> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://arts-of-the-working-class.ghost.io/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # The spectre of taste - URL: https://arts-of-the-working-class.ghost.io/text/the-spectre-of-taste/ - Published: 2021-05-12T00:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-09-04T09:42:55.000Z - Description: Tracing the intricacies between bad taste, the lack of taste and class belonging. - Author: Nickolas Calabrese - Tags: #silverstripe *Review of Crawpappy’s* *3342 E 51st St Tulsa, OK 74135* *June 20th, 2020* The idea of tastelessness has developed a special significance in recent years. Like the three headed beasts Cerberus and Chimera, tastelessness has three distinct expressions that stem from the same body: 1) Tastelessness as the *absence* of taste (e.g. one of the more pervasive physical symptoms of that infamous disease currently devastating the planet); 2) Tastelessness as the active *rejection* of taste (e.g. hostility towards “high” art because it is indicative of socioeconomic disparity—that aesthetic preference only signifies class affiliation (1) ); 3) Tastelessness as the *ignorance* of taste (e.g. never having tasted, say, kimchi, and thus not knowing how taste could be expanded through first hand experience). All three of these senses of tastelessness were abundantly available on a humid June day last year in Tulsa, Oklahoma when I entered Crawpappy’s for the first time, though certainly not the last. The vaguely New Orleans-themed bar and restaurant offers menu items like gumbo, po’ boys, etouffee, and catfish, but also nachos, burgers, and something called “bang bang shrimp.” It’s eclectic without being fusion. The ambiance consists of loud TVs, dim lights, and cigarette smoke (Oklahoma is one of the few remaining states where smoking in bars is still permitted). It was fairly crowded, even for a Saturday afternoon. After reviewing the menu, I placed my order with the young bartender who wore a Black Lives Matter shirt—a notable detail in light of the general composition of the clientele. A biker at the bar wore a leather vest embellished with a large repugnant embroidery portraying a cartoon Muslim being kicked in the ass by Uncle Sam, accompanied by the caption “Get the hell out of my country!” ## ***"Having good taste, after all, is a chore. It’s something that one must actively do."*** Twice-fried hot wings came out first and were uncomfortably comforting. They were dry, inside and out, and came with a heaping cup of sweet blue cheese dressing and a few stubby branches of bitter celery. I have a certain affection for dreadful bar food for any number of I-grew-up-poor type reasons that only my therapist would recognize. Crawpappy’s was the first option that my dining partners and I came across while trying to find a gas station to buy water that day, the day after Juneteenth, less than a month after the 99th anniversary of the Tulsa Race Massacre. Unfortunately, the storefronts were all either locked or boarded up with cheap plywood. It was a hot day too, amplified by the throngs of bodies attending the nearby event at the BOK Center in downtown Tulsa, which signaled the first act of Donald Trump’s failed campaign to run for a second presidential term. We were hungry, hot, and bothered, hoarse from heckling his acolytes while cruising around in my Toyota. Salt is the most distinguished ingredient in this part of America. If it isn’t salty, then it’s bland: a fundamental logical argument, where the antecedent affirms the consequent (if you don’t feed your parrot, it will die). The high capacity for salt in this country reflects a particular strain of culinary camouflage: add enough of it and any lack of flavor disappears into the murk of food stuff. I love salt, everyone loves salt. It’s of noble pedigree, essential to the success of civilization. (2) I don’t think there are any other seasonings in the kitchen of Crawpappy’s, save for some black pepper and maybe cayenne. Salt is the lynchpin of rust belt cooking. I’m not complaining—this is simply recognition of an element that generally characterizes impoverished cooking (with roots, indeed, in poverty (3) ). As it is the oldest known form of food preservation, it seems an appropriate metaphor for the Midwest, which chiefly concerns itself with preservation as a political strategy. But “preservation of what?” you may ask: preservation of old business signs of the energy-based capital that once defined a city now struggling to find meaning. Tulsa, as a city famous for its oil production and refineries, has become associated with the economic prosperity of a burgeoning energy industry, and experienced a significant increase in investment in the city around the mid century. As the money eventually ran out, the city failed to invest in new energy production technologies. The relics of that economic boom remain in the form of projects like the *Oklahoma Route 66 Association*, which is dedicated to the preservation of old gas stations, landmark signs, and kitschy statues along the famous interstate highway. My crawfish po’ boy and fries came next, also dry, also comforting. I’ve never eaten french fries that weren’t a revelation, a confession that makes me uncomfortable. An interesting side note about Tulsa: it lacks a definite identity. The most popular foods in this city are fashioned from culinary styles found in New Orleans, Texas, Mexico, or Vietnam. There is nothing particular to this place, just fantasies of being authentic to some other public. The lack of a particular taste exhibited by my crawfish is an apt metaphor for the lack of taste felt in this place. You don’t have to think when you eat this food. You have nothing to compare it to. You have no knowledge of how good or bad it ought to be: it simply is. Sickly sweet domestic brews were the most suitable refreshment one could hope for. ## ***"Tastelessness lacks intention and meaning, failing to cultivate a sense of appreciation. But this kind of lack can also render a small token of value."*** I should mention at this point that the food was very affordable. Po’ boys came in at $6.50, my many domestic beers were $2.50 each, and the live music was complimentary. Value plays more than a nominal role in the psychology of ordinary bar food. The expectation of paying little in exchange for repeated patronage, and of the elimination of pretension in favor of a communitarian fellowship at the bar is a necessary condition of American blue collar dining. I would characterize it less as a dive bar, more as a gastronomic shelter for the working class. Tulsa, Crawpappy’s, and Trump supporters generally don’t have bad taste—they lack taste. This is an important distinction. Tastelessness is typified as unrefined and underinformed. Bad taste can be a delightful provocation or an alt-right troll. But both bad and good taste are intentional gestures. With bad taste we get a decision to accept an object generally considered to be of poor quality, inappropriate timing, or just plain offensive. But there has to be some intentional state that leads to this taste as contrary to the social mores of one’s context. Tastelessness, on the other hand, is the symptom of aimlessness. Spending time by spending time. Tastelessness lacks intention and meaning, failing to cultivate a sense of appreciation. But this kind of lack can also render a small token of value. Crawpappy’s is a place where I don’t have to work hard to understand my position in the world (the labor of mere existence). It offers the opportunity to minimize anxiety and just loaf. As Americans enter this newer, sunnier version of tastelessness (the tasteless neoliberalism of Biden and Harris), it’s easy to fall into the trap of optimism, that perhaps some kind of taste for better things can flourish under these conditions. It still doesn’t taste good, but one can imagine it tasting better. Indeed, it’s hard not to identify ruling administrations with salient tastes: Trump’s feckless endorsement of McDonald’s; Biden’s unsophisticated enjoyment of ice cream cones; Obama exercising restraint with seven after-dinner almonds (an apocryphal anecdote, but still); Bush recklessly choking on a pretzel; the list goes on. Comparing Biden’s ice cream fixation and Trump’s fast food fixation provides a terrific contrast. Fast food is hot, fried, and salty. Ice cream is cool, simple, and sweet. With the rapid approach of summer the obvious question to raise is this: what kind of asshole turns down an ice cream cone? This isn’t to say that ice cream trumps salty fried foods or the converse, but that there are more and less appropriate instances for indulgence. Having good taste, after all, is a chore. It’s something that one must actively do. Just as you cannot un-know or un-see things, you cannot undo the powers of taste. Every time that you realize some new complexity about the grape varietal in your glass of wine, neural pathways are being forged that cannot be undone. The normative development of taste is no different than the normative development of knowledge. Because tastelessness is characterized by lack, it really is a normative domain of learning how to operate appropriately. There are better and worse ways to taste. Taste, like meaning, is both something that we do and participate in the cultivation of; it is both the activity and result. Tastelessness is turning your back to the future. // Read this piece in print in the issue 16 ["Food Eats the Soul", out now!](https://arts-of-the-working-class.ghost.io/text/arts-of-the-working-class-issue-16/) --- ### FOOTNOTES . (1) Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press (1984). Originally published in 1979 by Les Editions de Minuit, Paris, as La Distinction: Critique sociale du jugement. (2) Cirillo, Massimo, Giovambattista Capasso, Vito A. Di Leo, and Natale G. De Santo. 1994\. “A History of Salt.” American Journal of Nephrology 14 (4/6): 426-431\. (3) Ibid. p. 428 IMAGE CREDITS . Camille Henrot, My Kind of Meat, 2020 *Nickolas Calabrese is an artist and writer based in Tulsa, OK.*