was the butter churn, beside which was a tin bucket of milk with condensation forming on the side--- which I think is what the faerie had been worrying about, for she immediately rushed over to it and carried it into her cellar. The air was cool, on the edge of cold, and the smell of the place made my mouth water. Not only of butter, but thyme and lavender, strawberries and honey, which the faerie used to flavor some of the blocks. Those on the nearest shelf had leaves tucked beneath the twine--- basil, I think.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“I did a deep dive into Japanese savory ice cream, flavored with the likes of octopus, cactus, ox tongue, wasabi, chicken wing and crab.”
― Laurie Woolever, Care and Feeding: A Memoir

“It wasn't lost on him, the poetry, the symmetry of this last bite.
Everything had begun with a taste of liver. Now it would end with one.
Kostya reached inside himself, to the place in his gut that felt inevitable, an entry point, its emptiness like a door. He reached for his dad. For Frankie. For the other side.
He could almost feel the hands of the Dead reaching out for him in turn.
He placed the pufferfish liver onto his tongue.
Wet, cold, slippery with blood.
Toxic, exotic, a once-in-a-lifetime taste.
He chewed hard, fast, before he lost his nerve.
Fatty, mineral, metallic, cream. Bitter, in the back of his throat.
Tears streamed down his face. Liquid fear.
Like salt, he told Maura, instead of goodbye, and swallowed.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“Cassie speared one of the fried balls and placed it on her plate, along with a scoop of the dark brown paste. They looked simple enough, like any bar food. When she cut it open, though, it erupted with steam, gooey Gruyère cheese, and shredded duck meat. She cut it into quarters, rationed out the fig butter for each piece, and took a bite. Salty and crunchy, the meat sweet and savory--- and Ben was right. That fig butter--- the creative addition of fat and sweet jammy fruit, punctuated with large crystals of crunchy sea salt--- made the dish sing.
"It's the holy trinity of sugar, fat, and salt," Ben said, and took a drink of champagne.
The pizza arrived just as the group polished off the last croquette, filling the air with wafts of nutty truffles.
"Some say that truffles taste like the forest floor, but some say they taste like the human body," said Kelly, as she stabbed an egg yolk, releasing a thick yellow goo all over the pizza. She pulled a piece onto her plate.
"Oh yeah, I wrote a story on this," said Ben. "Feet, body odor... sex. Truffles have a particular form of stink that attracts people in an animalistic way--- it's what explains why people will pay so much money for even the slightest hint of truffle."
Cassie pulled a slice of truffle from the pie and put it on her tongue. Certainly nutty, cool, crunchy... but sex? She didn't get it. She shrugged and took another bite.”
― Emily Arden Wells, Eat Post Like

“She took a sip of Armagnac and savored the caramel, cherry, dark chocolate, and lavender flavors.
"How do they make this?" she asked.
"It's basically brandy, distilled wine, but made in a more rustic, artisanal way.”
― Emily Arden Wells, Eat Post Like

“Cassie perused the offerings, her mouth watering with excitement. Lemon cream, raspberry ricotta and meringue, Parmesan, creamed corn, cassis, persimmon, summer fig, bergamot, tiramisu, creamed coffee, watermelon cream... the list went on and on.
"Oh my god, how do you even decide?" Her head was spinning.
"Well, I like to do a combination. One fruit, one nut, one cream--- or chocolate, depending on my mood. So tonight I'm going to have wild strawberry, pistachio, and salted caramel. Pistachio is my constant. I always order it. It's my litmus test to judge the gelateria."
"Excellent strategy." She nodded and perused the case while Eamon ordered. She decided on Parmesan, fig, and blue honey with walnuts. "I'm going for the cheese plate combo," she joked.”
― Emily Arden Wells, Eat Post Like

“The second course is a soft-shell crab tempura with miso rémoulade, fresh peaches, and lovage."
"What's lovage?" Jen asked.
"It's what I have for you," Peter replied.
Chef smiled. "It is an herb, like parsley. Only more zesty."
Everyone oohed and mmmed over first bites. The lovage lent a crisp note of citrus and celery to the deep umami flavor of the miso and crunchy fried crab's creamy inside, while the peaches picked up the sweetness.”
― Francesca Serritella, Full Bloom

“The ball of iced cream was nestled in a crystal dish. A pale orange in hue, it was studded with bright green pistachio kernels and glistening slivers of lemon peel. The flavors mingled in my mouth, sweet orange, sharp lemon, and the earthy bitterness of the nuts. Better than anything my mother had made. I forced it down.
We were in Hannah's kitchen. She smiled at the look of rapture on my face. "I tried beating it periodically while it was freezing. It has greatly improved the texture. I am trying out other ideas too."
How innovative she was. I smiled at her fondly. The queue had been out the door when I'd arrived, and iced cream was the demand upon everyone's lips. Hannah had three flavors on sale now: peach, raspberry, and the one I'd just tried, which she had named "Royal Ice.”
― Laura Shepherd-Robinson, The Art of a Lie

“Many popular eighteenth-century iced cream flavors are familiar to modern palates--- pistachio, chocolate, strawberry, etc. Yet Georgian confectioners were great innovators and experimented with iced creams flavored with everything from Parmesan to artichoke, molding their confections into the shape of candles, lobsters, pineapples, and all manner of other conceits. Often iced creams were eaten in carriages drawn up outside of confectionery shops, enabling men and women to mingle freely in public, in a way that was otherwise prohibited. Ice cream, it seems, was a feminist enterprise! Books that give a good overview of Georgian ice cream and confectionary include Of Sugar and Snow: A History of Ice Cream Making by Jeri Quinzio (University of California Press, 2009); Sugar-plums and Sherbet: The Prehistory of Sweets by Laura Mason (Prospect Books, 1998); and Sweets: A History of Temptation by Tim Richardson (Bantam Books, 2002).”
― Laura Shepherd-Robinson, The Art of a Lie

“A deep-yellow sauce dotted with green encircled a plump piece of white fish; gently seared golden skin nestled in a smaller circle of plump cherry tomatoes. There was a small handful of lemon-pepper-drizzled arugula salad with shaved slices of Parmesan cheese. I slid my fork into the side of the fish, popped the opaque flesh into my mouth, and tasted thyme, the ocean, and actual sunshine.”
― Victoria Benton Frank, The Violet Hour