ISSUE 05: The Taste of Texture

How Beauty, Brutalism, and Burnt Yogurt Are Basically the Same Thing

When I started paying closer attention, with intention, to objects, I realized something: a lot of the things I loved—the chairs, the buildings, the dresses, the bowls—felt...edible.

I don’t mean that I wanted to actually eat them (most of the time), but that they had some kind of mouthfeel. A tactility that wasn’t just visual. I wanted to run a hand over them. I wanted to chew on them with my eyes.

Texture is where taste, literally and figuratively, starts to collapse in on itself. It’s not just about how something looks. It’s about how it feels—and sometimes, about how it imagines feeling.

There’s a study from the University of Oxford that shows how our perception of taste isn't purely in the mouth—it’s processed by the brain in a way that's almost identical to how we experience art and beauty. Savoring a spoonful of food lights up the same brain regions as standing in front of a Monet or listening to music that makes you cry in public.

Which makes sense when you think about it: Taste (yes, with a capital T), whether it’s on your plate or in your living room, is a feeling first.

There’s a funny paradox here in that we tend to love both extremes when it comes to taste and texture; both jarring complexity and earnest simplicity spark a similar response. On the board in favor of absolute simplicity—a fresh peach in August, a brutalist building standing stubbornly against a blue sky. Nothing to explain. Nothing to interpret. It just is, and it’s perfect.

In complexity’s corner—a dish with six competing textures and seventeen ingredients you can’t pronounce but some way somehow, it all makes sense the second it hits your tongue. Like how a piece of Shiro Kuramata furniture can look like it’s from both the past and the future at the same time. Or a Dries Van Noten jacket that’s a little brocade, a little punk, and a little upholstery sample.

Texture is how your brain knows that something’s alive. That it’s layered. That it’s doing something more than just sitting there, looking pretty.

The other night, I had dinner at a spot where the chef sent out a dish described (very earnestly) as “celeriac three ways with burnt yogurt and smoked eel.”

This sounds, admittedly, kind of insane. But it arrived—angular, layered, a little confrontational. I took a bite, and immediately thought: Oh, it’s brutalism.

The roughness of the roasted root. The slickness of the eel. The bitter-sour slip of the yogurt. Hard lines. Soft middles. Sharp corners. Nothing blended—but somehow it balanced. It was the same feeling you get standing inside a brutalist church: a little overwhelmed, a little reverent, completely awake.

Not everything needs to be cozy or smooth to feel good. Sometimes it's better when it pushes back a little.

There’s something called oral haptics—basically, the way your mouth experiences texture as much as it experiences taste. The crispness of a potato chip, the silkiness of sashimi, the satisfying density of a good sourdough crust: they don't just flavor your food; they flavor your memory of it.

It’s the same reason you reach for the worn linen napkin instead of the pristine polyester one. Or why you want to run your hand over a concrete wall that still has the imprint of its wood forms, rough and splintered under the polish. Or why you feel vaguely disappointed when a beautiful ceramic mug turns out to be suspiciously lightweight—too perfect, too fake.

Your body knows what’s real. Texture tells the truth faster than beauty ever could.

Good taste isn't about making everything smooth. It's about knowing when smoothness matters—and when it really, really doesn't.

Sometimes the best thing you can experience is something slightly abrasive, a little weird, a little complicated. Something that makes you feel its presence—on your tongue, under your palm, somewhere in your chest.

Texture reminds us we’re not just eyes walking around on sticks. We’re bodies. And good taste, like good food, like good design, should never forget that.

This week’s goodies: rough, rippled, and punchy textures you’ll want to touch—and maybe chew on.

Next week: something polished... or maybe not.