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Tain had an excellent taste. He ordered garments with his own choice of fabric as seasons changed, and only elegant goods could make it into his mansion. I wasn't refined enough to belong in his house. He taught me elegance when I was still a gardener's son. He made me read The Never Ending Sacrifice and brought the musics of the greatest composers. He used to throw questions out of the blue. My answers never satisfied him but I was endlessly grateful that I could learn such fine cultures. They formed my taste and dominated my way of thinking.
Tain's teachings were useful in many ways. Courteous gesture and appreciative eyes made good impressions on contacts. I knew how to distinguish between those who I needed to be close and those who I was supposed to stay away. I had to know the best for the State. But what led me to exile was the fool in me, the one even Tain couldn't reform. Now I use that talent only for myself. Though it's unfortunate, it's better than nothing. I recognize and respect beauty. I also know how to make tasty combinations of low-flavored foods from replicators. Although Cardassia is beyond my reach, literature comes by in the distance. I often write and store reviews of rising writers that no Cardassian will read. Food and art are small comforts to a humble life, but the best I've found on this tiny, noisy station is Dr. Bashir. He is young, enchanting, and has this peculiar confidence of someone who knows it well. He is very smart, but in some ways he is surprisingly ignorant, which only adds to his charm. It is unfortunate that such a beautiful person is so awful when it comes to aesthetics.
I admire him in many ways, but his taste is appalling. It's no surprise considering the speed at which he chews and gulps the food down. He takes everything in quickly and moves on to the next. It is impossible for such a person to recognize the delicacy of Cardassian literature. It's not just food and literature that he doesn't respect. The music he gave me is screeching even to the dull ears of a Cardassian, and whenever he shows up in plain clothes I want to cover my eyes. Starfleet uniform isn't at all nice to look at, but he succeeds in bothering my eyes more than that every time. It is entirely due to his bad taste that our conversation clashes every moment. Except for my small wish to elicit a response from him.
The worst of his hopeless tastes is the choice of a lover. It was better when he wandered around sleeping with pretty young women. After numerous brief affairs, he picked a worthless tailor from among many people in the crowded station. At first I thought it was just a brief distraction. It was too disappointing to think that even his taste in people had degenerated. But he insisted on staying by my side and I owe his inferior taste. Even now. Fortunately, he has a decent teacher. Therefore he will be able to have a good taste before long.