Some thoughts on Taste

Taste is one of the most important forces behind the creation of anything exceptional and our ability to discover the mysteries of the universe.

It is also one of the hardest to define. We can recognize it when we see it, but it is difficult to explain exactly where it comes from or how it works. And yet, I am convinced it sits at the center of every act of creation, discovery, and invention.

But because taste is so abstract, the best way to understand it is not to start by defining what it is. It is to start by separating it from something it is often confused with. That something is creativity.

Taste is not creativity. 

Creativity is the ability to connect dots, imagine new possibilities, and explore paths that others may not see. It is essential to the art and science of invention and discovery. But creativity alone is not enough. 

Creativity generates possibilities. Taste chooses the right one. Creativity allows us to create something novel. Taste is what determines whether that novelty is actually good.

Exceptional creation requires both: the creativity to imagine what could exist and the taste to know what deserves to exist.

It is taste that allows us to look at the many directions we could follow and sense which one has the potential to become something exceptional. It is the instinct that helps us separate what is merely new from what is truly valuable.

And that is why I believe the word taste, which seems and feels abstract when applied to the context of creation, is actually the right word to describe this ability to find our way out of the dark forest and identify the best direction to pursue.

Because taste is really about sensing what is missing. It is about understanding which ingredients need to be added, which ones need to be removed, and how to bring everything together until the recipe feels right.

After all, that is what extraordinary Chefs do.

They can look at millions of possible ingredients and, through taste, find the right recipe. They know which ingredients belong, which ones do not, the precise balance that makes everything work, and how to mix them into something that tastes exceptional.

The question then becomes: how do you find someone with taste?

I believe that one of the best ways to find taste is to observe how someone experiences the world.

Are they generally satisfied with things as they are? Or do they constantly notice what could be better? Do they see the imperfections, the gaps, the missed opportunities? Are they dissatisfied, not because they are negative, but because they can sense the distance between what exists and what could exist?

That, to me, is one of the clearest signs of taste.

People with taste do not experience the world as a flat surface where everything feels the same. They see the world as a series of peaks and valleys. They can feel the difference between what is average, what is good, and what is exceptional.

The same principle holds if we return to the restaurant analogy.

If you go to a restaurant and everything tastes equally good to you, then you do not really have a developed taste. You cannot distinguish a decent dish from an extraordinary one. You cannot tell what is missing, what is excessive, or what needs to be refined.

Taste begins with discernment. It is the ability to feel the gap between what something is and what it could become (and, as you can probably extrapolate, it also applies to Humans).

We can see taste in many different areas of life.

We see it in food, art, design, products, writing, architecture, and science. In every field, there are millions of possible choices, but only a few lead to something exceptional. Taste is the ability to sense which choices matter. Optionality is useless without taste. 

Richard Feynman, my favorite scientist, had extraordinary taste.

He was not only wildly creative, able to play with ideas and explore unusual paths, but equally impressive at sensing and tasting which questions were worth following. This spinning plate story is a perfect example:

At Cornell, Feynman saw someone throw a plate in the cafeteria. As it spun in the air, he noticed an odd relationship between the spin of the Cornell medallion and the wobble of the plate. To most people, that would have been a meaningless moment. To Feynman, it tasted interesting.

He started playing with the physics of the plate, not because it was obviously important, but because he could taste that there was something deeper underneath it. When Hans Bethe asked him what the importance of it was, Feynman said there was none. He was simply guided by taste and fueled by creativity.

That is taste in science. It is the ability to notice something ordinary and sense that, underneath it, there may be something profound.

So then the question that follows is: is taste nature or nurture?

My belief, and maybe I will change my mind in the future as I think more about this, is that taste is fundamentally nature. You are born with it. You see this in artists, scientists, and innovators. From an early age, we seem to experience the world differently. We notice different things. We are drawn to certain problems, ideas, forms, or questions before anyone teaches us why those things matter.

Can that innate ability to taste the world be improved and evolved? Yes, definitely.

The more you are exposed to the world, and the more time you spend around people with excellent taste, the more refined your own taste can become.  Exposure sharpens taste. But I do not believe that someone born without good taste can simply train themselves into becoming an extraordinary chef. Taste can be refined, but it cannot be manufactured without a kernel of it already there.

But even if taste begins as nature, it still needs attention. A kernel of taste can stay buried if you never listen to it, never exercise it, and never give it the space to react honestly to the world.

So when you look at the world, when you look at new ideas, when you look at a new product or a piece of art, try to taste it. Sense it.

Notice what feels exceptional and what feels ordinary. Notice what feels alive, what feels missing, and what feels worth following.

And maybe, after all, you will discover that you had taste all along. It was just buried under the daily flood of mundane things the world taught you to accept.

V