For our generation, it is normal to have grown up with dietary limitations imposed by parents in the name of “healthy-eating.” I, for one, was not allowed to eat sugar cereals, Fruit-Rollups, Dunkaroo’s, Lunchables or other such synthetic snacks, and existed off an acetic diet for much of my childhood. McDonald’s was a rare treat, offered only when some calamity had occurred that forbade us from following our normal trajectory to Bread and Circus – Boston’s precursor to Whole Foods.
My bland culinary upbringing has left me with two unfortunate residual effects. First, Happy Meals and Lucky Charms still feel like contraband, and my trips to the golden arches or the suspiciously colorful cereal section of Harris retain a thrill I would greatly like to stifle in the service of my arteries.
Secondly, I have cultivated an obsession of sorts for the bizarre, shocking and extreme corners of the culinary world. I practically salivate at my television screen watching episodes of Anthony Bourdain or Andy Zimmern.
This phenomenon of the yuppie child’s insipid consumption, which I might argue is unfortunately common in compatriots of my age, is now finally meeting its match in taste-bud altering supplements. I use the generic category, for I am hopeful there will be more of its kind to be marketed soon, but I am directly speaking of the infamous object of foodie cult adoration, the wondrous “magic berries.”
I was first introduced to the concept of magic berries in Harvard Square this summer, but it was only back at Conn when the first opportunity presented itself to try them.
“I just ordered sixty berries that make every food taste sweet!” a friend boasted.
“Are they drugs?” was my logical response.
They aren’t – the berries, naturally occurring, contain a protein that binds to receptors on the taste buds and temporarily obscures the ability to detect bitter and sour flavors. The effect can last from a half an hour to two and a half hours – although none of this is scientifically proven.
As the berries traveled to campus over the next two weeks from their online retailer, I began to consider the promise of the berries.
I have to remark this at first – when it comes to flavor, I am a purist. Dishes that are bittersweet make me feel slightly uneasy, like I am being swindled into consuming a commodity that has been meddled with, as the synthesis of two such fundamental flavors seems tawdry and unappetizingly utilitarian.
I find complicated flavors wondrous and convincingly exotic, but I like to control the time a flavor lingers on my taste buds with utensils to manually alternate foods.
Secondly, sour foods don’t particularly entice me. In theory, they are interesting, as certain foods that cause slight suffering are always moderately-tempting experiments in tolerance.
However, I usually find that spicy foods have better taste return for your labor. I always feel somewhat jilted by acidity – a grapefruit’s pungence stays local in your mouth while a chili pepper gives an alarmingly full-bodied sensation. However, as with most foods that I categorically dislike, I am consistently drawn to sour flavors in the hopes of uncovering the one example that will prove my abstention misjudged.
That the berries could take a sour food and present it as more hospitable to one’s jaw widened hypothetical new dimensions to my conception of taste and simultaneously provided the selection of foods available to my palate – who knew what vinegar may taste like alleviated of its acerbic force?
I decided that one of my main criteria by which to judge the experience offered by the berries was successful transformation of a known flavor.
There is a certain level of trust one must place in the berries from the beginning. As with trying any new medicine or drug, there exists the possibility of the placebo effect, but with the berries one has a fairly reliable indicator of whether they actually worked or not.
Let me assure you that barring any significant genetic mutations or a penchant for culinary masochism, eating a lemon straight is fairly impossible. In my control experiment, I vigorously bit into a lemon unaided, and was immediately doubled over in pain, trying to control the pulses of acid emanating from my sorely-compromised jaw line.
It reminded me of the time my cousin and I had a contest of who could pack the most Warheads candies into our cheeks before admitting defeat (we had never been ones for convention, and the marshmallows of Chubby Bunnies seemed far too docile) – in what turned out to be a collaborative effort of my cousin’s ruthless ability to coerce and my cheeks’ service as sacrifice for science, I wound up losing a night of sleep to routinely pack neutralizing wads of bread into the back crevices of my injured mouth.
Why I chose to revisit this feeling thirteen years later is still unclear, but I can attest to the fact that eating a lemon is self-injury in its most empirical form. Thus my second standard was rooted in fear – I desperately wanted the berries to yield a pleasant experience.
That said, the night of the trial, I examined the spread of sour foods before me with a concerted wariness – the slices of lemons stared menacingly, tiny spouts of acidity dripping from their corners. The hostile vinegar, leeching out of the white paper ketchup container, seemed to bristle in anticipation of inflicting pain. Even the Guinness, a long-time fair-weather friend, seemed mocking and uncouth.
The berries came out of the package with an icy residue, separated gently from a freeze-dried bundle. About the size of an almond, they are ovoid in shape and the deep, swollen red color of a shiner.
I looked up at the open window – undoubtedly the room was a tiny fishbowl from the street as dusk descended. The berries gave the sensation of doing something illicit, or at the very least, controversial.
The instructions were as follows: place one berry on the tongue. Carefully break the outside skin with teeth, pass the berry along the roof of mouth, cover all surfaces adequately and swallow the pulpy flesh. Do not swallow the pit.
The berry itself wasn’t special – it tasted like a dull version of a cranberry, removed of the tonic sharpness of its counterpart. The pit comprised much of its volume and weight, so the scant flesh suggested the unfortunate ratio of rib meat to bone without the generously forgiving barbeque sauce.
However, after about ten minutes of silence and contorted mouth gestures as I slid the berry between rows of teeth, I started to feel a prickly tingle on my tongue.
Emboldened by the hint of a reaction, I reached for the vinegar. Holding my nose from the noxious scent, I sipped it cautiously. I was shocked to feel none of the familiar needling, but a viscous, rich emulsion resembling molasses. I wouldn’t quite call it saccharine, but it was something so pleasant I could lick spoonfuls of and feel quite satiated.
I reached next for a wedge of lemon. Taking it in full force like a kindergartener with an orange at a soccer game’s half time, I again recoiled at the sinus-clearing scent, but was greeted with all the pleasantries of a well-sugared lemonade stand purchase. It felt oddly nostalgic, like penny candy’s dependable glow as it rots teeth, or so I was warned by my mother.
The Guinness was remarkably rich and succulent. I quickly became preoccupied with selecting the perfect metaphor – chocolate milkshake? Too cheap. Liquified Nutella? Too quirky.
It was stately, imperial – the drink of dignitaries and their fashionable entourages. No beverage quite invites anesthetizing like a sip of Guinness on berries.
One may wonder what already sweet foods taste like on berries – a sip of cherry coke was startling sweet, but I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t, and I suppose this sample was augmented by its relative mawkishness.
I yearned for more sour foods – my taste buds, normally recalcitrant in the presence of acerbic authority, yielded willingly to the pleasing intricacies of this new array of flavors.
The berries come indeed highly recommended, but now, inspired to recreate this flavor naturally so that it may be served without the aid of berries, I wonder that it may be a sensory phantom, a volatile and unpredictable caprice, and in this respect, a culinary grail.
