



The English language doesn't offer a specific vocabulary for describing food aromas. Despite the fact that smell is the dominant force in flavour perception, English speakers refer to aromas by the names of the foods they are most commonly associated with. Aniseed, citrus or nutty, for instance. (Not all cultures do this. Some south-east Asian tribes allocate specific names to smells, just as we do colours.)

When it comes to talking about meaty flavours, dodgy adjectives such as chickeny, lamby and porky often come into play, and if we elaborate, we focus on the tastes that the tongue detects, and the textural qualities. "Sweet and tender," we might say, or "sinewy but well seasoned". Even expert meat-quality assessors use the dodgy adjectives. "We have a trained sensory panel," says Ian Richardson, senior lecturer in animal sciences at Bristol University's School of Veterinary Sciences, "and that is what they score: beefiness, or abnormal flavours, which are flavours that you wouldn't normally associate with beef, like 'cardboardy', a measure of rancidity." It's the same for lamb, pork or chicken, he adds.

What, then, are these good meaty flavours that we can't quite put our fingers on, that make meat (if you love it) irreplaceably delicious? Even the Princeton professor of bioethics Peter Singer says that despite having not eaten animals for 40 years, he'd be happy to try in vitro meat if it becomes commercially available.

The Maillard reaction

It is the reason the waft of a barbecue is so appealing, why browned crusts on foods from bread to biscuits to a T-bone steak are the best bits, and why, when no one's looking, I frenziedly scrape up every last trace of caramelised meat juices from the dish as though I were raised by wolves. The intensity goes beyond mere caramelisation, which happens when sugars are heated (this goes for meat, too). The Maillard reaction was first identified by the French scientist Louis-Camille Maillard, a little over a century ago, and it occurs between amino acids and sugars at high temperatures. It unleashes a flavour bomb of about 1,000 volatile compounds, and it is why we always brown meat, even if it's not being roasted or grilled (sealing the juices in is a myth, by the way). We probably evolved to adore this aroma so that we preferred safely cooked meat to raw.

Fat

The taste, cooking aromas and mouth-feel of fats are crucial to the lure of carnivorousness. In addition, the fats are what help us tell, say, lamb from beef. There are two main kinds of fat in meat, explains Richardson. Triglycerides make up, he says, "the white stuff you can see – the strip around your beef steak or the little white flakes within it," and they are higher in saturated fats. Phospholipids, on the other hand, you can't see because they live in cell membranes and contain the healthier, unsaturated fat varieties. If you extract the triglycerides from meat, says Richardson, "you still get the flavour difference between the species, but if you take the phospholipids out, you start losing the species difference." Lamb, for instance, has a more complex flavour than beef because its fatty acid mix is different.

Fat is also responsible for grass-fed animals tasting stronger than grain fed. Grass-fed animals produce omega-3 fatty acids, which – other than being an essential nutrient for us – produce a denser flavour. In beef there's a subtler difference between grass- and grain-fed but in lamb the contrast is marked. Everyone agrees that grass-fed lamb is more flavoursome, although in countries where grain-fed lamb is more common, such as Spain and North America, the muted flavour is preferred. Whereas mostly grass-feeding countries (England, New Zealand, South America) love the strong lambiness they're used to.

Umami

Umami is as moreish a taste as salt and sweet, and cooked meat delivers its satisfying savouriness by the vat-load. The chemicals that give us umami are products of proteins breaking down and our preference for it is thought, evolutionarily speaking, to help us choose safely cooked or preserved, protein-rich foods.

Odds and sods

There are plenty of other small-part players in overall meaty flavours. Take sous vide meat cooking: even if you don't brown your steak before or after vacuum-packing it in plastic and submerging it in water for 45 minutes, you would still get some meaty flavours, says Richardson's colleague and emeritus professor at Bristol, Jeff Wood. As well as the aforementioned fats breaking down and forming volatile compounds, he says: "We can get some linkages between proteins, sugars and fats to form complex aromas, because the cooking goes on for a long time."

However, the intricate stew of compounds responsible for meat flavours also contains some that, alone, would be deeply unappetising. Skatole, for example, is known in the meat trade for causing boar taint. This occurs when pigs produce too much skatole, and their meat takes on a disgusting fecal, farmyard smell as a result. However, says Richardson, in smaller quantities it's a key part of the rich flavour mix. "You find skatole in beef or lamb," he says. "It tends to be stronger in grass-fed animals and actually, in the blend, it adds to the flavour."

Where all this leaves completely raw steak – widely appreciated in the form of steak tartare – is another matter. It is about recapturing the visceral primeval thrill of devouring flesh fresh from a kill? And the tangy accompaniments take the edge off it, for senses that are more attuned to the flavour of cooked animals?



What defines the appeal of meat to you? Taste, aroma, texture, or is it all about the seasoning and marinades?

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