Buzz
Bay leaves are like the kitchen's version of dryer sheets. I know they do something, though I’m not entirely sure what that something is, and I don’t particularly miss them when I run out. But I keep buying them, because that’s just what cooks do. We buy bay leaves and add them to our dishes.
I never thought twice about it until I came across Kelly Conaboy’s insightful piece of food journalism, The Vast Bay Leaf Conspiracy. In it, Conaboy poses (and answers) some challenging questions:
What does a bay leaf taste like? Nothing. What does a bay leaf smell like? Nothing. What does a bay leaf look like? A leaf. How does a bay leaf behave? It behaves exactly as you would expect a leaf to behave, if you plucked one from the tree outside your apartment and tossed it into your soup.
Conaboy’s writing made me reflect on myself, and when I did, I realized that I had no real sense of what a bay leaf tasted or smelled like—not in a genuine, tangible way. (I could take the word of the chefs quoted in the article, but they’re too deep in the conspiracy to be trusted.) The label on the jar of bay leaves I just bought claims they have 'a bold, vibrant flavor with a hint of camphor and eucalyptus.'
We’ll see about that.
These leaves, in addition to being steeped in mystery, also have quite the reputation for causing trouble. Not only do they reportedly bring severe mental distress to certain individuals, but I’ve personally heard of at least two people who’ve been injured by the plant. One of them was a former editor-in-chief who, as a child, choked on a leaf that had secretly been hiding in a bowl of chili.
To get to the bottom of it—and to ease my mind—I bought a large quantity of bay leaves to sniff and taste. Of course, the tasting part would be the most complicated, as bay leaves are not meant to be eaten. (And yet we put them in food. Are you starting to wake up, sheeple? Or perhaps I should say—leafple?)
I gathered three varieties of bay leaves: fresh, newly dried, and very old dried ones, and I gave them all a sniff. To assess their flavor, I simmered each type of leaf in the most neutral dish I could find: plain white rice. (I also prepared some plain rice without any leaf, just to use as a control.) Aside from the type of leaf in each batch, all were cooked exactly the same way (in my Instant Pot) and tasted side-by-side. Let's dive into each one, starting with the first leaf.
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Fresh bay leaves that resemble just about any other generic leaf
These leaves didn’t have much of a scent, which caught me off guard, as I thought they would be the most aromatic. This might be because they were intact, with their aroma sealed within their unbroken cells, or perhaps this is a crucial clue in the case against Big Leaf.
To see if I could extract any flavor from this scentless curiosity, I tossed a leaf into my Instant Pot along with a cup of rice. After the rice was finished cooking, I opened the pot and was met with a tea-like, faintly medicinal, and slightly savory aroma. I was quite surprised.
Yet, when I first tasted this batch of rice, I felt a bit let down. The rice tasted just like rice, which was fine, but I didn’t think, “Oh wow, I’m definitely tasting something other than rice here,” more like, “Hmm, maybe this somewhat resembles the way it smells, if I really concentrate.”
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I took a bite of the rice without the leaves to compare, and sure enough, it was as bland as Tila Tequila's view of the flat earth. But when I switched back to the rice with leaves, I noticed a subtle, smooth flavor that didn't stand out, but it made the rice taste notably better. This solidified my dryer sheet analogy: it enhances things, though it’s hard to pinpoint exactly how.
Leaves that are dry but recently bought.
Unlike their fresh counterparts, these leaves emitted a noticeable scent right away. I immediately caught a strong whiff of that medicinal tea fragrance, though there was a distinct sharpness I hadn’t noticed before. One of these leaves even made its way into my rice.
The aroma that filled the air from my Instant Pot this time was strikingly similar to the fresh leaf scent, but with a much stronger pungent undertone and faint traces of Vicks Vapor Rub.
The faint camphor-like scent lingered in the rice, offering a subtle, soft, and harmonious note, but I had to keep returning to the bland, unremarkable rice for contrast. If I were to describe my overall impression of bay leaves, the word 'subtle' might be fitting, though it could be a tad too bold.
Next leaf.
Those melancholic, ancient bay leaves that had been stored in my boyfriend's cupboard for ages.
I asked my man-friend, "Do you have any ancient bay leaves?" hoping his spice cabinet was as disorganized as I thought it would be. He replied, "Yes, I do, I’ll bring them over tomorrow." (After all, who needs flowers?) These crumbled leaves had a scent similar to the less-damaged dried ones, only with a muted, musty aroma. They also ended up being used for the rice experiment.
By this time, I had grown weary of eating rice, and pairing it with an old, surprisingly papery bay leaf wasn’t exactly inspiring me to continue. But I pushed through. I did it for you. I did it for myself. I did it because I had strongly advocated for this idea just a couple of days ago.
As you can probably guess—because you’re incredibly sharp—the aged dried leaf had a scent and flavor that was reminiscent of the fresh one, but much weaker. (It was more like the faint memory of a bay leaf than the actual thing.) Honestly, its off-putting appearance made me hesitate from eating too much. Plus, I wasn’t in the mood for more rice. (Pretzel chips with sour cream were what I really wanted.)
Eating all that rice, however, taught me a lot. While I still stand by my dryer sheet comparison, I now feel I have a better understanding of what these leaves actually contribute. Unlike the bold cinnamon or the showy star anise, bay leaves are all about subtlety. They enhance a dish without overshadowing it, especially when there aren’t many strong flavors at play. Will I keep buying them for my stocks and broths? Absolutely. But if I run out while making a hearty beef stew or some other rich meal, I won’t panic. Similarly, if I run out of dryer sheets, I’m not going to stress—my clothes will just have a little less finesse.
