ESSAY
Licorice is everywhere in the United States, casually chewed by people in lines, cars, and even at work. With its dark appearance and medicinal taste, it leaves a strong first impression on newcomers. Why do people eat it so casually? This article explores its unique flavor, the difference between red and black licorice, and the cultural context behind its unusual shapes—through a personal, observational lens.
→See a complete list of the taste culture shocks I experienced in 1990s America.
Part of the Landscape
After living in the United States for a while, certain strange sights start to feel normal. Things that once felt out of place slowly blend into the background, becoming part of the everyday scenery. Licorice was one of those things. Standing in a long line, there is always at least one person—someone quietly chewing on something, over and over again. It’s not gum, not quite a snack either. It looks like a piece of black vinyl rope, absentmindedly worked between the teeth. The same scene plays out in movie theaters. Not popcorn, but long strands of it, sometimes wrapped loosely around a hand, chewed without a sound. On the road, someone grips the steering wheel with one hand while tearing off pieces with the other. Kids swing it around like a jump rope until they’re told to stop. One day, at the counter of a Japanese bank branch, I noticed it again. The banker had it wrapped around their wrist, casually chewing while explaining how to open an account. At that moment, it became clear—this was no longer unusual here. It wasn’t really “eating” in the usual sense. It felt more like handling an everyday object. Not quite gum, not quite food—something in between, quietly occupying its own place.
The First Bite and the Taste Behind It
I decided to try it myself. One black, rope-like piece. The moment I bit into it, I felt a flicker of regret. It was sweet… unmistakably sweet. And yet, almost immediately, a medicinal note followed. A smell I had encountered somewhere before. It reminded me of traditional remedies, something like the dry, herbal scent you notice standing in front of a shelf of old medicines. It brought back the same reaction I had when I first tasted root beer—that brief pause where you wonder, “Is this really meant to be consumed?” And yet, people around me kept chewing as if nothing was unusual. There was, of course, a reason for the taste. Licorice comes from a plant called licorice root. Its sweetness is distinctive—deeper, heavier than sugar, carrying a subtle medicinal edge. Black licorice often includes notes similar to anise, which explains that unmistakable flavor. There were even syrups made from it, meant to be mixed with milk or soda, or used in cocktails. And then I learned that in parts of Northern Europe, there are even salty versions of licorice. The world of this flavor was far deeper than it first appeared.
Red and Black, and the Question of Appearance
At the store, red and black versions sit side by side. But the red one, surprisingly, often isn’t really licorice at all. Strawberry or cherry-flavored, sometimes made without any actual licorice root—it simply borrows the name. Still, they share the same shelf, sold without distinction. The black version, on the other hand, is the original. The anise-like aroma and that medicinal depth remain intact. What they share, though, is something else entirely—they don’t try to look appetizing. Black stays black. Red stays an almost artificial red. Glossy, almost plastic-like, but never quite inviting. Yet in the United States, appearance doesn’t necessarily define taste. This is a place where brightly colored cakes and candies sit comfortably on display. What matters more is familiarity. A taste known since childhood carries its own value. For those who grew up with it, those colors aren’t strange at all—they’re reassuring, familiar, even comforting.
Shape, Function, and the Act of Chewing
The shapes are just as curious. Ropes, tapes, cable-like strands, even forms that resemble electrical components. Combined with the color, they can look more like something from a hardware store than a confection. Part of that comes from how they’re made—extruded into shape. But it feels like more than that. They seem designed to be played with. You can tie them, pull them apart, unwind them. Hollow ones can even be used as straws, with people sipping juice through them. There’s a small moment of interaction before eating, a tactile pause. Some are even sold in buckets—plastic containers with handles, filled to the top. Meant for sharing, for parties. The abundance itself is part of the appeal. Quantity becomes value, expressed directly through form. Seen this way, licorice feels less like candy and more like an everyday tool—something to fill the spaces in between. It lasts, doesn’t make a mess, keeps the mouth occupied. More present than gum, but not quite a meal. That in-between nature makes it easy to chew while standing in line, or even during work.
A Taste That Stays With You
If measured purely by impact, the taste might rival that of root beer. But what lingers isn’t just the flavor—it’s the question behind it. Why doesn’t it try to look more appealing? Both its shape and color seem deliberately removed from the idea of appetite. And yet, people reach for it without hesitation, chewing as part of their routine. That quiet normalcy leaves a deeper impression than the taste itself. After some time passes, something unexpected happens. You begin to want to try it again. Not because it was undeniably good, but because it left something unresolved. The act of chewing that black rope stays with you. And when you think of America, that peculiar mix of sweetness and medicinal flavor returns, quietly, from memory.
→Read a full roundup of the taste culture shocks I experienced in 1990s America.