5 vegan products I wanted to love but absolutely don’t

I’m all-in on eating plants. I read labels for fun, I get weirdly excited about new launches, and I’ve dragged friends to pop-ups for a single limited-edition sandwich.

But there are a few vegan products that keep letting me down—no matter how many times I try to make it work.

I wanted to love these. I really did. And yet… here we are.

I want to explore the gap between promise and experience—and what that gap says about expectation, taste, and the psychology of trying to change our habits.

Let’s get into it.

1. Vegan cheese slices

You know that feeling when a song sounds great in your head but the recording lands flat? That’s me with vegan cheese slices.

On the shelf, they glow with potential: perfect squares, buttery color, bold claims about meltability.

On a hot sandwich, though, the fantasy tends to collapse. The slice either clings to itself like a stubborn yoga mat or turns into an oil-slicked memory of what I wanted.

The flavor leans plastic-salty or oddly sweet.

The texture? More raincoat than cheddar.

The problem is expectations. On a grilled cheese, dairy cheese doesn’t just melt—it bind-melts, turning stringy and stretchy as proteins rearrange.

Most slice alternatives are starch-and-oil emulsions. They can soften, but they don’t stretch or “pull” the way our brains expect. You take a bite and your senses file a complaint.

Could I adapt? Sure. I’ve had better luck grating blocks of artisan-style plant cheese and combining them with a little plant milk and miso to create a quick “fondue” that behaves more like a sauce than a slice.

Or I’ll skip the cheese aesthetic and go for creamy layers—hummus, pesto, tahini—where spreadability is the point, not the pull.

But the straight-from-the-pack slice? I still haven’t found one that makes me forget what it’s imitating.

2. Plant-based egg replacer (for scrambles)

Baking is one thing. For scrambles, I keep wishing for a simple powder-plus-water mix to deliver a fluffy, savory breakfast that behaves like eggs.

I’ve tried the whisk, the hot pan, the low pan, the cast iron, the nonstick. I’ve tried the patience of loved ones.

The result is usually a beige crumble that’s either gummy in the middle or chalky at the edges, and somehow both at once.

Here’s the catch: scrambled eggs are a texture miracle. Proteins denature and set at different temperatures, giving you that tender curd structure when you coax heat slowly and add fat.

Many powdered replacers rely on starches and gums that thicken but don’t set the same way. So you either get glue or gravel. Neither goes well with toast.

I’ve had far better results when I ditch the “egg” expectation and lean into tofu or chickpea flour.

Soft tofu with a pinch of black salt (kala namak), turmeric, and a knob of vegan butter gives you silky, custardy curds. Chickpea flour whisked with water, salt, and a splash of plant yogurt pours like a batter and sets like a delicate omelet.

Bonus: you can load either with veggies and call it a win.

I’ve mentioned this before but it’s worth repeating: you’ll be happier when you stop asking a replica to nail every original note.

Swap the question “Does this taste like eggs?” for “Is this satisfying?” Your taste buds will thank you.

3. Protein bars that taste like dessert

There’s a strain of plant-based protein bar that promises brownie vibes and delivers… a compressed meditation on fiber.

The macros are impressive and the packaging screams victory, but the bite is a hostage situation between date paste, pea protein, and artificial sweeteners.

This is where behavioral science taps your shoulder. We bring the expectation of “dessert,” and our brains cue up mouthfeel, aroma, and aftertaste from actual desserts.

When reality doesn’t match the mental playlist, disappointment feels bigger than it should. 

My workaround is brutally simple: I stopped pretending bars are treats. If I need a snack that eats like a treat, I go for dates stuffed with peanut butter and a pinch of flaky salt.

If I truly need protein, I make it obvious—roasted chickpeas, a quick smoothie, or a small tofu wrap.

When a bar actually tastes good (it happens!), I buy two and move on. But building a routine around the hope that the next wrapper hides a bakery case? That’s a loop I’ve exited.

4. Non-dairy yogurts that are all tang, no body

Yogurt does two jobs at once: flavor and function. It should be tangy with a clean finish and also cushiony, almost elastic.

Many plant yogurts get one job done and skip the other. Coconut-based cups are lush but taste like a vacation smoothie even when they say “plain.”

Almond versions can be clean but thin. Oat often swings sweet, with an aftertaste that lingers like a pop chorus you didn’t ask for.

Texture is the silent deal-breaker here. We can argue flavors all day, but spoon resistance—the way a yogurt yields and then holds—is what makes your brain say “real.”

No amount of fruit on the bottom fixes a body that collapses. And when stabilizers try to fake it with one-note thickness, you feel the monotony by bite three.

What helps: I strain plant yogurt through a coffee filter for 30–60 minutes to concentrate it.

A pinch of salt (yes, salt) wakes the tang. A swirl of lemon zest or a teaspoon of maple cuts the one-dimensional note without turning the cup into dessert.

If I’m using it in savory bowls, a dollop of tahini mixed in gives the body I crave and turns “yogurt” into a sauce that loves roasted veg, grains, and herbs.

Also, if you’re using yogurt as a probiotic anchor in your day, consider variety.

Fermented veggies, sourdough, and even kombucha can play the same gut-supporting tune without pretending to be something else.

5. Vegan jerky

I want to love vegan jerky because on paper it solves a lot: portable protein, savory chew, snack theater you can eat with your hands.

But much of it tastes like soy sauce met a belt and they decided to elope.

The chew is either brick-hard or damp-cardboard soft, and the seasoning is all top notes—smoke, sugar, chili—without the bass line of umami that keeps you going.

Part of jerky’s appeal is the interplay of texture and fat. Traditional versions rely on subtle marbling and slow dehydration.

Plant jerky often leans on aggressively seasoned strips of seitan, mushroom, or soy that dehydrate unevenly. By the time the flavor penetrates, the moisture is gone, and you’re gnawing on a memory.

When I want that experience, I make a quick pan “jerky.” Sauté thin-sliced king oyster mushroom stems or extra-firm tofu until deeply browned, then glaze with tamari, a touch of maple, smoked paprika, and black pepper.

Let it cool, and it becomes snackable without the jaw workout.

Is it road-trip shelf-stable? Not really. Is it satisfying? Absolutely.

What these misses taught me

Each of these products reminds me that taste is a system, not a single note.

Our brains tally texture, temperature, expectation, context, and even color before we decide if something is “good.” That’s why eating the same sandwich in a hot car and at a sunny picnic feel like different meals.

There’s also the choice problem. The more versions of a thing I test, the more the “perfect” version becomes a moving target. I start optimizing for a fantasy that may not exist—at least not yet—and miss the joy of things that are already great on their own terms.

So where does that leave us? With three takeaways I keep taped to the fridge (mentally, anyway):

1. Match product to purpose, not to nostalgia. If you want melt, make sauce. If you want chew, cook mushrooms. If you want breakfast comfort, go tofu or chickpea flour and dial in seasoning.

2. Decide before you taste. Ask, “What would make this successful for me today?” Protein? Pleasure? Portability? Let that guide the choice.

3. Keep your experiments small—and your loyalties flexible. Try new things, but don’t let the promise on the package outrun the reality on the plate.

To be clear, plant-based food has come a long way. The highs are very high. The gap-closing science is real. And sometimes a new product nails it and becomes a default in my kitchen overnight.

That’s the fun part of being an early adopter who also cares about flavor and function.

But for these five categories, I’m officially off the hype treadmill. I’ll keep cooking, keep tasting, keep rooting for innovation—and keep telling the truth about what actually earns its place in my cart.

Because the goal isn’t to eat like I used to—it’s to eat in a way that feels good now. And that starts by being honest about what doesn’t.