That's how most professional cooks I've known have learned to cook, initially. Those sorts of experiences certainly help form your personal taste, intuition, and artistic perspective.
> sometimes, I know there’s a better, or more reliable, way to achieve something, but I lack the theoretic background to go there.
I think a lot of people are in this boat, but probably underestimate the utility of that theoretical knowledge. I think it's akin to being a musician-- while many people who play instruments in their spare time can likely play a few songs that are quite appealing to most people, there's probably a vast gulf in the raw, general-purpose capability of an experienced, dedicated professional or a degree-trained music student.
> High quality restaurants always seem to combine simple ingredients into an elegant „pattern“ of aroma (you see I notice good terms), something I never quite manage. I bet there’s some simply chemistry involved, some generic rules broadly applicable. I’d love to read that!
Sadly, that pattern doesn't exist. While the fusion chefs from a few decades ago tried their best to codify this (and came up with some pretty tasty food in the process, even if it is a bit passe,) it's just not that simple.
So how do they do it? Imagine your five favorite dishes... now imagine how much you might learn about them if you cooked them repeatedly for 60-80 hours per week for a month? A year? A decade? Now imagine that in this process, you'll have worked with dozens of other people who've dedicated their lives to creating and reasoning about food and flavors that are all also cooking your 5 favorite dishes with you? And on top of that, you're serving them to a fickle dining crowd who will throw it right back at you if it doesn't delight them? To boot, restaurant food is WAY more labor intensive than home cooking because economies of scale allow it. You have professional prep cooks that will simmer that beef stock for 16 hours to get it exactly like you want it. Things like that add so much to the final product, but you just can't put your finger on how.
When it comes to things that tongues sense-- saltiness, sweetness, tanginess, glutamates, bitterness-- there are pretty straightforward ways of reasoning about them even if the rules are a bit nebulous. Saltiness tends to tamp down bitterness which is why it's lovely with chocolate and dark caramel, for example. Sweetness tends to round out tanginess really well which is why many things from citrus glazes to high quality candies to many cocktails are so much more delicious than something that is either merely sweet or sour. When people say your sense of taste is dulled because of a cold, they're mistaken. Your tongue senses everything just as well as it did before-- but you can't smell anything. If you take a cherry hard candy and a lemon hard candy and put them in your mouth with your nose totally blocked, you won't likely be able to distinguish between them. As soon as the aroma hits your olfactory bulb, they're as different as different can be. When you sense something intensely with your olfactory bulb AND your tongue is activated, that is when your brain says "there's something in my mouth right now." That's why it's so difficult to eat in the midst of unpleasant smells, and why under-salted food tastes so boring. Playing with things sensed by your olfactory bulb-- pretty much anything you consider part of flavor that isn't one of the broad-stroke things sensed by your tongue-- is dramatically more complex.
These do it so well because a) they've spent years, if not decades, deliberately training their palate, personal taste, and understanding of these interactions, b) spend 60 or 80 hours per week cooking and understanding how these things work together, c) have their dishes are tasted, workshopped and tweaked by all of the other experienced professional cooks around, d) etc. etc. etc. It is truly the 'art' in culinary arts and the only way to get good at it is to do it a whole lot for a long time.
A really good example from my recent past is a parmesean peppercorn dressing I've made hundreds of times. One time, I was in a hurry and toasted the black peppercorns far more than most generally would, so the citrus notes totally subsided and it took on this deep toasty property. I was worried the dressing would taste burnt, but it was Fucking Magic. The people I was cooking for-- all competent and experienced cooks-- looked at me like I'd just spun gold. Black pepper in most circumstances doesn't benefit from being that heavily toasted, but it's just one of those things that you kind of have to be taught, specifically, or discover by yourself.
A good resource for reasoning about these things is The Flavor Bible.
