For centuries, humanity got by just fine with a paltry, pathetic four tastes: Sweet, Salty, Sour, and Bitter. It was a simple, honest system. Sweet was your Mawmaw’s cakes. Salty was a pretzel. Sour was that lemon that made you made your face shrink. Bitter was Uncle Cliff’s opinions at Thanksgiving.

Then, along came Umami.

If you absolutely, positively feel like you must use the word, it’s pronounced “oo-MOM-mee.” It sounds less like a taste and more like the noise you make when you accidentally sit on Uncle Cliff’s plate of mashed potatoes and gravy. But this Japanese import has elbowed its way into our culinary lexicon, and now foodies everywhere are using it with the solemn gravity of a brain surgeon describing a medulla oblongata.

So, what exactly is umami? Scientists will tell you it’s the taste of glutamate. I reckon that’s some kind of amino acid found in things like parmesan cheese, mushrooms, and soy sauce. But that’s a boring, sciencey way of putting it.

In reality, umami is the taste of a food’s soul. It’s the deep, savory, “je ne sais quoi” that makes you close your eyes and hum after a bite of a perfectly seared steak. It’s the reason you can’t eat just one potato chip. It’s the savory ghost that haunts a rich beef stew, whispering, “Ain’t that some kinda good?”

Before we had the word for it, we just called this sensation “deliciousness” or, more accurately, “the thing that makes me want to dip my face in this.” Now, we have a five-dollar word to make us feel sophisticated while we lick cheese dust off our fingers.

The rise of umami has mutated a new breed of food snob. You can’t just say a burger is juicy anymore. Oh no. You have to lean back, stroke your chin, and murmur, “The umami profile in this patty is exceptionally robust, with a lingering, almost sinful glutamate finish.” (Translation: “Y’all, this burger sho’ is good!”)

Restaurants have caught on, of course. Menus now proudly announce their dishes are “umami-bombed” or “umami-forward.” It sounds less like a cooking technique and more like a military strategy. “Sir, we’ve deployed the parmesan crisp. The enemy’s palate doesn’t stand a chance.”

Home cooks are trying to get in on the action, too, often with hilarious results. We’re now adding fish sauce to our chili and Worcestershire to our Bloody Marys. We ain’t entirely sure why, but we’re trying to have faith that we are building “layers of umami.” Our ancestors salted their meat to preserve it; we’re sprinkling it with MSG crystals we bought online to “wake up the flavor,” feeling like alchemists discovering the philosopher’s stone.

Let’s be real. Umami has always been there. It was in the primordial soup. It was the secret behind Aunt Mary’s meatloaf. It’s the reason bacon is the culinary equivalent of a standing ovation.

We just didn’t have a fancy name for it. We do now. So go forth, and use your new power wisely. Describe your tomato soup as “brimming with solar-powered umami.” Tell your friends the mushrooms on your pizza are “earthy umami conduits.”

Just remember, at its core, umami is simply the universe’s way of saying, “This thing is so tasty, your basic four tastes weren’t enough to describe it.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to enjoy a deeply satisfying, profoundly savory, umami-rich… slice of cold pizza for breakfast.

*****

New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.