What the Nose Knows - Avery Gilbert [51]
AMERICA IS IN the midst of a great sensory reawakening; we are more open to new foods and flavors and smells than at any point in our history. In a country where quiche was once considered exotic, we are no longer surprised to find pad thai in Peoria or moussaka in Muskogee. Kraft Foods, an outfit best known for serving up millions of pounds of macaroni and cheese, recently introduced a Mango Chipotle seafood marinade. Yet in contrast to this growing abundance of sensory options, the regional differences that once characterized the national smellscape are fading. In 1947 The Saturday Evening Post asserted confidently that “West Coast doughnut flour has a predominant lemon flavor, whereas in New England, doughnuts have a strong nutmeg flavoring, with little lemon.” Traces of these regional preferences linger on the contemporary American scene, as evidenced by variation in air-freshener sales. Food-inspired scents such as vanilla and cinnamon have a 39-percent market share in the North Central states, compared to only 28 to 29 percent in the Northeastern, Western, and Southern regions. Citrus and fruity scents (lemon, orange, grapefruit, mandarin, and green apple) show the reverse pattern: they are only 16 percent of sales in the North Central states, but 22 to 23 percent elsewhere.
Beer brewing used to be a strictly local operation, but today’s American beer market is dominated by national brands like Miller and Budweiser. It is no coincidence that in the last fifty years the amount of malt in the average American brew has declined more than 25 percent and the amount of hops more than 50 percent. In other words, beer is less bitter and less aromatic than ever. Big brands expanded through a strategy of making inoffensive beer. They traded character for market share. The good news is that the microbrewery movement is thriving. Small producers have created distinctive beers with greater flavor and more interesting aromas. These so-called “craft” beers are on the rise, while overall domestic beer sales are flat or declining.
It is tempting to think of odor blanding as a typical expression of American mass-market consumerism. Yet it’s a truly global phenomenon. France, a country not known for its welcoming attitude toward American culture, is home to some of the world’s stinkiest cheeses: St.-Nectaire, Ami du Chambertin, and Epoisses. (The last is said to smell simultaneously of “socks, wet dog, and manure.”) France has more varieties of cheese on sale today than ever before; roughly a hundred new varieties hit the market annually. Paradoxically, these products are tasting more and more alike. Traditional mold-ripened cheeses, made from unpasteurized milk, change in texture, smell, and taste as they age. The new versions are made from pasteurized and ultrafiltered milk; they are built for a long and consistent shelf life. Industrial brie—rubbery, flavorless, and never-aging—is taking over the market.
French manufacturers go to great lengths to create an aura of authenticity for the new fromage-blah; they package it in a wooden box, wrap it in plastic straw, and give it an impressively historical name. In trade jargon, these impostors are known as vrai-faux produit traditionnel; think of it as cheese that is “fake but accurate.”
Coffee Beans and Other Bad Memes
Joel Lloyd Bellenson places a little ceramic bowl in front of me and lifts its lid. “Before we begin,” he says, “you need to clear your nasal palate.” I peer into the bowl. “Coffee beans,” explains Bellenson’s partner, Dexster Smith. “This is what they use in perfume stores. It’s like the reset button.” Dutifully, I reinitialize my nose by sniffing the beans.
—CHARLES PLATT, Wired magazine, 1999
Charles Platt began his Wired cover story with this vignette about the two founders of DigiScents, Inc. Joel and Dexster had come up with a small unit that could release innumerable