I say, go ahead. Judge a book by its cover. I've always been a sucker for good packaging. Simple, beautiful, unique...it's thrilling. If good packaging were a liquid, I'd bathe in it—eyes shut, contented little grin, head slowly turning from side to side as the warm, exotic, molten perfection envelops my naked body. I'm besotted with it! I fall in love a hundred times in a gourmet grocery. My pantry is a gallery of exquisite flavors and, yes, good packaging. It's my version of cool.

One knows cool when one sees it. A hot pair of sunglasses. That walk. The unexpected layer of an outfit that just works. The rakish hat that somehow looks as though its wearer was born in it. The tricked-out car with the spinners (I know I'm white but, damn, I love those spinners!) Well, my pantry is cool, what with all of its nonnative names, clean colors, and Dean & DeLuca peppering the shelves. A world of magnificent flavors and elegant wrapping looks back at me when I open my cupboard.

Even though this type of food buying has yielded some real treasures, I've bought more stinkers than I care to admit. (I threw away four jars of lemon curd, this fall, trying to find a substitute for English Provender.) So, I'm suspicious, too. Some packaging catches my eye, and then..."Hmmm. The image is almost right." In some way, it strikes me as would a soccer mom dressed a tad too hiply. There's a glut of this style of packaging. Beware! Sometimes it's merely a Chanel knock-off.

So, when I started seeing the simple, happy, fat "Cento" cans on grocery shelves, I was intrigued. Then, I began to hear "San Marzano" murmured among foodies. Food network chefs were touting San Marzano tomatoes as they emptied the red and yellow tomato can into a sturdy, bright Le Creuset pot. The label looked like the real thing: unfussy, vintage, very Italian. I envisioned a swarthy label designer laying out his type in a Venetian studio, "That's Amore" playing in the background. I had to have a can of Cento, imported, bonafide, San Marzano, plum tomatoes.

I was at the grocery when, at last, I saw just such a can. I smugly picked it up. The Cento label smiled at me and whispered, "You know, don't you?" I thought, "Yes, I do know" as I approached the line of less-informed shoppers. I tried desperately to reign in my self-satisfaction. I was afraid it would erupt all over the checkout girl. This was my cool, and I couldn't lose it. "Easy, Brian. Cento is my regular brand. I cook with these all the time. No big deal." I stuffed the entire emotional wad down as hard as I could. For coolness does not make a show of itself.

I held it all the way to the car, then let loose. I got 'em! I got 'em! I got 'em! I looked at the label and paused. Doubts crept in. This was an expensive can of tomatoes. Was it worth it? What if the foodies and chefs were wrong? What about my marinara? There was only one way to find out—a blind taste test. In a flash, I'd done a neck-breaking about-face. I was betting against that cheery Cento label. My eyebrows turned down and I thought, "I will not be duped by those sneaky ad men again." The taste-off began forming in my mind.

The morning of the event, my partner, Barry, set up the tasting cups, one through seven. I marshalled a few friends known for their discriminating taste buds and we sat before a table of cups; a baguette; and sensible, filtered water, room temperature. This was serious business. The integrity of our sauces and soups was on the line.

Pen and paper at hand, we revved up our culinary adjectives and raised our spoons. We tasted in silence, scribbling notes. It went on like this, for a while. Another round. Discussion. Another round. Shortly, we had our decisions. The rankings were close and fairly consistent.

The pregnant moment was upon us. I turned the cans around. Drum roll.

Hunt's won. Cento came in a distant last place. I didn't know what to feel. Was I happy? Was I disappointed? Was I embarrassed? I didn't know, so I just chose happy. I celebrated in the liberty to make an informed tomato buying decision. We were almost doomed to a life of expensive, inferior tomatoes. Our pantries were free of the tyranny of foodie buzz. And now we, too, were free.

Or were we? The sampling was small—hardly scientific. Perhaps these brands would compare differently next month, a different batch. Happily, we might we need more tastings. Experimenting, after all, is half the fun. There's no better way to build up a successful pantry, and nothing could be more important to a successful meal. A well-stocked pantry is like a sports car; almost anyone can look good in a Lamborghini!

Canned tomatoes are the foundation of my pantry. They're the foundation of countless dishes. So, the selection process shouldn't be taken too lightly. For now, the humble Hunt's can will have a respectable home among the more sophisticated packages. And if Dean or DeLuca so much as smirk, I'll give them a thump on their safety seal they'll never forget.