Taste > Intelligence: A Small Guide to Cultivating Taste (with Coffee as Teacher)
When AI can make anything, taste isn’t elitism. It’s survival.
“Taste is the new intelligence” has become something like common wisdom lately—you see it everywhere from tech Twitter to design blogs. The idea being that when AI can generate infinite content, human judgment about what deserves attention becomes the scarce resource.
I think that’s basically right. But it raises a harder question: if taste is now essential, where do we actually learn it?
Because taste isn’t trivia, or refinement, or lifestyle. Taste is how we remember what matters when the flood rises.
The classical answer was the liberal arts. I was lucky enough to study them—years of close reading, Socratic seminars, professors who cared more about how you thought than what you concluded. That was training in discernment. But even at its best, the curriculum often felt outdated, impractical, and strangely disembodied. It sharpened the mind, but it didn’t always train the senses.
Which is why I keep coming back to coffee. Because coffee, in its own small way, is a liberal art made physical. It demands attention to detail, care with language, discernment of form, engagement with history, and dialogue in community. And unlike the old curriculum, it’s accessible to anyone who already begins their day with a cup.
So if taste is the new intelligence, and we can’t all afford a classical education, maybe we need better everyday places to practice it. Better rituals. Better hobbies. Which makes me wonder: could coffee qualify?
The Aim of a Liberal Art
For centuries, human cultures had an answer to the problem of tastelessness. It was called the liberal arts. Not “liberal” in the modern political sense, but liberating—a curriculum designed to expand perception and judgment.
Literature taught empathy. By inhabiting other lives, we learned to sense nuance, to prefer depth over cliché.
Philosophy taught discernment. It forced us to ask what we meant by our words, what followed from our claims. Taste was clarity over confusion.
History taught proportion. It stretched our time horizon, training us to tell the difference between noise and what lasts.
The arts taught form. Music, architecture, painting—they gave us an ear for balance, surprise, harmony.
Community tested it all. Debate, dialogue, conversation—taste matured when it was argued over, not kept in isolation.
Taste, in this sense, was never a luxury. It was an education of perception.
Could Coffee Be a Liberal Art?
At first glance, coffee seems far removed from Homer, Plato, or Bach. But in its own quiet way, it can cultivate the very same faculties:
Like literature, coffee carries voices from far-off places. Every origin tells a story of land and people, and learning to hear them expands empathy.
Like philosophy, it demands precise definitions. What do we mean by “sweetness,” “clarity,” or “balance”? Taste becomes a discipline of discernment.
Like history, it connects us to centuries of cultivation, colonial trade, and now the work of young farmers reclaiming craft. It trains proportion by situating a cup in time.
Like the arts, coffee is a study in form—roast profiles, brewing ratios, presentation. It cultivates an ear (or palate) for harmony, surprise, balance.
Like community, it is best shared, discussed, even debated. Ten people around a cupping table will taste ten different things. Taste matures when tested in dialogue.
Seen this way, coffee isn’t just entertainment or fuel. It’s an everyday liberal art—an embodied curriculum in perception, discernment, and proportion.
Six Practices for Cultivating Taste
If AI can generate almost anything, then taste is how we decide what deserves to exist. Here are six human practices that sharpen taste. Each one has a coffee ritual (doable at home) and a life practice (doable anywhere).
1. Exposure — Seek Contrast
Taste grows by contrast. You can’t know what resonates until you’ve seen, read, heard, and touched widely.
Life: read across centuries, listen beyond your algorithm, notice how spaces make you feel.
Coffee: brew two origins side by side. Small exercises in contrast build our palate for larger ones.
2. Attention — Slow Down
Skimming makes us blind. Taste begins when we linger.
Life: sit with a painting five minutes longer, re-read a line of poetry aloud, notice a pause in conversation.
Coffee: watch steam rise, notice how flavors shift as the cup cools.
3. Discernment — Choose What Deserves to Exist
AI can make anything. The real skill is knowing what matters.
Life: choose the book you’ll re-read, not just buy. Replay one song, not twenty on shuffle.
Coffee: decide whether to highlight sweetness, clarity, or terroir. Every roast is a judgment call.
4. Alignment — Let Values Shape Taste
Taste isn’t just preference; it’s values embodied.
Life: if you value simplicity, choose what strips away noise. If you value generosity, elevate what fosters community.
Coffee: some roasters prize tradition, others innovation. Knowing what you serve sharpens your taste.
5. Dialogue — Test in Conversation
Taste matures in dialogue.
Life: join a book club, share playlists, talk through a film.
Coffee: a cupping table is a classroom in perspective: ten people, one brew, ten different notes.
6. Courage — Curate Publicly
Taste requires standing by your choices.
Life: a bookshelf on display, a playlist shared, a menu designed. Each says: this is worth your attention.
Coffee: every offering says: we chose this, and not that.
The Ark We Carry
So how do we learn taste?
By exposing ourselves widely, noticing deeply, discerning carefully, aligning with values, testing in dialogue, and curating with courage.
Coffee isn’t the only path, but it’s a daily anchor. A practice in choosing with care, in remembering what matters.
In an age where machines can make almost anything, taste is what keeps us human.
And every act of taste; every story, every song, every cup, is an ark we carry through the flood.
Coda: What I’m Building
For my company, Seekers Coffee, I’m trying to take these ideas out of abstraction and put them into design. If taste really can be practiced, then the shop, the products, and the rituals need to make that practice tangible
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Menu as Curriculum
Fewer coffees, arranged to teach contrast. Maybe three side-by-side brews that let you taste how process changes an origin, or a “progression flight” that takes you from simple to complex. Each offering comes with a question rather than just a note: “Notice how the sweetness shifts as this cools—what does that remind you of?”
Space as Classroom
A bar set up for cupping and conversation, not just transactions. Brewing equipment visible, explanations available. Seating arranged so people can overhear and join in. Walls as references: flavor maps, farmer stories, little diagrams. A room designed to slow you down.
Packaging as Prompt
Every bag tells a story, but briefly—where it’s from, who grew it, and one question that nudges attention: “Do you taste the florals first, or the citrus?” Not marketing copy, but an invitation to notice.
Service as Guidance
Staff trained not just to hand over drinks but to spark dialogue. A barista might ask, “What do you taste?” and listen. Not lecturing, not correcting—just guiding people toward their own language.
Programs as Practice
Weekly open cuppings, monthly “coffee and conversation” nights where tasting blends into discussion about design, philosophy, or craft in other domains. Coffee as doorway into broader cultural literacy.
That’s the picture I keep sketching toward: a coffee company that feels less like a vending machine and more like a small liberal arts college you can walk into on your way to work. A place where taste isn’t abstract, but trained daily, cup by cup.