Flashback: December 2006. A Story.

We had no textbook for Food Science, just a series of power-point slides that Chef Joseph put together himself. He began his first lecture with an admonition: “If you know any science, keep it to yourself.” Apparently we were going to learn only the most basic concepts related to the topic. Chef described a previous student, a “career-changer” (with a sideways look at me) who was a genetic engineer. He’d needlessly interrupted the Chef’s lessons in order to dig deeper into esoteric scientific principles that had nothing to do with the narrowly framed lecture. We’d been warned. Jordan was visibly miffed – he’d taken honors chemistry in high school, and was ready to demonstrate his expertise.

When Chef defined “quiescence” as the ideal quality that manufacturers want in ultra-premium ice cream, I wrote it down in my class notebook, with a little arrow to remind me to look it up. It’s a pretty word to say, but I was unable to find any reference whatsoever to the quiescent properties of ice cream. In fact, the definition of “quiescence” is “a state of being quiet, still, at rest, dormant, inactive”: maybe ice cream hibernates when it’s in the freezer? At any rate, he mis-spoke, but according to his earlier instructions, I kept it to myself.

When we discussed the five tastes (bitter, salty, sweet, sour, umami), Chef Joseph instructed us to remember “umami” as “the flavor of mother’s milk.”

“It’s bland, without high points of flavor. Everything is there, but it’s flat.”

I knew this to be wrong. Even without an internet search, I could tell you that umami, in our Western-centric view of the world, has recently been “discovered,” but it’s a flavor that’s long been recognized and appreciated in Asian cuisine. The word does not mean “mother’s milk,” but translates from the Japanese as “savory”; it’s the meaty quality found in mushrooms and ripe tomatoes. MSG is a salt that directly tags the umami receptors on our tongues.

But I kept it to myself. Chef said umami is bland. He quizzed us in class, in preparation for our tests: “What is umami?” And the “correct” answer: “Bland.” Or, “Like mother’s milk” (the very idea of which was clearly made some of my young classmates a tad squeamish).

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to unlearn what I learned from a so-called “authority”. Chef Joseph clearly knew what he was talking about when he showed us how to mend a broken sauce, or re-clarify a muddy consommé. With the science, perhaps he was less reliable. But Chef is Chef. Chief. King. Boss.

While Chef Joseph was on sick leave, Chef Glen took charge for a couple of days. We began the Nutrition module, and our homework included chapters one and two of Nutrition for Foodservice and Culinary Professionals. There it was, on page five: a clear contradiction. “Umami, the fifth basic taste, differs from the traditional sweet, salty, and bitter tastes by providing a savory, sometimes meaty sensation.” Nowhere in the subsequent paragraph were the words “bland” or even “mother’s milk.”

Chef Glen greeted the class in his typically sarcastic manner: “Good morning, future certified master chefs of Amedica,” but before he could begin his lecture, timid Silvia was bravely waving her hand. “Chef, can you clarify the definition of ‘umami’? Chef Joseph told us it means ‘bland’.” A generalized rustling and murmur began to rise in the room, as Silvia was clearly not alone in reading the assignment. Chef Glen was unambiguous in his response: “He said that? Are you sure? That’s totally incorrect. It’s a big flavor, meaty, like cheese and mushrooms. I’m gonna have to talk with him.” By this time, Andy was quoting chapter and verse from the textbook, while the Chef nodded in agreement.

Nadeen walked in about that time, late, per normal. Without Chef Joseph’s eagle eye towards the uniform code, she didn’t bother to remove the crocheted brimmed hat (white, green, orange) that she wore over her uniform cap. She slid into her seat, quick to catch up with the discussion at hand. She spoke up over several simultaneous conversations. “That’s what I thought!” she exclaimed. “I knew “umami” didn’t mean “bland.” It’s like OOOOOOOH, MOMMY, that’s good!!!” Individual snickers combined to create full-blown laughter. Silvia announced to her side of the room, “I’ll never be able to forget what it means now.”

When Chef Joseph returned a couple of days later, he resumed his in-class quizzing, now in preparation for the Nutrition final. When he asked for a definition of “umami,” the class responded in unison, “bland, “ while he nodded approvingly. We knew he was wrong, but we kept it to ourselves.