A Matter of Taste and Roots

When I cook for foreigners, especially those from the United States, I’ve learned to ask first: With or without cilantro?

It’s not a question of preference, it’s biology. Some people are born with a genetic variation that makes cilantro taste like soap. What for me smells like Sunday lunches and the comfort of home, for them can feel like biting into a bar of detergent.

Scientists say it’s because of aldehydes: aromatic compounds found both in cilantro leaves and in soaps or lotions. To some noses, they awaken freshness; to others, they trigger aversion. The human palate, after all, is written in our DNA.

Here in Latin America, though, cilantro is more than an herb, it’s a signature. It lingers in refritos, perfumes our broths, and crowns our ceviches like confetti. Its scent belongs to open-air markets, to wooden spoons stirring early in the morning, to recipes passed down without exact measurements.

So, when I cook for someone who can’t bear its flavor, I don’t judge. I understand. Just as they must learn to live surrounded by that green aroma, I learn to cook with empathy, to remember that what for me is memory, for them might be discomfort.

Still, the beauty of cooking is that it adapts. There are endless ways to express the same warmth: a sprig of parsley instead of cilantro, lime instead of spice, a memory instead of a rule.

And when the dish is done, I sometimes still add a tiny sprinkle of chopped cilantro, not for them, but for me.

Because sometimes, home lives in a scent.