If you’ve ever tried any of these 10 dishes, you’re more a sophisticated eater than 96% of Americans

I was jet-lagged in Bangkok and bargaining badly for a plate of something sizzling when the vendor pushed a bite into my hand. No translation, just a nod.

It tasted like the sidewalk at midnight—smoke, lime, sweetness, a nudge of danger. I swallowed, grinned, and felt a tiny door in my brain swing open. That bite didn’t just feed me. It changed the way I move through the world.

Here’s my thesis: try unfamiliar food and you learn unfamiliar courage. You practice humility. You become the kind of person who says “yes” to life.

If you’ve tried even a few of the ten dishes below, you’re probably more of a sophisticated eater than 96% of Americans—and you’ve already built the muscles most adults wish they had: curiosity, discernment, and a calm stomach under pressure.

Let’s test your passport.

1. Uni is the ocean’s butter

Sea urchin roe asks for trust. Good uni is a whisper—sweet, custardy, softly briny like the moment a wave pulls back from your ankles. Bad uni is… educational. Order it at a high-turnover sushi bar and eat it with nothing but rice.

The first time a chef slid me a warm bite across lacquered wood, I hesitated. He didn’t. I learned something essential: sophistication is mostly about saying less and noticing more. If you can appreciate uni without drowning it in soy, you’re training your attention as much as your palate.

2. Natto teaches you to ignore the crowd

Fermented soybeans with strings like spider silk and an aroma that could clear a locker room. Natto scares people before it reaches the table. The trick is stirring—vigorously—until it foams, then a swipe of hot mustard and onto hot rice.

The first spoon is confusing. By the third, you’re cozy. Natto taught me to separate smell from flavor and to make up my own mind about a thing. That’s a life skill. “Try it, then decide” solves more than dinner.

3. Century eggs reward patience

They’re not a century old. They’re preserved until the whites turn jewel-dark and the yolks go jammy and rich. Serve with silken tofu, soy, and scallion; or tuck into congee for breakfast that hugs you from the inside.

When I ran restaurants, I’d offer slivers to regulars who trusted the kitchen. They’d start with eyebrows, end with smiles. The lesson: give people a gentle on-ramp and they’ll go surprisingly far—including you.

4. Tripe stews are comfort food in a new accent

Menudo on Sunday. Lampredotto in Florence. Phở with sách that tastes like a good secret. Tripe isn’t about shock; it’s about texture and patience. Low heat, long time, deep broth. Add lime, herbs, chili, and the dish wakes up like a room when the right song hits.

If you’re tri-curious, start with phở—variety of cuts, maximum slurp, minimal mental hurdles. You’ll discover the quiet truth of eating well: texture can be as satisfying as flavor.

5. Blood sausage tastes like a secret handshake

Morcilla, boudin noir, black pudding—same idea, different accent. Rich, silky, minerally, and excellent with something bright: pickled onions, apple, mustard.

We’ve been taught to fear blood at the table; we’ve also been taught to prefer meat that looks nothing like an animal. Blood sausage is the opposite—honest, economical, respectful. Eat it and you’re voting for a nose-to-tail world where less is wasted and more is delicious.

6. Durian is curiosity over bravado

The smell divides rooms. The flavor unites anyone with a sweet tooth and a sense of humor. Proper durian tastes like almond custard that went to finishing school—dense, creamy, a little wild. The move: semi-chilled, perfectly ripe, tiny bites.

The first time I had it, I laughed out loud. Not because it was bad, but because it was so insistently itself. If you can stop fighting your expectations, you’ll find the joy hiding behind the joke.

7. Haggis is poetry in a sheep’s suit

Scotland’s national dish—oats, offal, fat, spice—gets written off by people who’ve never tried it. Proper haggis is peppery, savory, deeply comforting. Serve with neeps and tatties, add a sip of something smoky, and you’ve got a plate of thrift turned into celebration.

It’s a manifesto more than a meal: use the whole animal, season generously, share with friends. Eat haggis and you practice gratitude disguised as dinner.

8. Beef tartare (or kitfo) is trust served raw

Raw beef done right is not a dare. It’s a discipline. You want freshness, cold bowls, sharp knives, and a chef who respects the product. French tartare gives you capers, shallot, mustard, and a yolk like a sun. Ethiopian kitfo gives you mitmita heat, niter kibbeh (spiced butter), and injera to scoop it all up.

The first forkful is a handshake between you and the kitchen: I trust you; you honor it. Learn that feeling and you’ll get better at recognizing who handles things with care—inside and outside restaurants.

9. Hákarl is the final boss you’re allowed to dislike

Fermented Greenland shark. Cured to drive off toxins. Cubed, it smells like a chemistry set in a snowstorm. I tried it once with fishermen who could crush a crab with a handshake.

I didn’t love it. I loved that I tried. Maturity isn’t liking everything; it’s knowing where your “no, thanks” lives—and why. Say yes to the experience, then practice gracious honesty. That’s a more advanced move than blind bravado.

10. Chapulines taste like teamwork

Roasted grasshoppers with chili and lime. Crunchy, nutty, snackable as popcorn. Eat by the handful or sprinkle on guacamole for texture that makes your brain clap.

The first time I brought a bag home, it turned into a party trick that wasn’t a trick: people hovered, laughed, grabbed a few, reached back for more. In much of the world, insects are just food. Trying them is a small way to widen your map—and your empathy.

If this list looks intense, remember: sophisticated eating isn’t stunts. It’s habits.

A few practical rules I use—and give readers who message me from airport food courts and farmer’s markets:

• Anchor unfamiliar to familiar. Tartare is basically a cold burger that reads French poetry. Tripe is “pasta, but make it biology.” Chapulines are bar nuts with better PR.

• Borrow the chef’s confidence. If a place is proud enough to serve it, it’s probably worth your bite. Ask the best way to eat it. Take the advice.

• Use contrast. Rich loves bright. Creamy loves acid. Soft loves crunch. A wedge of lime or spoon of pickles can turn “huh?” into “ohhh.”

• Start where turnover is high. Markets, regional specialists, places with lines. Sophistication is not recklessness; it’s informed risk.

• Share bites. Order for the table, pass everything, build a wider palate on smaller stakes.

Say you order uni when you’re used to salmon rolls. You’re practicing discernment—finding nuance, honoring freshness, knowing when simple beats complicated. Try natto and you’re practicing independent judgment—tuning out the chorus to see what you think.

Sit with tartare and you’re practicing trust—choosing people and places with standards. Say no to hákarl after you try it and you’re practicing boundaries—clear, kind, informed. Share chapulines around the table and you’re practicing community—inviting others into something new without pressure.

Some of the richest moments in my own life didn’t happen in dining rooms with white tablecloths. They happened on plastic stools, at wobbly counters, under tin roofs where the grill smoke works like cologne.

I’ve sold restaurants and eaten in fancy places and tasted the expensive stuff. Here’s what stuck: the best bite is the one that opens a door. The second-best bite is the one that makes you grateful for what you already love.

A few more moves to upgrade your eater’s mindset without breaking the budget:

• One wild card per meal. If you always get the same thing, add one small plate you’ve never tried. Your comfort dish is the parachute; the wild card is the jump.

• Talk to vendors. Ask where it came from, how they cook it at home, what sauce belongs. People light up when you care. So does your palate.

• Keep a food notebook. Three lines per entry: what you ate, what surprised you, what you’d change. Treat it like gym reps. Progress sneaks up when you track it.

• Host a curiosity night. Everyone brings one new ingredient and a story. Small bites, big laughs, zero pressure to like everything.

Final words 

And yes—watch your stomach. Basic food safety is part of being a pro. Choose clean spots, avoid anything that looks abandoned to its fate, and when in doubt, cook it hot.

If you’ve already checked off a few items on this list, congratulations—you’re not just adventurous; you’re attentive. If you haven’t, you don’t need a plane ticket or a brave friend.

You need a tiny yes. Choose one dish and build a little ritual around it: a phone-free seat at the bar, one honest question for the person serving you, one sentence in your notebook after. Replace “What if I don’t like it?” with “What might I learn?”

I still think about that Bangkok bite when I’m tempted to play it safe—to order the same dish, to keep the same habits, to stay small because small is familiar. Some days I want salmon rolls, and that’s fine.

Other days I want the ocean’s butter and a conversation with a stranger who knows the tide. Either way, the rule is the same: widen your plate, and your world widens with it.

So—how many of the ten have you tried? Two? Six? None yet? Start at one. Invite someone curious. Order a safety dish if you need it. Then take the bite. If you hate it, you’ve lost a mouthful. If you love it, you’ve found a door.

Sophisticated eating isn’t about being fearless. It’s about being game. It’s the daily practice of stretching what you’re willing to taste—not to impress anyone, but to find more of what makes life delicious.