I have an arbitrary rule to never deny anyone a date. It’s a fun, self-imposed little rule that’s proven equally rewarding as it is daunting. One of the worst dates I’ve ever been on took place at a wedding. I didn’t know the couple, but one of their friends wanted to have me as his +1, and rules are rules, so I went, and was almost immediately faced with the weight of my terrible decision. My first reckoning was upon arrival, when dinner was served and this man thought it appropriate to play a soccer match on his phone and loudly cheer on his team, slapping the table every few minutes. Though his attention was on the match, he never missed an opportunity to share his critiques on every passing woman’s physique. You’d think this was the reincarnation of André Leon Talley, the way he would judge each woman’s walk and call them “pudgy” or “assless”:

He was also incredibly drunk by the end of dinner (of course)- which was also the point where he felt the need to tell me he’s always known we were destined to get married and start a family together. He kept on drinking and whispering sweet nothings in my ear until his lack of mobility and cognitive skills awarded me some time to leave our table and talk to literally anybody else. But the universe has a sense of humor and, of course, that escape plan did not work out in my favor. As I was ranting on to a friend I ran into, I started to feel woozy. I quickly realized that the hit I had just taken from somebody’s vape was actually a hit that I had just taken from somebody’s dab pen. And since I had been heavily drinking to tune out the incoherent ramblings of my escort, I knew that things were not looking up for me anytime soon.

Upon this realization I ran to the bathroom to get some air, except clearly the universe was not done laughing in the face of my misery, so before I could get there I was met with a crazy person running towards me, waving her ring finger in my face. This was a girl had gone to high school with. It had been years since we had seen each other, so she caught me up on all the major life events I had missed; particularly her time as a newlywed. In spite of her being incredibly young, it’s like the moment she got married, she morphed into a middle-aged woman. She definitely still looked young, but there was a certain matronly aura to her that I had only sensed before while passing by a midday Zumba class at the country club.

She told me about how she’s not necessarily trying for kids, but “if it happens, it happens”. She also told me about her ongoing beef with her maid and how being a housewife is actually harder than it looks. I could tell she was really excited, and I knew she had always wanted to marry young, so I felt happy for her. As she went on however, the inevitable happened: she started asking me about when I was planning on getting married, and whether I was considering freezing my eggs. When I evaded the questions, she told me a story about a cousin of hers who never got married because she spent all of her spare time with her gay friends-making all her boyfriends feel intimidated (ha!). I realized that was my cue to exit the conversation.

So there I was, pathetically stumbling into the bathroom of a wedding whose bride’s name I didn’t even know, cross-faded and disoriented, on a date with a man who was acting like this was his first day on earth. I have always felt pretty confident about my life choices; but in that moment I felt like the feminist in me died and all I could see was that women my age were becoming mothers, and I was basically the muse for that one Pride and Prejudice monologue (no money, no prospects, already a burden to my parents, frightened).

If there’s ever been anybody who is pro being single in your 20s, it’s me. If you’re reading this, it’s probably because you receive emails about my adventures serially dating, and the mental gymnastics I go through to spin said adventures into teachable moments. Irrationally perhaps, when someone my age gets married, it feels like watching a fairy lose her wings. Not because I think their relationships are unfulfilling, not because I don’t think they’re valid, but because I genuinely believe that self-discovery is something that’s enhanced when going through it alone. Your 20s are for being somewhat selfish! Not evil, not mean, just a little selfish. It’s the first time when most of your major life decisions are up to you entirely, and that’s not something I think anybody should give up. It’s a time for learning who your friends are, seeing what interests and hobbies you gravitate towards, picking a career path or a master’s degree or a new city to live in or a new place to travel to. These things can definitely be achieved with a partner, but it’s certainly easier to stay true to what you want when you don’t have to take somebody else’s agenda into consideration.

But it seems as though self-discovery and independence mean very little to us now in the wake of all this “get married, quick!” propaganda we’ve been subjected to. Everyday I wake up to the sound of RAYE’s song, “WHERE THE HELL IS MY HUSBAND?” blasting on any available speaker. The title seemed so ironic to me, I used to think it was a satire about the male loneliness epidemic and the wedding fever that is ensuing. I was wrong. Even celebrities (a demographic that notoriously opts out of marriage) have wedding fever! I would’ve never guessed that I would witness Taylor Swift and Charli XCX getting engaged in my lifetime, but alas, here we are. Now’s the time to settle down, and anybody who states the opposite (ahem, Having a Boyfriend is Embarrasing) is sad and confused.

The husband searching craze could have many explanations. An impending recession and the rise in right wing ideology could be the culprit. But I think it might be a lot deeper than that. Our generation seems to have to fulfill a duty to absolutely everyone but ourselves. Every single one of our life choices has to be accounted for and justified on the internet for our entire worlds to see. Every relationship has to become a highlight on Instagram, every job switch an update on Linkedin. Actually being put together is not as important as being perceived as being put together-which many think means settling down, getting a house and having kids in your early twenties. Marriage, in the face of a flimsy economy and TikTok fueled existential dread, provides stability and a general perception of “put togetherness” that is not as easily acquired when single. And after a pandemic, many of us have learned to quake in the face of uncertainty rather than understanding that our 20s are the perfect time to thrive in it. I know this because I often hear my single friends saying they wish they were like their married friends who “have it all figured out”. Does choosing a partner before fully developing a frontal lobe equate to “having it all figured out”? I’m not sure.

I don’t actually think there is such a thing as having it all figured out. You might feel like you’ve figured “it” out momentarily, but stability also means you have more to lose. Someone who settles down early seems stable, but you also have to factor in the fact that obstacles are inevitable . A father who loses his job might have trouble paying off his mortgage or his children’s private school. If I (a single woman in my 20s) were to lose my job, however, it would still suck, obviously. But i’d probably see if that setback could redirect me to a new city, or maybe I’d pivot onto a new career path. If I was feeling particularly adventurous, I’d probably go on a little eat-pray-love trip before returning to a new 9-5. Maybe all I get out of it is crippling debt and a nicotine addiction. But at least i’d enjoy being young and knowing that this flexibility and freedom was only possible because I had only myself to consider.

And really this is what I wish upon everyone. Not perpetual singledom, but at least a couple of years meant exclusively for getting to know yourself while having adult money, time, energy, and the hottest body you’ll probably ever have. This can mean taking up jiu-jitsu or going out alone to see who you meet without expecting a relationship out of it. It can be joining a cooking retreat in Portugal, doing a yoga teacher training, flying out to meet someone you met on Raya or even spending your nights in gossiping with your parents. What’s important is to take some time in your 20s to decenter whatever romantic expectations have been placed on you and focus on all the other corners in life where love can be found. Only then can you find what’s nourishing, and whatever it is makes you feel like you’re coming into yourself before choosing how the rest of your life has to play out. Maybe that way when we finally commit to something or someone long term, we can find comfort in the fact that we’re doing so as a consequence of having lived and not of having longed.

I recently had two very insightful conversations. The first one was with my dad, and the second one was with my shrink. During the first conversation, my dad and I were discussing an article I read (yes, the infamous and very controversial Vogue article I’m not even going to namedrop because it’s led to an infinite string of think pieces, rebuttals, TikToks and memes, and I don’t think I can add anything that hasn’t been said already). His take on the whole situation was that everything is ephemeral these days (big word, I know). Everything is fleeting. Material objects, commitments, or even passions are not meant to last very long anymore. We’re all just hopping around from place to place, untethered to anything. We change cities, relationships, homes, and interests whenever staying in the same place for too long starts feeling… uncomfortable. We might have reached a point of no return, where at the very moment we’re left to sit with our thoughts and truly ponder, we feel an urge to be onto the next thing effective immediately.

A part of me wanted to reject his thesis because I’m ideologically opposed to the cliché of growing old and suddenly believing that the younger generations are tampering with the sanctity of institutions. Another part of me recognized that I myself am an incredibly volatile woman, and that it genuinely excites me that I can basically morph myself into infinite versions, with infinite hobbies and interests and friends and travels. I want to be a sponge and absorb everything I can and change and evolve whenever it’s possible. I am, in a sense, guilty of playing a part in a generation that seems to embrace impermanence. I’m flexible towards changes, and I’ve always believed that to be a non-issue because change is inevitable and it’s better to ride the wave (or even beat it) than to resist it in trying to stay the same. This reflection led me to the second insightful conversation I had, which consisted of my shrink diagnosing me with commitment issues and a very specific attachment style: emotionally anxious but domestically avoidant.

This basically means that I do feel like I need something of sentimental value to cling to, and that I do harbor deep and meaningful relationships. But it also means that when something starts feeling too real, I can feel my light dimming, so I keep anything that feels permanent at arm’s length. It makes it hard to go all in on anything because committing to one thing always feels like it’s at the expense of indulging in anything else. There’s comfort in stability, but also boredom and rigidity (embarrassing). There’s excitement in evolution, but also chaos and fragility (cool?). In the midst of all this introspective spiraling, I suddenly thought of an argument that basically trumped both my dad and my shrink’s opinions: I can date a million men, but I will never cheat on my favorite restaurants. I thought about my undying loyalty to my favorite taquería and the unbearable grief I felt when my favorite ice cream shop discontinued my go-to sweet treat: the chocolate/dark cherry/marshmallow ice cream. Suddenly I found myself looking for my commitment issues, and I couldn’t seem to find them anywhere! Could someone with commitment issues go to the same bar every single Thursday for as many years as I have? I don’t think so!

Because while finding someone to spend the rest of your life with seems terrifying, for some reason, there’s a deep solace and comfort in being a lifelong regular at a restaurant you love. To me, there truly is nothing more wholesome than having a table I’ve deemed my table, always being greeted by the same waiters, and never having to look at a menu to know exactly what I’m having. If somebody did a brain scan of the activity that goes on in my amygdala when I hear the words “it’s on the house,” their hypothesis would probably be that I was listening to Mahler’s 5th. I love pulling up to my favorite bar and exchanging a sneaky smirk with the bartender because only him and I know that this is the 4th guy I’ve been here with this month.

There truly is nothing better than pledging allegiance to a restaurant you love because it’s a very low-maintenance relationship that provides infinite joy. You might go once every couple of weeks, leave a very good tip, greet people warmly, and then be on your merry way onto a new restaurant without pushback. Suggesting an open relationship to a partner or perhaps telling your boss you’re focusing on your side hustle might not go over very well. But being in a committed relationship with your favorite restaurant means you get to try new places yet always be received with open arms once you come back. And sure, many times you’ll find new spots that are trendier, where the food is better and the novelty feels refreshing. But there’s nothing stronger than the bond between a foodie and a random restaurant they have a long-lasting hyperfixation with for some reason. One restaurant that my city has collectively decided to be in a relationship with is a nostalgic little spot called Hawaii Cinco Cero.

It’s a place that’s always fascinated me, and though I would by no means consider myself a regular, I would never say no to eating there. Hawaii Cinco Cero as a concept is absolutely hilarious to me. It’s a restaurant that has been around since the 80’s, and you can definitely tell without even having to enter the place. This restaurant follows the Casa Bonita format of being so random it becomes endearing. Named after the 1960’s TV series Hawaii 5-0, it’s detectable from miles away as an elevated tiki hut that’s in the middle of a sea of post-modern finance buildings.

Usually thematic restaurants are more casual, but this is lowkey a fine dining establishment. It’s white tablecloths and waiters wearing bowties and many of the attendees wearing sports coats. There’s always a pianist playing in the center of it all. And despite being a Hawaiian joint, there is probably not a single Hawaiian dish to be found on the menu. If you’re eating there, you’re either having Mexican food or something of the Japanese(ish) persuasion. Also, there’s an underground bar that literally looks like you time-traveled to a strip club in Acapulco in the 70’s, performed a heist, and brought back all the decor. And best of all, it’s a family establishment, so there’s no notable age demographic. Old people keep going because they’ve always loved it, and young people keep going because their grandparents loved it. It’s funny as a concept but incredibly well respected as an institution. The food is consistently perfect no matter how many times you go. The service is impeccable. The place looks old but not run down; there’s a difference. The menu hasn’t really changed to get with the times, and I don’t feel like it should have to. Ever since I went to Japan, I’ve become somewhat insufferable when it comes to sushi, yet I will always thoroughly enjoy Hawaii Cinco Cero’s California Roll because it’s perfect. Needs nothing new.

The menu is everything but innovative, but you can tell they care about their produce, as it’s always top-notch. You can tell they care about their employees, as they’ve stayed the same for decades. Cleanliness and presentation are very important here. You will never find a chipped plate, and your dirty dishes will be immediately picked up the second they are no longer useful. They focus on the small details that many newer restaurants have left behind but I still really appreciate. If you order a lemonade, it will always be brought to your table with a lime rind and a little maraschino cherry. Like I said, it’s a stupid detail, but it’s meaningful to me. At this special place, they love letting us know that even a lemonade deserves special attention.

There’s a list of reasons why everybody and their mothers is in a serious relationship with Hawaii Cinco Cero, regardless of how weird of a place it is, and regardless of how many cooler, trendier spots come into town. But mostly, I think this place’s popularity stems from the belief that to be loved is to be known. And like I said earlier, there’s nothing that matches being known by a place that serves your favorite meals.

Stating that we’re in an age where everything feels ephemeral seems pretty objective. But it also denies a basic truth: no matter how volatile we are, there will always be at least one place, one person, or one ideology where our loyalties lie. So maybe we aren’t the generation of commitment issues; maybe we just haven’t found something worth committing to yet.

Not too long ago, I encountered a situation most women, at some point or another, find themselves in. I was having a conversation with a man I had put on a pedestal when a sacred truth was revealed to me in a vision. Everything was business as usual- until all of a sudden, I started noticing that the sound of his voice irked me, that his legs were too skinny, and that he might not have as many redeeming qualities as I once believed. It was as if, out of the blue, I became a fly on the wall, looking down at the scene: a beautiful, sweet, angel princess like myself speaking to an immature, balding, aging, pale man, wondering if he would ever take me seriously. From one moment to another, the illusion burst, and this person I once saw as interesting and exciting suddenly felt old and disgusting. His stories went from clever to immature, his aura from intoxicating to rancid, and what I had at some point perceived as game slowly became desperation. I was finally seeing the dynamic for what my friends kept insisting it was. We all have our times of reckoning.

I wondered what caused this shift. I couldn’t comprehend whether this was the result of shock treatment—where you go back to something that hurts you until you stop caring—or whether it was the result of an impromptu personal evolution and upgraded standards. And then I remembered: Chili’s.

Yes, the American food chain known for the Triple Dipper combo and bottomless margaritas. That Chili’s. Its marketing team has been working overtime to give it a second wind through viral TikToks, a hilarious intern writing tweets, and combos that offer a good bang for your buck. A restaurant that used to be pushed to the side by foodies everywhere achieved the turnaround of the century by rebranding itself as the mecca of guilty pleasures.

The food prepared at Chili’s, if you look into it, is probably pretty fucking disgusting—overly processed foods, frozen for years, and bursting at the seams with high fructose corn syrup and Red Dye 40. The images seen on the internet of their Nashville Hot Mozzarella Sticks paired with beef sliders display biblical levels of gluttony and greed. These hypercaloric meals are so blown out of proportion that only an American could eat them without carrying an immense amount of shame.

Obviously, my contemporary opinion is the result of pubescent body shaming and exposure to grass-fed, organic produce, but I can blurrily remember a time when Chili’s was aspirational—at least in my town. Way back when, the dining choices would all boil down to your neighborhood enchilada joint or an American food chain. Going to places like Chili’s, Bennigan’s, or Johnny Rockets was the more globalized thing to do. Sure, there was an off chance you could go to a fancier choice—a fine dining experience with retro desserts and white tablecloths—but those were seen as places to visit on special occasions, not on a regular weekday.

But that’s in the past. These days, I would probably have a Menendez-level tantrum if my parents picked Chili’s for a family outing. Because in the present, if there’s one thing we have culinarily, it’s choice—the choice to order something delicious quickly, to cook a recipe that requires a visit to a specialty store, or to eat somewhere good regardless of where you live. There is no real reason a food chain would look appealing in a world full of so many choices—so why do we keep going back?

It’s not about accessibility, because there are plenty of restaurants or stands that are inexpensive and even more delicious. It’s definitely not about flavor or ambiance either. I think the reason we revisit these places is the same reason we revisit our past situationships with people we’ve outgrown: we confuse nostalgia for appetite.

Whenever a mukbang of a little Asian kid eating a Triple Dipper pops up on my For You page, my mind immediately goes, kind of gross, but I must have it immediately. Sound familiar? Probably because you’ve heard a friend or two say that exact same sentence in reference to their ex.

In food: no matter how elevated a palate, no matter how many Michelin-starred restaurants you’ve visited or how many chef friends you have, a familiar meal with bad ingredients is somehow irresistible. In love: no matter how many interesting people you meet or how much time you spend unpacking your baggage with your shrink, there’s nothing more alluring than a late-night text from a person you know you’ve outgrown.

When I was a kid, I used to feel something when I ate an entire Chili’s Lava Cake. The thought of doing so now repulses me, but every year or so I try it again to see if I can ever replicate that feeling. The answer is always no. But the human spirit truly is indomitable, and it’s normal to look back at something that once made you sick and pretend that it didn’t.

The reason we revisit foods or people that are bad for us is because we love romanticizing the good old days, when things were “better.” Except most of the time, things weren’t actually better—but when present novelties wear off, it’s easy to turn to what feels familiar. So we go back—to that run-down restaurant (or that run-through guy)—only to inevitably be hit by the disillusionment: the realization that there was a reason you left in the first place. When you’re infatuated, it’s almost like you’re wearing rose-colored glasses that make whatever’s in front of you seem flawless. But we evolve, and for better or worse, quirks that once felt endearing become something we have to endure. It’s true with people, and it’s definitely true with restaurants.

When it comes to outgrowing our bad taste—in food, in men, and in general—there’s really no right way to go about it. It’s something that happens naturally: one day we wake up having saturated our mental archives with so many new experiences that the old ones don’t seem to suit us anymore. We evolve; we learn new things, meet new people, and go down silly rabbit holes until the surface of our prior selves seems almost unrecognizable. We let go of our bad taste organically when exposed to finer things.

But sometimes, even after we move on or break cycles, we return to them out of boredom or nostalgia. That’s okay. Going back to something that no longer serves us is not poor taste; it’s an inevitable relapse. I’ve found that the only way to truly get over something is to return to it again and again until, one good day, you realize there’s really no good reason to ever go back.

So the next time you circle back to something you thought you were so over, learn to see it for what it is: a guilty pleasure that serves as a reminder of how far you’ve come.

Walking the streets of Madrid, I stumbled upon a trendy little spot that had all the makings of a place I would love. Hermanos Vinagre, a popular pintxos bar, was to me the stairway to heaven. Russian salad, canned sardines, house-made butter with briny anchovies on toast, and perfectly crisp and greasy potato chips that were so addictive I had to ask the waiter if they were by chance laced with heroin. Upon arrival, I was greeted with a plate full of cornichons and cocktail onions — a Savory Girl’s dream. The bar, opened in 2019 by Enrique and Carlos Valentí, was meant to bring back an age-old Spanish tradition which, according to them, had been long forgotten. Mexicans have sobremesas, Americans have happy hour, and the Spanish have aperitivos castizos, a ritual where people get together for a drink and a salty snack before the actual meal. Aperitivos castizos have the attribute of offering classic pairings: vermouth and olives, tintos de verano and gildas. In an interview with El País, the brothers argued that this was a dying art, and that their love for high-quality ingredients in traditional Spanish dishes could be the antidote to bring back their beloved ritual. They even went as far as to say that after the boom of Hermanos Vinagre, plenty of other bars and restaurants started following in their footsteps — offering traditional aperitivos and embracing dishes featuring things like ultramarinos with a modern twist.

I haven’t been around long enough to know whether the aperitivo castizo was actually in need of resurrection. And in the case that it did, I wouldn’t know if the Valentí brothers were the ones to deliver it. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time an old restaurateur with a savior complex claimed to be the only one restoring “the good old days.” My hunch, however, is that this subculture never died. It just got on a transatlantic flight — and came back with a facelift and a nicer ass. Let me tell you why.

At any given moment, wherever it is you find yourself, if you hit a local trendy bar or restaurant, you’re almost sure to find one if not all of the following things:

• Small plate dining (on stainless steel plates, of course).

• Ambiguous branding that looks as if it was drawn by a child.

• Preserves, high-quality olives, or anything fermented.

• Natural wines or wines from regions never before heard of.

• Vinyl collection and a very beautiful speaker set to match.

• Lack of overhead lights.

• An Instagram page that looks more like a Pinterest board of going-out inspiration.

• Peasant recipes that are elevated with one to three more quirky ingredients.

If my recent travels have taught me anything, it’s that the new restaurant scene is no longer influenced by just one culture — it’s become a collage of the best parts of every single place. People aren’t looking for tapas bars or izakayas anymore, but rather places that blend so many cultures together that the final product has seemingly untraceable roots. So yes, maybe traditional Spanish pub culture is not particularly booming the way it might have been during the Franco era. But global food trends definitely reflect traces of aperitivo castizo culture, even if the execution might seem somewhat Frankensteinian. Small plate dining and preserves are characteristically of Spanish origin. The listening bar concept, on the other hand, with dim lighting, a singular long table, and a monster sound system — distinctly Japanese. The dishes being served are usually according to region, with oriental twists (ahem, labneh, za’atar, and/or ikura on everything). And of course, the customers’ way of taking in what’s being presented to them is a reflection of their own culture. You know the memes where Europeans can sense noisy Americans from a mile away? I too have gained that skill. The group who got there during last call and stays until the manager tells them it’s time to close? Mexicans. The group with perfect tans who, fittingly, chose to sit at an outside table during peak sunlight hour? Italians. The group who stayed from opening until closing, and would occasionally sing and clap? I’m sure you can guess.

Whether your culture’s pre- or post-meal practice is an aperitivo, a sobremesa, a tea time, or a digestif, there’s one thing that remains true: conversations are best paired with something vinegary to eat, and something sweet to wash it down with. Be it gossip, red vermouth, rolled tobacco, or a perfect boquerón — the whole point of the aperitivo castizo (or any of these rituals) is to have a little something to take the edge off before or after it’s time to get down to business. These sacred rituals will never truly die, because the intention behind them is immutable.

What we need to ask ourselves is this: is culinary invention the cost of tradition, or can these two coexist? Hermanos Vinagre might be the perfect example of embracing tradition without rejecting modernity. But what about all these other restaurants that don’t have traditional dishes — or that borrow ideas from places they visited on their travels? If all the new restaurateurs are visiting Tokyo, San Sebastián, Chicago, and Mexico City to get inspiration, will all of them come back to their homes with the same findings? The trendy spots I’ve visited in Mexico are not very different from the ones I visited in Japan or in Spain. Redundancy might just be the thief of innovation. The more restaurants you check out, the more you start noticing patterns — in clientele, menus, even interior décor. Globalization in the kitchen can sometimes mean you travel far and still feel like you’re experiencing the same routine.

On one hand, it’s somewhat endearing that we all want the same things — connection, good food, and a little something more than our prescribed three meals a day. And in a political climate as hostile as today’s, it’s refreshing that chefs and restaurateurs are gravitating toward different cultures in admiration rather than fear. Having our taste be the byproduct of exploration and observation of different worldviews is important. But what if the cost of exploration becomes denying our own roots — the experiences we live in our day-to-day lives rather than while on vacation? That’s a preoccupation that seems to be on certain people’s minds — particularly anyone in the restaurant industry over the age of 40.

If it’s any consolation, it’s pretty clear that there’s always going to be somebody vouching for tradition, or making it live on. Simultaneously, there will probably always be somebody looking to reimagine the classics. That will never die. The flaw in the “dying pub culture” argument lies in placing the weight of this loss on chefs rather than on consumers. Chefs are artists — to keep them from creating concepts that spark their creativity in the name of tradition would be censorship. As consumers, we’re the ones who should be held to the standard of honoring tradition while also exploring new concepts. As outdated as it may seem to actually set aside a little time for investigation instead of just watching a TikTok recommendation, it might just be the only way to actively keep the traditional alive while still fueling up-and-coming restaurants. It’s one thing to walk around looking for a Michelin Guide sign, and it’s another to learn about Spain’s Guía Repsol, which offers recommendations with a more locally grown, nationally focused perspective. A little bit of intention when looking for our next meal could ensure that we eat better, maintain traditions, and taste the essence of a country we visit.

Maybe one day the only way to get an authentic dish will be by visiting the rural parts of a country and tracking down a run-down little pub that has been around for generations. Perhaps some people are of the idea that bigger cities have become such a melting pot of cultures that any trace of regional tradition is bound to become lost. Of course, there’s validity in worrying about the premature death of something so beloved. But giving in to this fear inherently denies something I know to be true: the restaurant industry is built on people trying to pass down ancestral wisdom. Be it through a late grandmother’s recipe or nixtamalization, chefs will always carry with them traces of their history in one way or another. So as long as there’s curiosity and hunger, no gastronomical subculture can ever truly die.

I usually write for the girlies (my three friends that actually read my online rants). But lately , I’ve been feeling philanthropic, and I feel it’s time I bestow upon men the wisdom I’ve acquired throughout years and years of dating. As the token single friend in the group chat, I’ve taken it upon myself to serially date so that my paired-up friends can live vicariously through my experiences. Many of my weekends have consisted of me being subjected to traumadumping, lovebombing, and many other chronically online terms that would make any millennial have an aneurysm. I’m by no means a victim of the situation, because I’ve come to understand that you actually learn more about yourself than the people you date. I always have fun, and when it’s bad, at least I’ll have a little story to entertain my friends with.

Going out with a man who my friends came to call “Kinky Habibi” after he started dirty talking at me at a particularly non-sexual moment was definitely not my proudest moment. But he remains a local celebrity in my friend group to this day. We still run into him on occasion and have a little giggle, remembering the debrief we had the morning after. The story of the time I forced a man who was pushing 40 to come to a drag bar with me on the first date is one I’m sure my friends remember fondly. I do it all for the girlies. I subject myself to this cruel and unusual punishment merely for entertainment purposes.

My years of qualitative research culminated a couple of weeks ago, when I got a message from some guy asking if I wanted to go out on Thursday. I’m not one to ever deny anyone a date, so I gladly obliged. I was thinking drinks; he was thinking coffee run. I wasn’t particularly looking for anything long-lasting on this date, but I knew right then and there: that was not my man.

Why was I so appalled by the idea of a coffee date? The mere thought of it terrified me. I still to this day haven’t fully understood why something so trivial sent me on a spiral. I asked all my girlfriends if they thought I was overreacting. I had an impromptu meeting with my shrink to see if this was by any chance indicative of a much larger issue (alcoholism). Having searched for answers with little luck, I resorted to the only solution that works wonders every time: I journaled. It took only a few sentences to get to the bottom of it, so here are my findings:

I love coffee runs. In the words of the ever-so-wise Lorelai Gilmore, I need my coffee in an IV. I would rather bite on a marble staircase with all the strength in my jaw than go on a coffee run as a first date. I like my coffee black, and I like it the second I wake up. I don’t think my sacred morning ritual pairs well with a man I don’t know interrogating me, or—even worse—telling me about himself. If I wanted to bear witness to the conversations that occur during a coffee date, I’d probably be more productive about it and simply go on LinkedIn, apply for a job, and get interviewed by some recruiter in the HR department. I’m positive I’m not the only girl who feels this way.

The thing about the coffee date is that it’s counterintuitive. A man trying to take somebody on a coffee date probably believes that his intentions seem more sincere that way. It’s almost like they’re trying to make a point—that they genuinely want to get to know you and that they don’t rely on distractions to impress you—just their conversation. I understand the rhetoric**,** but in my opinion it’s quite flawed.

The truth is, the crashout I had was in fact indicative of a much larger issue. And that is the fact that, for some reason, I have been led to believe that true connection can be easily achieved through a night of heavy drinking. Bring back first dates with alcoholic undertones! Even if it’s just one drink, we want to see the real you—the one that’s at their messiest and most vulnerable. Girls want to psychoanalyze you based on your drinks of choice. Are you a red-wine-drinking sommelier? Snobby. A highball man? Probably golfs, probably in finance or sales. Do you drink a fruity cocktail? Performative. Negroni? This man fucks. (I’ve taken the liberty of making a definition list below so that you too can decipher your date based on their drink of choice).

Show us how late you’re willing to stay up on a weeknight when you’re hitting it off with someone! Trauma dump us a little! Say something that’s somewhat off-putting that will leave us overthinking the day after. Demonstrate how you react when, inevitably, your favorite ex slides into the bar with that one guy you never really liked. Get insecure, be a complete asshole about it, and show your true colors right from the jump. The right person will stay, the wrong person will flee, and somebody who’s just looking for a fun (or toxic) time will linger. That’s what dating is all about!

I understand that the idea of a first date always being at a bar can sound overwhelming. There must be a classier way to go about this. Some men might try to adapt a first date based on the woman’s interests. If she’s a holistic girl, they might be tempted to join her at her 9:00 a.m. vinyasa. If she has a Letterboxd account, the safe choice might be a double feature. These dates are all valid—but I suggest waiting until the second or third dates to get into more customized activities.

I think the perfect first date should have the following qualities: always at a bar, always during a weeknight, never a means for fact collecting. I’ve explained the bar thing: a casual drink is the best way to be vulnerable with somebody you have no reason to be vulnerable with (yet). The weekday thing is a little more straightforward: nobody wants to waste a Friday night on a first date. Offering a weekday date is a win-win situation for both parties: as the person who is asking out, it’s a low-commitment date so rejection can be very telling. As the person who is being asked out, it’s easy to get out of a weekday date and blame it on your job.

The third point could be slightly controversial, but I think the best dates exclude talking about your personal life. The worst dates are the ones where it feels like the other person is collecting data rather than actually engaging in conversation. What do you do? What did you study? Are you the eldest sibling? What are your hobbies? It’s almost like we insist upon going on the same date over and over again—except we’re going out with different people, so there’s no reason to make it the same date.

And obviously, I get it—it’s easy to go for the low-hanging fruit of asking about work or family life, but it’s important to ask ourselves whether those answers would actually mean something to us or not. Especially when you’re only dating for fun. Personally, these facts about people will have little to no influence on me wanting to pursue any sort of interpersonal relationship further. Who cares if you work in private equity if you’re not quick-witted? Good banter does not rely on whether you moved around a lot as a child. The best way to know if you’re meant to continue hanging out with a person should solely be based on how interesting you find them. Getting to know about someone’s personal life is only interesting when you already know them, because it adds context and layers. If you start with the personal details, you’re indulging in information that, until that point, is meaningless. Example: if you tell me about your parents’ separation on the first date, it’s hard for me to care. I don’t know you yet, so there would truly be no reason for me to care. If, however, we spent our first date talking about our favorite movies, the second date visiting your favorite restaurant, and then the third date talking about your family—I’ll be more intrigued. I might actually care. Because until now I’ve been trying to figure out where our common ground lies, and now that that’s settled, I get to understand why it is we have that common ground.

In case it wasn’t clear before: this isn’t a guide to finding the love of your life. Following these tips won’t even ensure that you hit it off with the person you’re going on the date with. The efficacy of this dating format lies in the fact that you can get a better sense of what you’re getting into right from the start. It also lies in the reframing of the date: dating for fun, to make a memory, to actually get to know somebody and see what you can learn from them. In the best case, you’ll have a good time and a real connection. In the worst case, you’ll sit in a dimly lit bar, drinking a cosmopolitan while listening to the drunken ramblings of someone whose story might actually be worth telling.

What are we drinking?

• Pet Nat, Cider, or any wine that’s not grape based (ex. cherry, orange, plum)
  Fuckboy Chef — probably based his personality on The Bear, will definitely be complaining about how his favorite bar now only hosts “normies.” He says he’s read Kitchen Confidential but I’m not sure he knows how to read.

• Negroni
  Probably an Aquarius, probably pseudo-intellectual, definitely ran through. He absorbs the interests of the women he dates and that’s what ultimately makes him interesting to his new conquests. His love for Vermouth was passed onto him by the Spanish woman he met on his gap year.

• Highball (Whiskey Soda)
  Pursuing a relationship with this man will inevitably turn you into a golf widow. He’s good on paper, but terrible everywhere else. He does only what’s expected of him, he talks business and gets along with everyone. Probably right-leaning. Certainly has hot takes like “women eating burgers is a turnoff” and “therapy is for the weak.”

• Aperol Spritz
  This man thinks Gstaad Guy is the pinnacle of comedy and relatability. He listens to Julio Iglesias and enjoys long walks on the beach — as long as it’s in Europe. He thinks he’s classy because he bought the cheapest thing at Loro Piana. He’s probably on Raya.

• Rum & Coke
  This man is a raging alcoholic but in a somewhat endearing way. He drinks to get over his high school sweetheart, listens to José José, and proudly assumes the role of “golden retriever boyfriend.” He’s a certified simp and is not afraid to beg for breadcrumbs. Probably a water sign. Very sentimental and passionate.

• Fruity Cocktail
  A male manic pixie dreamgirl. The performative man final boss. Simulates being in touch with his feminine side to make women feel at ease. Totebags. Matchas. Misused therapy speak. Reads Joan Didion at the coffee shops he knows round up the most baddies.

• IPA
  This is a sweet man, there’s just really not much to talk about. He means well though. He mansplains but it’s in an “autistic special interest” way rather than a sexist way.

• “I’ll have what she’s having”
  Veteran fuckboy. Submissive in bed. Lovebombs then ghosts.

• Carta Blanca (or any other manly Mexican beer)
  This can mean one of two things. The first man is nostalgic, sweet, and simple. Never goes too hard, is low-key unambitious and unbothered, but very sweet and wholesome. He’s into team sports and is beloved by his friends. The second man has only ever spoken sentences that were once uttered by his incredibly sexist father. If an OnlyFans model ever pops up in your For You page, you can rest assured this man’s like will be shown at the bottom of the page. He not-so secretly hates all of his girlfriends.

• Mezcal (with a side of orange slices and spicy candy)
  This is probably an older man who will mop the floor with your self-esteem. He considers himself cultured and likes to talk about his grievances and past adventures as if he were a grandfather bestowing ancient wisdom upon his offspring. He probably learned that his actions have consequences on a post-breakup ayahuasca trip. These men operate on triggering your dopamine receptors and then pulling back. When they sense you stop being interested in them, they always find a way to keep you engaged. Mezcal man has all the makings of a 3-month-long evil situationship.

When I was younger, dinner parties almost always meant having to sit next to people I didn’t particularly want to hang out with. Like my parents’ friends’ children. Or a creepy uncle. Or maybe my dad’s colleague who was in town on business. In Mexico, these acquaintances are called “Compromisos,” which basically means people who you have a duty to be cordial with for whatever reason, and most of the time it’s for reasons that are not of your own doing. Larry David described this perfectly on an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm when he said that there are certain people in your life who you have to “stop and chat” with. People you’re not really friends with, but when you run into them there’s an unspoken gravitational pull that makes you not only greet them but also forces you into mindless and somewhat uncomfortable small talk. They’re people you don’t know well enough to have substantial conversations with, but who you know too well to walk past without asking about their families.

This used to be the connotation for dinner parties: sharing uninteresting conversations and uninteresting food with people who are merely acquaintances—usually out of duty rather than volition. The more effort that went into the gathering, the less you truly cared about the people you were dining with. Reunions at home with people you actually cared about used to be more low-maintenance—because your closest friends or family members know that’s not actually how clean your house looks on a Sunday. Intimate get-togethers were usually barbecues, group takeout orders, “carne asadas.” Good conversations, easy-to-prepare meals, probably paper plates.

I’ve noticed a shift in this dynamic. And I’m not sure if it’s actually a thing—maybe I’ve finally fallen victim to the echo chamber that is my algorithm. I now believe that what is being shown to me on my For You page is indicative of a worldwide trend. But I’m almost certain that the culinary industry as a whole has taken a turn with the rise of “supper clubs,” “pop-ups,” and content creation centered on the art of hosting a good dinner party. I’m grouping these things because although they are different, their rise in popularity, I feel, is consecuence of the same sociological pattern. Up-and-coming chefs, content creators, and home cooks are switching the narrative—making dinner parties cool.

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Supper clubs are basically dinner parties you pay for. It’s the Chef’s Table concept on steroids—and it’s frankly a concept that I love. A trend that made its way through the alternative scene, supper clubs usually begin with line cooks or resident chefs starting them more as an exercise in freedom and creativity than as a side hustle. The thing about the restaurant industry is that it’s kind of a juxtaposition: you place free spirits, artists, and alcoholics in a controlled environment that can only thrive under extreme order, pristine conditions, and pseudo-automated processes. Now, I’m not saying that all line cooks are artists—but at the very least they are people who wouldn’t last a day in a desk job. They need to be on their feet, navigating the adrenaline and getting yelled at just to feel something. And they do it all while in a confined space, repeating the same task over and over.

Chefs who are more experimental will often find themselves struggling between cooking what inspires them and cooking what sells. Supper clubs came to give these misunderstood chefs a chance to elaborate their own menus—no bullshit, no exceptions, take it or leave it. They have fixed menus that might not even follow a theme or be coherent, which to me is the best part about these experiences. You’re literally taking a trip into the psyche of whoever made the meal. This is what sparks inspiration in them. Each menu item is meant to flex their skills, their worldview, and their creativity—it’s somewhat of a gastronomic pissing contest.

What used to be an underground way of getting to know an eclectic menu has now gone mainstream—so much so that The New York Times recently made a guide to the world’s best supper clubs.

Pop-ups are more of the same, in a different font. These usually consist of Instagram chefs who get invited to already established restaurants for a day or two. They cook there, either operating on a fixed menu or making a singular item that will be sold there for a limited time. Trendy restaurants will invite creators (think Salt Hank or Chuck Cruz) to lure in visitors and offer a homey, unpretentious collaboration.

For the ones doing the cooking, it’s a good way to have their stage set and to get a taste of the hustle outside of their own kitchens—especially for the creators who are not actually professionally trained chefs. For the restaurants participating in these takeovers, it’s a low-risk way to produce engagement. They maintain relevancy and get to switch things up without seeing their sales affected in the long run.

And my favorite, of course, is the surge in content creators dedicated to teaching us the perfect way to set a table, and the perfect menu for your guests to indulge in. A generation who grew up watching Ina Garten before school and fantasizing over Nancy Meyers’ tablescapes was always bound to change the hosting game. Creators like Isabelle Heikens with Dinner at Isabelle’s are not only having guests over for dinner, but rather creating thematic experiences with menus that match perfectly with the plates, glasses, and flowers on the table.

It’s not just cooking—it’s performance art that transcends its tradwife connotations. Hosting is no longer seen as something “girly” and boring—it’s cool. The recipes are edgier, and being proper is no longer a requirement—“TMI” now stands for “tell me immediately”! It’s good food paired with an intricate ambiance and a very delicately planned place setting- and I for one am smitten with it’s rise in popularity.

These three concepts might be different, but they all originate from the same desire: chefs need to be able to express themselves and experiment without the cost and risk of actually having a restaurant. This might actually be our biggest recession indicator yet. Natural-born hosts are finding ways to monetize their passions without it biting them in the ass later.

I’m not saying these jobs are easy—they’re definitely not. What I am saying is that many times being authentic is not profitable. That’s why many restaurants have to compromise their elevated menus for more basic recipes that they know will attract customers. In an industry where costs are constantly growing (ingredients, rent, salaries—you name it), cooking from the comfort of your own home might be the only way to go about it. I feel like I’ve witnessed in real time how restaurants got smaller and smaller as the rents got higher, until eventually there were no more restaurants—just dinner parties.

This is a trend I’m all for, and I completely understand its origins—it’s its popularity I just can’t seem to crack. It makes no sense to me how, after a pandemic where we were all desperate to go outside, the new culinary scene is found in our own kitchens.

Restaurants had to build social-distance bubbles on the streets because we were dying to feel even a semblance of what it was like to eat out. We were literally gnawing at our doors begging to get out, creating clandestine nightclubs and faking vaccine tests just to get a taste of what was outside—and now look at us. It’s not a comfort thing, because whoever has hosted a dinner party knows there’s nothing comfortable about hosting.

It might, however, be a familiarity thing. Maybe we grew so used to being at home that we learned to be more intentional about it. Home used to be a place to touch base—our real world was outside. During the pandemic, our homes became where we learned to be safe and intimate, while simultaneously becoming the place where we tried new things. Everybody learned how to make sourdough, or bought an online mixology masterclass, maybe even got into gardening and started harvesting their own tomatoes.

This might be the reason why dinner parties are in right now. We want community, and now more than ever we feel like we need familiarity. Dinner parties, supper clubs, and pop-ups might be the way to get the best of both worlds.

I don’t know if I hit the nail on the head with my analysis—but regardless, I think these trends represent a very refreshing cultural shift. I’m definitely not upset about it. Actually, I think this is just what we needed—especially as consumers.

The thing about restaurants is that oftentimes, as customers, we think we know things. We think that because we watched Kitchen Nightmares and have been to places featured in the Michelin Guide that we know better than the restaurant. This belief makes us picky and insufferable—and many restaurants have come to spoil us rotten, giving us what we think we want instead of what we need.

These days, everything is personalized for us—we’ve grown accustomed to never hearing “no,” to always having things be catered exactly to our likings. As a sort of rebellion against this consumerist need to control, hosts and home cooks are now giving us the slap in the face we’ve so desperately deserved.

I love an intimate setting where a chef pours their guts out to me. I love being put in my place culinarily—to have somebody with years of experience explain to me why fennel ash would belong on a Pacific oyster. I love somebody influencing me to try something I wouldn’t have discovered on my own.I think I have good taste, but I understand that the best meals I’ve ever had have been discovered when asking a chef to surprise me. The meals I order for myself might be delicious, but the meals I have no say in are almost always transformative.

Surrender could now be the real privilege. Giving away control of your senses to somebody who is passionate about their craft is something we should all want once in a while. Getting to know somebody’s home (be it physically or online), seeing how they set a table, and tasting what they make for you is like reading their manifesto.

It might be casual narcissism—people in the food industry love having their egos stroked. Be it as it may, we’ve become self-obsessed and boomerish to a point of no return. We’re so wrapped up in our personal takes that we’re hesitant to get into something we don’t already know and love. That’s why, even when we were set to be the rebellious generation, we find ourselves at the same restaurants as our parents, begging on Twitter for movie reboots, and fighting on Ticketmaster for Oasis revival tickets. Restaurateurs have succumbed to our generic and redundant needs. The people hosting are taking a stand, rebelling against the need consumers feel to control.

In forcing us to try something different, these new players are definitely becoming a win for the culinary scene as a whole. And the people who are attending these gatherings and making these spaces popular are contributing to that win. The people who get the limited-edition sandwich, who sit at the table and Shazam the songs being played, and who tell their friends about this new place they have to try—are all promoting a more innovative and versatile culinary scene.

One that’s more about substance and novelty than about budget. One where niche concepts can actually thrive. One where dinner parties are no longer a chore to cross off your list of to-dos, but rather something in your calendar you look forward to.

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The Tradwife is a semi-new archetype that has popped up all over everybody’s For You page. She loves to make her family’s favorite meals from scratch every single day, she has an army of a million children, and yet is somehow always impossibly slim. She’s almost always from Utah yet upholds Tennessee Christian values. She’s skeptical of big pharma, not in a wary-of-corporations kind of way, but rather in a QAnon–alt-right-conspiracy-theorist kind of way. She wakes up at 6 a.m. to tend to her garden, because she needs to harvest any produce her husband might be in the mood for later in the week. She married young, so she finds it in herself to have the energy to homeschool all of her kids and run around with them on their farm—all while wearing a designer sundress and a full face of makeup. The blueprint for this archetype is none other than Hannah Neeleman, the mind behind the viral Instagram account “Ballerina Farm.”

Neeleman has been a noteworthy subject for many journalists—notably for The New York Times writer Julia Moskin, who wrote a very controversial exposé on her and her family. This lifestyle has sparked debate online regarding gender politics, domestic life, and the new age discourse on femininity. But homemaking is not new, and it certainly isn’t something we’ve eradicated either. So, what seems to be the problem with Hannah Neeleman that we just haven’t been able to stomach?

The typical critique that arises when speaking on Ballerina Farm (and other creators like her) is that she perpetuates unachievable standards when it comes to being a housewife—and has turned something as fundamental as cooking into something perceived as inherently feminine. She creates content that can only be described as an incel’s wet dream. Men will look at this beauty queen turned loving mother of eight baking while dressing like a milkmaid and think—now this is what I want. Bring back femininity! Bring back women who wear high heels and bake pies six hours postpartum! We’ve learned to resent her for this way of thinking.

Amid all this buzz, it’s easy to forget that in the 1990s, women everywhere shared these same critiques about Martha Stewart. They thought she was too unattainable. So, why is it we now hate Ballerina Farm but love Martha Stewart, when both of them have built entire brands out of the pleasures of homemaking?

People used to hate Stewart for so effortlessly doing what seemed unachievable to most. But somehow, the hate towards her seemed to fade away very easily. Regardless of her critics, her jail time, and even her brief appearance on Comedy Central, she remains relevant, widely adored, and ceaselessly imitated. I think as a society we’ve learned to fall in love with Martha because of her duality. Somebody who started off her career serving as rage bait for housewives everywhere ended up becoming profoundly endearing to us. She’s feminine, gardens, hosts, cooks—all while simultaneously taking the New York Stock Exchange by storm. She fits right in with the Hamptons crowd, while also being Snoop Dogg’s token white girl. She made the inmates cucumber sandwiches at Federal Prison Camp Alderson, for Christ’s sake. She’s on the cover of Sports Illustrated one day and sporting a shawl on another. She got into weed in the most demure and mindful of ways, manufacturing cute little yuzu-flavored CBD gummies. She’s known for cooking for the people she loves, all while having a notoriously complicated home life. Also, she’s aged incredibly gracefully. We’ve seen her fail, and we’ve also seen her succeed. Maybe her flaws are what we were actually interested in all along.

The question remains: how have we grown to love her so dearly? Is it because she reminds us that what most perceive as shortcomings as women can become victories elsewhere? Is it because she can be feminine while also leading in male-dominated fields (like insider trading and cheating on your spouse)? Or is it because she’s been transparent with the fact that perfection in one facet of life will almost always come at the expense of another? Is it the complexity of her character that we’ve grown to love and relate with? It’s almost like we were finally finding the sweet spot in which Martha Stewart Living became something realistic for us when all of a sudden Ballerina Farm came onto the scene—reminding men everywhere that their wives can do much, much more. Just when we felt we had earned our womanhood badges by mastering a blueberry scone recipe, Hannah Neeleman made those same scones with milk from a cow she milked herself (all while looking flawless and having a baby attached at the hip). She became the image of femininity, leaving the rest of us wondering just where it is we fit in.

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To me, cooking is not “feminine”; it’s a survival skill—one that everybody—even the most incompetent of men—should have. Making a meal for my loved ones is not something I do out of my duty as a woman. Whoever has witnessed me getting a stove burn can attest to the fact that there is nothing ladylike about the way I cook. Some of the best meals I’ve ever made have had me looking my worst—be they happy accidents created while cooking drunk, or the perfect breakfast crafted while still wearing last night’s mascara.

Now, while I certainly don't believe that things like cooking, tending to a garden, or child care are inherently feminine—I do believe that there are certain attributes that are. Being gentle is feminine, being caring is feminine, being detail-oriented is feminine. These are all attributes that can come in handy in the kitchen or while babysitting, that’s for sure. Perhaps that’s why these activities are often associated with womanhood. The problem is when we fail to recognize that these attributes are also valuable all throughout different contexts. These “feminine values” at home can be translated into important skills in the workplace, for example. That’s why Martha Stewart has always been a trailblazer, even in the stock market. It might be a man’s world, but it is nothing without a woman’s touch.

The Ballerina Farm phenomenon goes beyond only homemaking—it’s also tampered with the sanctity of cooking. Tradwives and their followers have reclaimed cooking as their own. They’ve made a mockery out of making brioche buns from scratch. Now, every time I wear a cute apron or fawn over a baby pink Le Creuset Dutch oven, people will assume I’m an antivaxxer. I resent that. How can something that’s necessary not only for survival but also for the culture be reduced to an idiosyncrasy of a Tradwife? It’s a disgusting point of view because not only is it incredibly sexist, but it’s also simply not accurate.

Contemporarily, some of the world’s best chefs are men. These days, boys who wouldn’t typically know how to turn on a stove are now becoming home cooks. Even the Gym Bros have taken up cooking to ensure they get in their macros. Historically, cooking has been a practice that has transcended gender, race, or ethnicity—take barbecue, for example. A practice that was once performed by slaves as a means of survival has now shaped an entire culture with its own rituals, regional differences, and varying methods. Cooking is not an obligation to be embraced by devoted wives—it’s culture, it’s history, it’s a love language, it’s a vessel for community, it’s everything that makes life special.

People who love Ballerina Farm believe that making her husband’s cravings by the time he comes home from work is what any supportive wife should do. In my mind, she’s a woman who cooks out of necessity—because she believes in a role that she committed to when she married her husband. Always look good, always cook from scratch, never be a burden. In her mind, the perfect wife always has food on the table and a baby on the way—and I believe it’s more so something that’s done as an act of duty rather than an act of love. Many people share this opinion.

On the other hand, we who love Martha Stewart love her because she’s real. She teaches us that true femininity is something women carry with them everywhere they go—even if that place is jail. Through example, she shows us that you can be both the Madonna and the Whore; they aren’t mutually exclusive. Martha Stewart Living says you’re not a lesser woman for not wanting children, for thriving in your career, for having a messy personal life, for being somewhat of a cunt, or for taking the occasional edible.

As I write this, I find myself struggling not to fall into the same patriarchal fallacies that I’m trying to denounce. In criticizing the Tradwife persona, it’s easy to reduce these women to caricatures—to sexy mannequins who do nothing but please their husbands, and who are completely helpless. It’s hard to speak on this subject without giving off the impression that willingly embracing domesticity is something negative. In expressing that I feel repelled by their lifestyles, I make it seem as though I believe something as beautiful as cooking for your family is oppressive. It’s not. In claiming that certain things aren’t inherently feminine, I seem to be rejecting femininity—but I don’t.

Cooking for your loved ones is sacred and should always be encouraged—regardless of your gender. Femininity is not only beautiful, but also a necessary component in every aspect of life, not just in domestic chores. How women choose to go about their home lives (or lack thereof) is their prerogative. The issue might not even be Ballerina Farm herself—it’s the perception the public has of her lifestyle that is the real poison. Because in praising the Madonna, the mythical picture of womanhood, we find ourselves struggling to find something that exists only on Instagram. The thing is, a woman who can be a good mother and a loving wife is perfection. But a woman who can go out and see what else the world has to offer her is powerful.

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Maybe it was because of the height of the #MeToo movement, or because of the string of romcoms centered on letting women know, “He’s Just Not That Into You.” But at some point, for a singular glistening moment, women were no longer oblivious to a fuckboy’s antics. We had finally understood the fuckboy formula—he only makes plans with you at 10 p.m., he never really asks about you or your interests, he goes on and on about how special and different you are, and commends you for being “not like other girls.” He validates you for being low maintenance, which inevitably keeps you settling for less because that’s what he’s trained you to believe is the best part about you. He telepathically senses when you start being interested in someone else, or simply stop being as interested in him, and immediately amps up all the romance that had been hiding away somewhere during the entirety of the relationship (because no matter what he’s led you to believe, it was a relationship). He knows exactly what to say to keep you hooked, but will never act accordingly. If he’s older, he’ll always congratulate you for being so mature for your age. If he’s your age, he’ll always talk about a future you’re in, but never a present.

These tactics have slowly become dead giveaways for fuckboy behavior, and like I said, as a species, we began to detect it pretty easily. It was somewhat of a loss for the culture because in my heart I believe that part of the human experience is to fall head over heels for a Machiavellian little man who was only ever meant to hurt you. These experiences shape us, shape our standards, and have the power to either make us shy away from love or indulge in it even more passionately.

I consider myself to be intense in matters of the heart. I go all in, I lovebomb, I create scenarios in my head and make the man brownies on the second date. It’s who I am. It’s without a doubt made people think I’m batshit crazy, but it’s honestly one of the qualities I love about myself the most. I think it’s good to love recklessly knowing full well the hurt that can follow. Every heartbreak I’ve been through has made me go clinically insane. I am also fascinated by every single friend I have made after the age of 20. They now hold a special place in my life, and I love them immensely. High risk, high reward. All this to say, enduring a lot of hurt for wearing your heart on your sleeve is not necessarily a bad thing. And at some point or another, it’s absolutely necessary to get fucked over by an evil situationship. It builds character. Keeps your friends entertained. Makes all your future dates wonder if you had an absent father growing up.

There were always little easter eggs that would let a girl know if she was being preyed on by a fuckboy (some of whom decided to stay there willingly under the guise of fixing him, but that’s a different story). I’m recently finding that things have changed, and I’m now a rookie at a game I once considered myself to be a seasoned veteran at.

It all started when my little sister brought home her first boy. Baby’s first situationship. Being extremely protective of her, and incandescently skeptical of men in general, I was surprised to find I actually liked the guy. Not only did I like him—I gave the man his flowers. I made an absolute fool of myself speaking highly of him at my family dinner only to find out a week later that he would hit my sister up with the classic, “I'm just not ready for a relationship right now.” I was absolutely mortified. I had been fooled by a child about eight years my junior. Me! The woman that I am! It was absolutely embarrassing to know that this child’s game was so slick that even I couldn’t detect it.

My sister quickly moved on—she’s a lot smarter than me, and a better woman than I am. I, however, kept thinking, and my head kept spinning on and on trying to find the signs that I had missed. At this point, it wasn’t really even about them anymore, but rather a hyperfixation with trying to understand why. I quickly realized that fuckboys have evolved. They’ve heard our TikTok rants and have beared witness to the memes we’ve made. They know we’re on to them, so they took note and quietly changed the rules of the game I’m definitely no longer a hall-of-famer at.

They’ve realized that for women, everything is a meritocracy. In most cases, intimacy will only be awarded to the highest bidder. The game consists of determining what each woman considers to be a worthy bid. For most of us, the worthiest bid is the one that makes you feel the safest. That can mean very different things for different women, but I think I can speak for most of us when I say that there’s nothing that can make you feel safer than someone who takes care of you, appreciates you for who you are, and makes you feel comfortable being yourself.

When you find someone that collects these attributes, there comes the feminine urge to let your guard down. When I was a kid, the lady who gave us sex ed would tell us about the repercussions of having sex outside of the “relationship box.” I’d like to challenge her statement, because it was never really about sex. The real repercussions lie in emotional vulnerability (whatever that may mean to each person) being misplaced, and now more than ever it’s been misplaced on the basis of sex.

Men heard our cries, our yearning for something deep and meaningful—and realized that fabricating something deep and meaningful could possibly be the only way to hit. That’s why Mr. “not ready for a relationship” caught me so off my game. I hadn’t realized this before. Because to me, and possibly to most women—meeting the parents, having pet names, spending every weekend together, and trauma dumping each other is indicative of someone that in fact is ready for a relationship.

Because in being constantly bombarded by “if he wanted to, he would” content, I had been falsely led to believe that if he in fact does do what you would expect him to do in your romantic fantasies, it’s because he actually does like you. I might be fucking dull, but I used to think that if someone told you that they like you and they think you’re unlike anybody else they’ve ever met, it’s probably because they like you and they think you’re unlike anybody else they’ve ever met! But nothing is sacred anymore!

That’s why you can now go on three dates a week together while the sun is still out, have intimate conversations, and even be the object of bold declarations of love—and still wonder if the man you’re seeing is actually into you.

It might be pure evil. It might have something to do with the “male loneliness epidemic,” and the fact that men now more than ever feel isolated and in need of an emotional connection. Fuckboys used to run away from anything relationship-adjacent (other than sex, of course). But the times have changed—even fuckboys need a forehead kiss sometimes. They want companionship and someone to stroke their ego.

The disadvantage for us, however, lies in the fact that access without accountability is only ever favorable for men. Because it’s easy to fall for someone who gives you all the fun parts of a relationship—the dates, the sweet talk, the cuddles. But without the uncomfortable parts, you’re left with merely the simulation of a relationship—and a whole lot of resentment.

The thing is, this new breed of fuckboy is not like the ones prior. They aren’t emotionally unavailable, per se—they’re emotionally performative. They pretend they don’t know how to be your boyfriend while simultaneously fulfilling boyfriend duties. They never actually choose you, but they’ve mastered the art of acting like someone who might.

New-age fuckboys are infinitely more powerful than the old ones. The old ones are pitiful, cartoonish even. It took them time to understand that having been hooked on porn since the age of 10 gave them a bit of a disadvantage when it came to understanding what women actually want. They were easy to get over because their intentions were always clear, their tactics always sleazy and gross. It never occurred to them that women feed on connection and gestures. They hadn’t understood that sex is the prize women give for good behavior—not the consequence of repeated deadbeat behavior.

Much like the Omicron variant of Covid-19, new-age fuckboys have evolved into something stronger and almost impossible to get rid of. And the worst part is that there’s not much you can do to stop yourself from getting hit. The vaccine won’t grant you immunity—it will only make you survive.

There’s not a woman in the world who is hip to the tricks of this new variant. No matter how emotionally intelligent, how guarded, how good at communication—there’s literally nothing a girl can do to test the intentions of the new-age fuckboy except for simply waiting it out. If you’re going to get fucked over, you’re going to get fucked over. C’est la vie.

My conclusion seems anticlimactic, cynical even. Sometimes hurt is inevitable—and like I said earlier—not only is it inevitable, but sometimes it’s necessary. To keep you humble. To make your table talk more engaging. And for growth in general.

On occasion, your intuition will be off, for better or for worse. Sometimes you meet the evil man and mistake him for the future father of your children. Sometimes you meet someone you could’ve been great with, and you self-sabotage because of the lingering Omicron symptoms.

My final advice is this: Don’t date to marry—do it as an anthropological study. It’s field work. Get to know a person simply to observe, understand, segment your findings, and share them with your friends. Everybody has something to teach us. Learn things from the people you date and take what you learned with you.

Be that a new playlist, a restaurant you hadn’t visited, a hobby you hadn’t yet tried—or a new manipulation method. Having fun should always be the #1 priority. Give in. Indulge. Never overanalyze actions and lean only on your feelings. When something starts to feel off, don’t be afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions. Find comfort in making the man you’re dating uncomfortable. They need to be humbled as well.

Enjoy dating in any way it’s presented to you, whether it’s Regency-era courting or just casual sex. Be open and honest about what you want. And if it ends badly, always remember: there’s no shame in having fun with the wrong ones while the right one comes along.

I’ve always had a theory on people raised in Mexico possessing an extra layer of passion and emotional depth that can’t be easily comprehended by someone who has never lived there. I don’t mean that to sound like a nationalist declaration. At its core I believe that this depth has its foundation in a collective suffering that has been internalized by a society ridden with violence, scarcity in the midst of surplus, corruption, and catholic guilt. It’s not a depth achieved by merit, but rather by circumstance. This is what I call Mexican Yearning, and it’s something that I believe can never be fully explained, only felt and perceived. It can be heard in the murmurs of bars or on the women’s side of a family gathering. The most basic and straightforward example of the Mexican Yearn is the fact that there’s a holiday fully dedicated to longing for your loved ones who have passed, and honoring their memories. Every November, we say: “I love you, I miss you, I don’t know where you are but I left out this shot of your favorite mezcal for you, just in case.”

The deeper you understand the culture, the more you can clock it in even the most mundane acts that often go unnoticed. Something I’ve been thinking about recently is how in the States, generations have been raised on songs like “YMCA” or “Sweet Caroline.” Mexican children, however, have been raised on music that in popular culture has been recognized as the music that hurting, single mothers listen to while washing dishes (La Gata Bajo la Lluvia by Rocío Dúrcal will always be my personal favorite). When you think about it, this yearn is the only reason why, in a country so incredibly homophobic, our grandparents would still idolize singers like Juan Gabriel and Chavela Vargas for their melancholic lyrics and poignant voices. In cinema, many directors have captured it (some of the most notable examples can be seen in Y Tu Mamá También by Alfonso Cuarón and Amores Perros by Alejandro González Iñárritu). Many authors have written great novels that can all be simplified to a man’s struggle with Mexican Yearning (see Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo or Los de Abajo by Mariano Azuela).

Mexico is a country that carries so many distinct feelings, but seems to have nowhere to place them. When caught in this predicament, you simply learn to incorporate those feelings into everything you do. We carry our emotions in our hands, but they are constantly overflowing—slipping through our fingers and falling sometimes into the stadium, sometimes during a fight with friends, sometimes while being followed around by a stray dog.

I once read a quote that said something along the lines of, “Creative people who repress their creativity often find themselves falling hopelessly in love with ordinary people who aren’t worth all the effort,” and I feel that this speaks to the root cause of this yearning. In a country so rich in culture and color, it’s almost impossible not to spark creativity. Circumstance, however, often represses creativity, leaving people with an insatiable longing for passion in the most ordinary things. That insatiable longing for passion in everything is the Mexican Yearn.

This is why, when visiting a country as spiritual as Japan, I expected to find myself dissecting the parallels between Mexican Yearning and Japanese Reflection. My limited knowledge of tea ceremonies and Zen gardens had led me to believe that in the very fabric of their DNA, the Japanese held a deep appreciation for their environments and a sensibility toward their own internal worlds. My findings were not far off from my hypothesis.

In Mexico, family is God. In Japan, duty is God. Duty as an employee, to do a good job even without incentive. Duty as a citizen to keep the streets litter-free, public transportation quiet, and everybody around you feeling respected at all times. Coming from a country where noise, chaos, and unrest seem to be the norm, it was refreshing—somewhat eerie even—to be around so many effortlessly tranquil people. It was weird because I found the Japanese cities that I visited to be so soulless yet so spiritual all at once.

Soulless sounds like a harsh word, but to me a soulful place is one with dialogue, passion, fire, EMOTION. Conflict is soulful, friend groups are soulful, being loud (with substance) is soulful. But what the Japanese lack in what I perceive as soul, they make up for in spirituality. The Japanese feel deeply; they just manifest their feelings in a different way. Their love and appreciation for the external world is evident. Like I said, they have mastered the art of pondering—of careful consideration for the elements, architecture, ingredients. They don’t need to be loud because they can sit still and transmit whatever it is they want to with gestures, the way they dress, the way they glance. It was so foreign to me, to say so much without saying anything at all. This is Japanese Reflection.

Mexicans are loud because their surroundings are merely a backdrop for social interactions—most of which are made up of storytelling, singing, dancing, drinking. Which is not to say that the Japanese don’t storytell, don’t sing, don’t dance, don’t drink. I’ve found the main difference is they do it in a way that occupies the least space possible and causes the least amount of disturbance—something Mexicans have very little awareness of.

I thought about Mexico’s current trend: Salas de Despecho. Salas de Despecho are bars that specialize in having their visitors release their inhibitions by screaming sad songs at the top of their lungs (possibly a byproduct of being raised on Rocío Dúrcal, as mentioned earlier). When you visit a Sala de Despecho, you’re likely to find many broken-hearted people, drunk out of their minds, singing songs that remind them of their cheating exes, their absent parents, or their most traumatic experiences. It’s crazy how something that many people view as incredibly vulnerable (singing and airing your grievances) is second nature to Mexicans. So much so that Salas de Despecho are filled to the brim every night with strangers, coworkers, neighbors, or even lifelong friends. Japanese people love singing as well, but they do it in the privacy of karaoke rooms, which are in most cases occupied by smaller groups of people who know each other well. The Japanese drink—many of them in standing izakayas or on the go thanks to their open container laws. For them, drinking is just that—literally drinking. Have your drink and leave, and maybe while you’re leaving, have an extra drink. For Mexicans, drinking is more about socializing. It’s not atypical for a work lunch to get extended into the night while having highballs, tequila shots, and long talks about topics as trivial as sports or as personal as mommy issues. Alcohol is the magic elixir that allows Mexican men to be vulnerable, to sing, to speak their truths. It’s a vessel for reaching your most social self.

Mexican Yearning and Japanese Reflection are woven into the fabric of both countries—not only evident in social practices, but also in many other aspects. Obviously, what stood out to me the most had everything to do with food. I realized that the Japanese cook as if they’re baking. I’ve always fucking hated baking. I find it to be tedious, somewhat mathematical, and always incredibly insufferable. That’s not to say I’m not good at it—I’ll bake the occasional brown butter cookie when I’m in love. What I hate about baking comes down to the fact that it lacks everything I love about cooking: experimenting along the way, measuring with your heart, having unlimited do-overs, and the capacity to take a dish in a different direction at any point in the process. Baking frowns upon not following a process, and it certainly does not entertain the idea of measuring with your heart, for it will invariably, without a doubt, lead to a soggy mess. I’ve always thought that those who cook are Type Bs, and those who bake are Type As. I admire those who bake for having the patience and perfectionism that I so clearly stand in need of. It’s a natural part of Japanese Reflection—to view something as primal as cooking as something worth perfecting, worth following every step seamlessly, reaching a consistent result every single time. When operating on Japanese Reflection, a special regard for ingredients leads you to constantly use only the freshest ones, and to treat them with the utmost care—using the proper knife and the most delicate of techniques. That’s why many restaurants in Japan only have one dish they serve. Be it okonomiyaki, udon, onigiris, or even western classics like pizza or burgers—Japanese chefs have learned the art of losing yourself in the process of creating one singular perfect dish. It can be a lesson on how being authentic and true to what you know, can make the right people gravitate toward your craft.

The Mexican Yearner operates differently. Most restaurants you visit will have menus with phonebook lengths. Because we fall in love with every new dish we discover, but often struggle to let go of the ones we’ve loved in the past. Even when food trends change or when certain key ingredients begin to be frowned upon (we hate seed oils now, apparently), the nostalgic meals can still be found somewhere on the menu for those who haven’t quite gotten over it yet. Where Japanese Reflection says, “I’ve made this perfectly for you to appreciate it as is,” the Mexican Yearner says, “I’ve made this soulfully, so if you can’t appreciate it for what it is, I’ll turn it into what you want.” That’s why on any given day in Mexico you can walk into a seafood restaurant that specializes in octopus tostadas and still order arrachera tacos. (Picky eaters deserve space as well.) The Japanese culinary scene has a firm identity that will not be compromised for the likes of tourists or people with ARFID. But like I said, Mexicans measure with their hearts, so our culinary identity—while definitely very distinct and established—has a bit of wiggle room. Because in matters of the heart, it’s better to please those who are consuming what you make than to please yourself. This is also one of the Mexican culinary scene’s biggest downfalls—in the name of pleasing, chefs tend to compromise their flavors for what the customers want. It’s the main reason why tropicalizing new and inventive flavors becomes almost inevitable. Mexicans will try anything once, but they yearn for what they know and love.

On the other hand, the concept of a “sobremesa” (aka the conversations that go on after the meal) is also an idiosyncrasy of the Mexican Yearner that is a completely foreign concept in Japan. It was a devastating blow for me during my visit because those who know me know that there is nothing I love more than a debrief that can go on for hours on end after a good meal. It’s a ritual that I enjoy endlessly. It’s also a ritual that’s definitely not profitable for restaurants. To have a table full of people who are mostly done ordering, sitting and talking without much consumption, is a wasted sale for restaurateurs. They’re also highly inconvenient for the people partaking in said sobremesa. Once you’re in one, it’s almost impossible to tap out, making any appointment or meeting scheduled within hours of a meal a coin toss. Despite their very apparent impracticality, sobremesas are still widely encouraged—sought after, even. In Japan, meals are more mindful and practical. Omakases are the perfect example of this. You sit, you have a perfect meal that was carefully curated by a chef, eat each item in its own time, and fully experience each bite being completely present. You can pair each course with the sake that most matches the flavors being presented (again, mindful). When the meal is over, you thank the chef, you pay, and you leave. Another customer comes in almost immediately and follows the exact same ritual. It’s a practical and effective way of eating in which everything that’s presented to you is fully experienced and reflected on. The Japanese’s conscious approach to eating is also probably why you aren’t allowed to eat while you walk. Meals are to be taken in, not multitasked. Many of the bars I visited had signs outside with time limits. While drinking plum wine with my sisters in a shoebox bar in Golden Gai, I was gently reminded by the owner that we had only 30 minutes before we would be asked to leave. In my mind (that of a Mexican Yearner), the idea of only going to a bar for 30 minutes is not only terrifying but frankly, also impossible. Thirty minutes is barely enough time for me to set the stage for a lore drop, let alone do it over a few drinks. That kind of policy would make even the most popular Mexican bar go bankrupt effective immediately. Mexican Yearners are keen to loud vulnerability that can only be truly achieved after at least an hour of talking.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way two entirely different cultures—polar opposites even—are both fueled by the same thing: the burden of feeling incredibly deeply. It’s soulful chaos versus soulless perfection. It’s improvisation versus ritual. It’s the belief that discomfort is the price we pay for community versus the belief that giving each other space is real community.

When I got back from my trip, I went straight to my favorite bar (my non-negotiable Thursday tradition). The music was too loud, the people were too drunk, and I sat there for four hours and trauma dumped the manager over a cigarette. And in that moment, though I wasn’t craving the silence that I was just starting to get used to in Japan, I definitely understood its appeal.

It’s become a tradition for me to host a big dinner party on my birthday. I love a long table where the decoration is made up of candles, minimalist flower arrangements, and apéritifs that all follow a specific color scheme. I love crafting the menu weeks beforehand, and creating it in such a way that I know people will reach out to me to ask for recipes later in the week. I like to make the meals taking in mind any dietary restriction so that everybody can feel included. I like these dinners because I get to see the people I love eating what I’ve made for them so carefully. I like the dinners because even though I’m too busy hosting to actually be present, seeing the people I love happy makes me happy.

I realized not very long ago that I’ve learned to understand love through cooking. Everything I know about love can be pinpointed to certain moments — my grandmother checking in on Mondays to see what I’ll be in the mood to eat on Tuesday ,which is the day of our weekly lunch. My dad asking for my opinion before serving anything he cooks — giving me the last word in case his food is missing seasoning or more time in the oven. My best friend making me a comfort meal after a night of heavy drinking, sending me off to sleep satisfied and, hopefully, a little less drunk. My mother and sisters baking sweets on a Sunday night so that I always have a cookie to take as my office snack. The fact that I view cooking as a love language says less about me than it does about the people I’ve been lucky enough to be loved by. It’s not a love language I invented, but rather one I absorbed.

Cooking is an act of love because at its best — it’s thoughtful, it's gentle, and it’s expressive. At its worst, it’s still incredibly personal. You can tell a lot about a person based on the spin they give to a meal when cooking it. How do you like your eggs? What do you add to your microwavable ramen, if anything? That cookie recipe you always make for your friends’ birthdays, where did you get it? Did you find it on Instagram? Did your grandmother pass it down? Did you spend years perfecting it on your own? Behind every meal is a hidden story that’s being told — even with people who hate cooking. A go-to tuna sandwich your co-worker brings can be the nostalgic struggle meal that got them through their college days.

Any opportunity you get to have someone you love cook for you needs to be treasured — it’s a practice that’s actually way more intimate than we’ve been led to believe.

Luckily for me, my love for cooking has brought me close to people who share that same love, and it’s only made my fondness for food grow stronger, my back grow bigger, and my core belief that love can be understood through cooking be reinforced. Simply put — everything I know about love I know because of cooking. And I don’t necessarily mean romantic love. Here’s 3 things I’ve learned about love by letting men cook for me.

1. Being thoughtful is better than being romantic.

Understanding love through the lens of cooking means that you understand love to be expressed in a way that’s not conventional or in your face — it’s subtle, it’s simple, and it says a lot without having to use words. Talk is cheap. Make me dinner instead. One of the men who’s cooked for me, we’ll call the giver. The Giver thinks that love is a service, and not a spectacle.

I woke up on day two of a trip with friends feeling incredibly hungover and with a lingering sense that I should feel embarrassed about something. It’s the type of hangover where your body is fine, but your head is participating in all sorts of mental gymnastics meant to make you feel anxious. It was a morning that called for a blanket and somebody telling me I wasn't being so embarrassing last night. As I was stumbling across the living room trying to find a Liquid IV, The Giver stepped into the room. He gave me a hug and tiptoed into the kitchen. Moments later, he handed me a plate, it had a warm salmon lox bagel with capers and a side of strawberries. The hero I never knew I needed. He didn’t think much of this random act of kindness and carried on with his morning. He didn’t even sit to have breakfast with me. This isn’t a man I’ve ever been in love with, and he’s not in love with me either. This was by no means a bold declaration of love. But it’s a moment that despite its apparent insignificance will definitely stick with me. Because real love (whether it’s romantic or platonic) is when someone fixes a problem you didn’t necessarily know you had.

The Giver sees cooking as an act of service rather than an art or a form of expression. That's why when he cooks for you, it’s a completely selfless act. He sees food as fuel, and is uninterested in the intricacies of creating the perfect recipe. The Giver cooks for you in the same way a dad fixes a leak he found around the house — as a solution to a problem that he was able to identify. The meal The Giver cooks for you might not be the meal you wanted, but it certainly will be the meal you needed. It won’t be something indulgent, but it will be plated at the perfect moment. The Giver knows exactly when you’re hungry, when you are too tired to make something yourself, when you’re on the verge of getting cranky. Real men love to fix shit, and they love to solve problems.

When I had just broken up from my last relationship, the idea of being single excited me. I remember back then all of my not-so-newly single friends would tell me that the excitement would fade, and that sooner rather than later I would be desperate to be in a relationship again. It’s been almost three years and I can say with confidence that the difference between someone who’s happy being single and someone who’s not is the quality of people they surround themselves with. There’s a certain comfort in knowing that I can be taken care of by someone I love without it being romantic. There’s stability in being able to spend time with someone who is thoughtful of you, regardless of your relationship status.

2. Loving someone is synonymous to wanting to share.

The first man who cooked for me set the bar pretty fucking high for the rest of the men who would subsequently cook for me (fuckboy chefs and all). I met him at an early age, so the idea of a man actually sitting down to make an elaborate meal for me seemed like a bold declaration of love. Some things never change. This man is The Pamperer- he believes that love is simply having something you want to share with somebody else. Be that interests, experiences, words, or even material things.

Like The Giver, The Pamperer also knows how to identify your needs, and he finds a way to translate the solution onto a plate. This man travels, so he’s not afraid of bold flavors or aromatics that many people might shy away from. He embraces international cuisine and has a hyperfixation on trying to recreate dishes he’s tried that blew his mind, trying to give the people who are lucky enough to be in his kitchen the same experience. He hates when people get in the way when cooking, he wants his guests seated and engaging in conversation while he works. The only assistance he will ever ask for when cooking can be narrowed down to passing him a beer or peeling and deveining the shrimp (because no chef, no matter how skilled, will miss an opportunity to have someone else devein the shrimp). Being so well-versed in cooking speak, The Pamperer knows exactly what to make for you based on your needs, and he acts accordingly. You’re feeling sick? A traditional chicken rice (a seemingly unassuming dish but actually packed with gingery lemongrass flavor) can do the trick. You’re in the mood for something sweet? The Pamperer will walk off into his garden to find little kumquats to microplane over some vanilla ice cream. He always adds a little extra touch that makes any meal that much more special and thoughtful. You have an obsession with a specific ingredient? He´ll make a feast with said ingredient, making at least two variations of it — all of them more delicious than the next. My only advice would be to avoid telling him you’re on a diet, for his job is to make you feel comforted, and he has no interest whatsoever in trying to create a light, low-carb meal.

This is a man who is solely interested in sharing what he loves, for the people he loves. He doesn’t see food as fuel, he sees it as a vehicle for conversations, experimentation, and memories. It’s probably not easy to be a this way, I feel like it’s one of those things where you’re either born with it or you’re not. You couldn’t conjure up pamperer behavior from someone who doesn’t naturally have it in them, no matter how good of a chef, no matter how dedicated of a host. It’s incredibly easy, however, to love The Pamperer. At his core, he’s a person who likes to share his interests, in a way that’s not pretentious or cryptic. Like Paul McCartney once said, “the love you take is equal to the love you make,” The Pamperer will always be adored. And he will always be the best company.

3. If you really love something, you end up attracting people who love that same thing, even if it’s in a different way than you do.

The last man who “cooked” for me (using the term cooked lightly), didn’t actually cook, he outsourced. I went out with a man who owns restaurants. His idea of a date was inviting me to one of them, and having me try things from the menu I hadn’t tried before. Obviously, the premise of the date was appealing to me. He would carefully prepare fresh oysters with mignonette, off-menu sauces, lime and Tabasco. He asked me what I liked and ordered adjacent items. I tried a salt-cured Mexican sea bass with rosemary, garlic and butter that blew my mind. Every bite was melt-in-your-mouth tender and the flavors were subtly intense. He walked me through what the chef was doing so that I can remember that the making of this meal is actually an extension of his own work. He was the creative mind behind the plating, hiring the staff, building the menu. The Outsourcer says this is more special than just cooking for you — because this is his idea of being vulnerable, letting you look into his daily struggles, his process, his achievements. At the end he ordered my favorite dessert in the world, which is a chocolate pie that I live and die for. This chocolate pie is more like an ice cream s’more — a frozen, creamy chocolate mousse topped with Jet-Puffed-esque icing over a graham cracker crust. He watched me while I ate the entirety of it, it was all very sensual, actually. This is the Outsourcer. He doesn’t actually cook, and he doesn’t have to.

Was this curated vulnerability? Was it a performative way to do the bare minimum and still get me to look up to him for it? Are these actually Fuckboy Chef antics? Probably. In this particular case, I'm not viewing the act of wooing me through food as a thoughtful and personalized act, I barely knew the man. I’m bringing this moment up because to me, it’s proof that we always end up meeting like-minded people. When you truly love something, you naturally attract people who love the same thing, even if their appreciation of it is manifested differently than you’d expect. Regardless of the person, good food is good food, no matter how it gets on the table.

I've realized it doesn’t really matter who cooks for you (or if it’s actually them who’s doing the cooking). Maybe romanticizing something so mundane and so necessary is something that could get me hurt in the end. But the truth is, the men who have cooked for me have taught me more about myself and what makes me feel seen than what they’ve taught me about them.

In the end, I propose that the mere act of cooking is inherently an act of love, be it for yourself or for others, because it has the sole purpose of nurturing. Everything else-the curated plating, the candles, the color schemes-is pure vanity.

A couple of weeks ago, one of my law school buddies asked me for a restaurant recommendation. I told him about a mom-and-pop Italian place in my city’s historical district. Seconds later, this man (an attorney, as established prior) looked me dead in the eye and told me that that’s “girl food,” and he wanted “man food.”

There would be no nuance in discussing the gender politics implicated in his statement, and I have no intention of doing so. I took his observation for what it meant — that he was in the mood for a cantina or a place that serves barbecue. I didn’t take issue with the nature of what he said, because I understand what “girl food” is. It did, however, spark a reflection, because I think there’s a disconnect between what girl food actually is and what men think it is. His idea of girl food was puritan and traditionalist — and simply put, not indicative of the times. Women know what they want to eat, and they’ve made it abundantly clear that it’s not exactly what men would expect.

“Girl food,” as my friend put it — I assume — could be defined as: food that would be perfect for a Wednesday get-together with your girlfriends. Some of the main characteristics of girl food are that it’s not messy to eat and won’t give you bad breath. It’s pretty, it’s dainty, and it’s usually on the lighter side — with sweet treats being the only exception.

Some of the most emblematic traditional “girl foods” include, but are not limited to:

• Cakes, pies, cookies, and any sort of sweet treat your grandmother can make (bonus points if you baked it yourself)

• Paninis (think Lucia Sada)

• Salads (not too hearty, preferably not meaty)

• Diet Coca-Cola (yes, I know it’s a beverage)

• Cosmopolitans (or anything Carrie Bradshaw can be seen drinking on Sex and the City)

• “Girl food” renditions of pasta: preferably angel hair, preferably on the blander side
  
  

But traditional girl food has, as of late, proven to be only a protective veil used to cover the atrocities that women are actually eating. I’m certain that the tier list for what was formerly known as “girl food” was invented by the same man who went around elementary schools telling boys that girls don’t poop.

TikTok, however, served as an unlikely hero, coming to expose the truth behind women’s eating habits. Finally, the veil had been lifted. Some girl on the internet sang the phrase “girl dinner” and showed a snack plate she assembled. This led to a chain reaction of women everywhere showing their own personalized variations of the snack plates they consider to be dinner, revealing what had for so long been our deepest, best-kept secret:

The most beautiful woman you know has an obsession with pickles, tinned fish, and basically anything that was being eaten during the Great Depression. Some common elements seen in “girl dinner” videos include tuna fish, cornichons, semi-cured meats, sardines, banana peppers, and other stinky, briny foods.

Then, Dua Lipa (notorious for being a hot girl) quietly dropped her Diet Coca-Cola recipe, leaving the world in shambles. It was a seemingly meaningless publicity stunt, but it was actually a bold and daring declaration — and there’s plenty of layers to it.

First of all, Diet Coca-Cola is in fact considered traditional girl food. I would argue that it’s actually the emblematic hot girl drink. Mexican women know and understand that there comes an age where one of life’s greatest pleasures is opening up a cold mini glass bottle of Coca-Cola with the girlies. The girlie Coke pairs best with a menthol cigarette and the juiciest, most diabolical gossip.

In accepting her love for Coca-Cola, Dua Lipa celebrated tradition — but she also embraced modernity when she admitted she likes to add the brine from pickle and jalapeño jars to her beverage. In making what is arguably the dirtiest Coca-Cola known to mankind, she gave baddies all around the world permission to eat like raccoons without shame. She said: Yes, I am hot. Yes, I am feminine. Yes, I like briny, vinegary things — and you can too!

Having recently been awarded diplomatic immunity, baddies everywhere began showing their true colors. Food trends spread by content creators began reflecting reality. It was the year of the Savory Girl.

Plenty of girls started blogging their unboxings of tinned fish subscriptions (Tin Fish Talks by @daywithmei is my personal favorite). Others began crafting the dirtiest of martinis (check out @cookingwithhollyb’s iconic recipes), adding not just olive brine, but also peperoncini, cornichon, pickle, and even caper brine.

Couch caviar became a thing as well — a practice where hot girls sit on their comfy couches and snack on Cape Cod salt & vinegar chips, crème fraîche, and Trader Joe’s salmon roe (or, if you have generational wealth, actual Beluga caviar).

Kimchi went from being “that stinky food the Korean kid had in their lunchbox” to the Savory Girl’s favorite probiotic add-on to any meal. It was one of food’s biggest rebrands — now widely recognized by baddies everywhere as the crunchy, briny fast-pass to gut health.

Now, the “Savory Girl” might be a relatively new term on TikTok, but I would argue that her counterpart, the Hot Chip Girl, has been alive and well in Mexico for quite some time now.

The Hot Chip Girl is known for being completely out of touch with her sweet tooth — she’s constantly on the lookout for something spicy. If there is something sweet around, she will find a way to fuck with its integrity to fit her needs. (Many Hot Chip Girls carry Tajín or other spicy add-ons in their purses to ensure everything they eat is on-brand.) Hot Chip Girls have even gone so far as to reinforce whatever’s left of the Mexican economy by launching businesses that turn regular American candy into more acidic and spicy candy. This practice has become highly profitable.

The Savory Girl and the Hot Chip Girl are two peas in a pod — with distinct personalities. The Savory Girl is sophisticated and elegant. Her love for snack plates and dirty martinis can be attributed to her attendance at one too many black tie events. The Hot Chip Girl, on the other hand, is bold, fierce, opinionated — her love for spice mirrors her passionate personality.

There’s even a secret third girl: the Hot Cheeto Girl, who is basically Hot Chip Girl’s immigrant cousin. She doesn’t have to be Mexican, though she usually is a minority. If she’s not, she’s a white girl who wishes she were one.

Hot Cheeto Girls are known in meme culture as the ones who wore Cookie Monster pajama pants, got into hair-pulling fights, and had fingers stained from Red Dye 40 by second period.

Some iconic Hot Cheeto Girls in pop culture include:

• Maddie Perez (Euphoria) — the Hot Cheeto IT Girl

• Megan Thee Stallion

• Bhad Bhabie

• Vanessa Hudgens (when she was cool, probably)

• Tana Mongeau

• Snooki

• Cardi B

I’m positive there are plenty of other Savory Girl branches all around the world. I would travel far and wide to share a meal with the Masala Girl, the Green Curry Girl, and the Lao Gan Ma enthusiast. The question remains: are Savory Girls — in all their different variations — here to stay? Is the Savory Girl actually a symbol of counterculture, or is she just a girl following food trends? I refuse to believe that the likes of these women are as inconsequential or fleeting as past fads like carbonara udon or dense bean salads.

In a world that seems to become more and more right-leaning with every passing day, the very existence of the Savory Girl seems to be threatened by the rise of Tradwives (aka, women who exclusively cook and eat the puritan version of “girl food”). And though I do believe a woman’s love for high-sodium snacks is everlasting, I also believe it’s plausible that our social acceptance of women eating said snacks could be temporary.

I recently heard a man say (unironically) that he believes a woman loses her value every time she eats some grossly prepared hot chips. However, as established earlier, being a Savory Girl is not just indicative of your taste palate — it’s also a reflection of a bold personality. And no self-respecting Savory Girl would ever believe that social understanding is the end-all be-all of life.

Imagine the outcome of an interaction where someone dares to tell Cardi B that what she’s eating is gross. It would not end well.

So yes, maybe the content will change, and the flavor profile will lack the vinegar we see on our feeds every day. Maybe TikTok will eventually go full Tradwife, and TV will go back to non-stop cake-baking competitions (Cake Boss and all that). Maybe the Savory Girl disappears from the algorithm — but she will always be alive and thriving in the real world.

No matter how much she tries to hide it, just know that behind every hot girl, there’s always an insatiable desire for a little salty snack.

Fueled by their love for The Bear, their admiration of all things Chuy Villarreal, and that one time they watched an episode of No Reservations while high, these men are absolute fucking menaces.

And look, I get it. He has the sexy tattoos, and he pretends he’s into A Tribe Called Quest. You get extra princess treatment at every restaurant you go to. He puts you on to natural wine and convinces you it’s good. At first glance, The Fuckboy Chef looks kind of cool. He’s enthralling: the kind of man we’ve been taught to want — in touch with both his feminine and masculine sides. He's sharp, he's manly, but not sexist enough to believe a regular household chore is above him. He nurtures and he pampers, but he's also slightly distant (especially if he’s into The Bear — emotional repression is his whole thing). He's quick on his feet and he has a somewhat rugged look to him, and he’s oh so misunderstood.

The Fuckboy Chef plates his food on little silver platters. The Fuckboy Chef uses trendy ingredients (Maldon salt, Graza extra virgin olive oil — that sort of thing). He has a hyperfixation on all things miso and has toyed with the idea of starting a supper club (this man has never washed a dish in his life).

It’s basic science — the law of conservation of energy, if you will. Energy is never destroyed; it’s transformed. This is true for most things, and it’s definitely true for fuckboys. We could try to break down all the fuckboy archetypes to no end, but the truth is that they are constantly evolving. In this evolution, what was once the meme-admin fuckboy has gotten with the times and understood something essential: girls want someone who can pamper them more than they want someone who can make them laugh.

And like I said, I understand the appeal. Who wouldn't want a good-looking man to make them pasta? The issue with The Fuckboy Chef isn’t that he cooks. The issue is the superficiality masked as depth, and the cheap attempts to get in your pants disguised as acts of service. This isn’t a dig at their interests. The problem is that cooking only works as a love language when it’s rooted in authenticity.

I am a loyal fan of Anthony Bourdain’s. In my house, he’s viewed as a saint. That being said, the reason he was able to get away with his bluntness and his cold demeanor was because, objectively, the man was a legend. He was incredibly talented, politically based, insanely charismatic, and a naturally cool guy. His personality only worked on him, and imitation by anybody else makes for a completely insufferable person. It’s one thing to be scolded by Anthony Bourdain — award-winning author of Kitchen Confidential, formerly head chef at Les Halles. It’s another thing to be berated by a man who learned what bánh mì is strictly to impress a baddie.

The same goes when you give your average home cook the personality of Carmie Berzatto. It starts with a fun little talk about fermentation processes over a bottle of orange wine. It ends with a man who ghosts you because he has to get his microgreen business off the ground and you’re just too much of a distraction.

My call to action is this: now more than ever, it’s essential for women to learn how to cook, and to sharpen their culinary techniques. This sounds like an alt-right take, but the truth is: the only way to become immune to the raunchy yet endearing charm of a fuckboy chef is to rest assured that you can outcook him.

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