My Matcha-Dusted, Lemon-Scented, Tahini-Drizzled Adventures in Flavormaxxing

There are only a few things I’ve voluntarily waited in line to experience. To see the David, at the Accademia Gallery in Florence, Italy. To tour the Frida Kahlo home in Mexico City. To receive a Covid test a few times; at least twice for a vaccine.

Averse to hype and wed to some vague notion of “self-respect,” I have never waited in line for a Cronut, cupcake or TikTok-famous slice of pizza.

And so I had initially decided to close my heart to the latest trendy bakery, which regularly sells out of pastries like a matcha-mango morning bun, shakshuka focaccia slice and French onion soup croissant well before its official closing time.

Yet I could not deny my appetites. I love matcha, so I yearned for that bun. I was curious, too, about how the bakery seemed to fold so many flavors of the zeitgeist between layers of laminated dough.

That’s how I found myself shivering on a sidewalk in Brooklyn on a recent April morning, questioning the nature of not just my own desires but also those of the three dozen or so people in line in with me. How had our tastes become so discerning? When did, say, a blueberry muffin start to seem a bit meager, less sophisticated, as compared with the multihyphenate baked goods that we all appeared to be craving?

Somewhere along the way, I had unwittingly spoiled my taste buds. I was not a foodie, no. That identity category barely exists anymore. These days it is a norm, at least among those with disposable income, to have an ultrarefined palate and to embark on new culinary experiences whenever possible. It was not a hobby or notable personality trait; it was almost like breathing.