Culinary Classics or Cash Cows?
If you belong to this generation and you haven’t been living under a rock, you’d know that a good 80% of today’s trends revolve around food. Whether it’s Dubai chocolate, tanghulu or kimchi, we’re always looking for “the next big thing” to feast on. And honestly, for most of us, chasing these trends is fun. I personally love watching mukbangs and following ‘run don’t walk!’ videos to the newest hidden gem to rank it on Beli. However, despite the harmless fun we derive from these trends, they have insidious implications for some of society’s most marginalized voices.
Despite their recent buzz, the foods that are now dominating our Instagram feeds have their roots in a very, very long cultural history. Often, these are dishes that have been lovingly prepared and eaten for centuries; recipes that have been finessed and developed over time, brought to the US by immigrant communities as a cherished reminder of home.
For these immigrants, cultural dishes have not only served as a means of survival but also a way through which to create community and assert identity in previously hostile spaces. Over decades, mum-and-pop restaurants, convenience stores and street carts have become core institutions of the communities to which they belong.
However, the second someone famous – usually wealthy, usually privileged and usually white – declares an entire culture’s cuisine is “the next big thing,” the intricate web of community crafted by these institutions comes under attack. Food writers, critics, restaurateurs, and big-chain supermarkets swoop in – leaving the original communities as collateral damage. Ironically, the kinds of foods that disgusted Americans for years – think “stinky” school lunches, or “exotic” street food delicacies - are now momentarily on a pedestal.
On the surface, this is a great thing. More buzz equals more visibility equals more progress, right? But strangely enough, the almost cult-like frenzy generated around ‘ethnic foods’ rarely translates into tangible improvements for the original communities. When investors jump onto the bandwagon, they put their money not into existing local businesses, but usually into already-famous, wealthy, white chefs or restaurateurs. Further, what you often see is that people tend to buy into the hype without actually recognizing the deep layers of culture and history underpinning these foods.
Take Dubai chocolate, for example. A core ingredient of this delicious, Instagram-worthy sweet treat is kataifi, a type of shredded filo pastry that forms the basis of the Palestinian dessert knafeh. Yet amid the sea of taste-test videos and spin-off recipes and ASMR mukbangs, where is the reference to Palestine? Where is the recognition and respect for a country that is currently undergoing ethnic cleansing and one of the worst humanitarian crises in human history?
To make matters worse, the ‘trendification’ of ethnic foods actually has tangibly negative impacts on the original owners. Already, local businesses run by immigrant and minority communities are struggling to compete with high-end food retailers due to a lack of financial and technical support. But when their own food becomes a fad, these problems are only magnified. In come the flashy new enterprises - accompanied by an entourage of celebrity chefs, influencers and marketing teams - and out go the original institutions that have sustained their communities for decades.
Take for example City Heights, one of the most ethnically diverse neighborhoods in the country. Over decades, waves of refugees from countries like Vietnam, Somalia and Cambodia have found a place to call home in this cultural melting pot. Until about ten years ago, one of the main institutions of this neighborhood was the street carts: the informal vendors who sold pantry staples and foods like pupusas, lechon and Mexican shaved ice to residents who can’t readily access supermarkets. But recently, the City Heights Community Development Corporation launched Fair@44, a large outdoor food marketplace. Once again, this is a great development on the surface - more opportunities for immigrant chefs to make their mark in a professional, tourist-friendly space! However, for the street vendors - who now face increased harassment and regulations, spurred by complaints from the newcomers - the story is vastly different.
When new institutions finally succeed in ousting the original businesses, the only dishes available are those that have been watered down to accommodate the Western palate. Key ingredients are substituted or stripped entirely. Traditional cooking methods, developed over centuries and passed down through generations, are replaced with those learned in commercial kitchens or elite culinary academies. When we sever food from its original owners, we essentially strip it of life - its culture, history, and symbolic significance.
The food industry needs to drastically reconsider how it approaches representation. Tokenism doesn’t mean diversity. Fleeting fads do not mean recognition. Foods - especially those belonging to ethnic minorities - are not just a meaningless, disposable product. They are charged with cultural narratives and histories of resilience, community and survival. Individuals and institutions from all spaces - whether that’s investors, the media, food critics or the restaurant industry - need to start amplifying historically marginalized voices and advocating for real equity for authentic, local businesses.
But we all have an important role to play as well. Trends don’t appear out of thin air. They materialize, and gain momentum, and escalate out of control because we feed the fire. Moving forward, we all need to think more critically; this involves approaching ethnic food with real respect, making an active effort to educate yourself on the history behind it, and advocating for minority chefs to be able to reclaim ownership of their cuisine.
So instead of scrambling for a reservation at New York’s newest ‘authentic,’ 3-star Michelin restaurant, maybe pop into that local business that you’ve always walked past but never actually visited. And before biting into that deliciously flaky kataifi pastry, maybe research ways that you can support Palestinians in Gaza. Because food has always been and always will be intrinsically tied to equality - and to make progress, the conversation has to start at the table.