For years, my definition of a good meal was dictated entirely by consensus. If a restaurant was difficult to book, I assumed the food would be transformative. If a dish required tweezers and a lengthy explanation to assemble, I convinced myself it tasted better than something simple.

We spend a tremendous amount of time training our palates to enjoy complex things. We want to appreciate the bitter, medicinal notes in a craft cocktail or the funky, unpredictable acidity of a natural wine.

I thought about this exact pressure last month while holding an Atlas Martini at Atlas. The drink was incredibly sharp and gin-heavy. I drank it slowly, mostly because it felt like the correct thing to order in such an imposing, glamorous room. I was drinking the context, not the liquid.

We often confuse an acquired taste with genuine pleasure. We learn to enjoy difficult or challenging flavors because they signal a certain level of refinement. We use our dining choices to communicate our cultural education to the world.

But there is more to eating than proving you understand the menu. What we choose to call good reveals how much we actually trust our own instincts.

When we stop eating for an imaginary audience, the definition of a great meal shifts completely. It removes the heavy burden of validation. You no longer have to pretend to enjoy a flavor profile just because a magazine told you it was revolutionary.

A good dish is simply one that brings you quiet comfort. It does not need to challenge you or elevate your social standing.