Foodies Clan

Even at 100 percent capacity, some coronavirus precautions will remain in place

Amid reports of a restaurant industry “labor shortage,” employees say all they really want are wages that makes the risk worth it

After eight years in the restaurant industry, Estefanía decided she’d had enough. Last summer, she quit her job at a New American restaurant in Chicago where she had worked as a manager and sommelier since 2017. Estefanía, who asked to be referred to by her first name because she is an undocumented worker, said she got COVID-19 in June and took two weeks off to recover and quarantine. When she came back, she noticed a shift in the way her employers treated her. “I came back to be given the silent treatment from the owner,” she told me via email. “He said I abandoned him and that he couldn’t trust me [or] see me as a manager anymore.”

Estefanía said the last straw was when a coworker threatened to call ICE on her. She quit the restaurant, got a job as a receptionist, and thought she was done with the restaurant industry altogether. But the pay couldn’t compare to what she was making before, so now, she’s back. Despite her hesitancy to return to the industry, Estefanía just started working at a Mexican restaurant in Logan Square, which she describes as a better experience than her last job.

The fact that Estefanía quit restaurant work and returned makes her a COVID-era rarity. For months, restaurateurs across the country have been sounding the alarm about an industry-wide labor shortage. Managers of small, independent restaurants and big national chains alike have told the press they’re having trouble getting longtime staff to return to their jobs or finding new employees to replace them. Managers and owners are largely blaming their inability to retain — or even re-hire — staff on expanded unemployment benefits designed to mitigate the economic devastation of the pandemic; claims that “no one wants to work” because they’d rather stay home and cash unemployment checks have become commonplace, even though they aren’t entirely accurate.

Matt Glassman, the owner of the Greyhound Bar & Grill in Los Angeles, said unemployment has made it harder to rehire staff, but added that it’s more complicated than people not wanting to work. Glassman’s restaurant has been closed since last summer and will reopen in May at reduced capacity. For servers and bartenders, fewer patrons means less tips — which means that they’re putting their health at risk while making less money than they would on unemployment. Glassman said he pays servers and bartenders $15 an hour before tips, and that before the pandemic, it wasn’t unusual for a bartender’s hourly wage to come out to $50 or $60 after tips. “Now that number is going to be closer to $25 to $30,” Glassman said.

The dangers are even more acute for back-of-house staff, like line cooks and dishwashers. “We do a ton of business out of a 400-square-foot kitchen,” Glassman said. “There’s no mask in the world that’s going to protect you from being next to someone for eight hours a day in that hot environment.” Even with vaccinations on the rise, plenty of people remain scared to go back to grueling restaurant jobs. A February study from researchers at the University of California, San Francisco found that line cooks had the highest mortality rate during the height of the pandemic in the U.S. Even when cities were under “lockdown,” plenty of restaurants were open for takeout and delivery, and back-of-house staff were bearing the brunt of the labor and the risk.

Glassman said he’s offered 10 to 20 percent raises for back-of-house staff, but acknowledges that it may not be enough to entice people to come back. At the same time, he said it’s difficult for him to raise wages more than he already has, since the restaurant will be operating at limited capacity for the foreseeable future.

When Isaac Furman quit his job as a line cook in early 2020 to go back to school, he assumed it would be a temporary break from the industry. “I haven’t been back since,” he said, “because I can’t really trust any restaurant owners to provide a safe environment for their employees.”

Before quitting, Furman, who had worked in restaurant kitchens for seven years, thought he’d have a long — and hopefully fruitful — career as a cook. “I always figured I’d be an industry lifer,” he said. “I never harbored any illusions about it being easy per se, but I liked the idea of being part of the community… Restaurant ownership was the ultimate goal.”

Time away from the industry made him realize how disillusioned he had become with the industry, which he described as unsustainable and exploitative, especially in places with a high cost of living, like New York City. “By the time I was 26 at my last place, I was one of the oldest cooks in the kitchen,” he said. After he aged out of his parents’ health insurance, the subsidized insurance his work offered him was around $500 a month — which he could hardly afford with his wages. “Health care is a big part of this. The total lack of ability to raise a family while working on the line is, too. But there’s also the physical toll,” he added. “I had a foot injury once and couldn’t work for a week. What happens if it was longer than that? There’s absolutely no safety net, and every day you feel worse and worse.”

Furman said these problems aren’t limited to any one restaurant or city; they’re industry-wide. Nearly two million restaurant and bar workers lost their jobs between March and April 2020, when cities across the country first began shutting down due to the pandemic. The wave of re-openings and subsequent shutterings that came with ever-changing regulations and individual exposures meant that, in many cases, restaurants were laying off and re-hiring their staff cyclically. Fed up by the instability, some restaurant workers found jobs in other industries and didn’t look back.

Those who have decided to stick it out have more choices than ever before. Joseph Tiedmann, an executive chef in New Orleans, said the problem isn’t just that people aren’t applying to jobs, but that there are more open jobs than there are applicants. “The number of responses [to job listings] has definitely decreased but when we reach out to applicants, we’re way less successful in actually getting a hold of people or getting them to actually come in for interviews,” Tiedmann said. “There’s such a wide selection of restaurants to work at right now. If someone is looking for a job and they use Indeed or use Culinary Agent to put a resume out there, they’re going to get a ton of responses. They have so many choices, they’re bombarded by calls for interviews and may not have time to respond to all of them, or they might take the one that looks most favorable to them.”

Tiedmann said he’s offered pay increases to current staff members and higher starting wages for new employees, but hiring has still been difficult. If there’s any bright side to the current labor situation, he added, it’s that it’s causing owners and hiring managers to reevaluate everything from wages to company culture — and for consumers who spent the last year praising essential workers to realize they need to be paying more for their food.

“I think we’re at a point where people are like, ‘We’re going to have to raise our prices, because we need to pay our employees more money, and we need to offer them benefits when we can,’” Tiedmann said. “We need to make this an attractive business to work in. At the end of the day, it’s all about being able to do more for your employees. But in order to do that, you’re going to have to pay for it somehow.”

For those who have never worked in food service, the changes restaurant workers are asking for may not seem like much. But those who have been in the industry for a long time know how resistant many bosses are to change. Tara, a cook in the Washington, DC area who asked that her last name be withheld to protect her identity while she looks for work, said the pandemic has made her realize what her non-negotiables are. “I refuse to take [a job] that’s the minimum serving wage. I need a place that’s at least minimum wage plus tips,” she said. “We are so sick and tired of [restaurant owners] assuming we want a handout. We want to work, but we also want to be treated like human beings. We haven’t been for way too long.”

Gaby del Valle is a freelance reporter who primarily covers immigration and labor.

Chef Daniel Humm plans to reopen his celebrated fine-dining restaurant on June 10 with a meatless menu

The Meat Hook butchers Ben Turley and Brent Young make everything from classic Buffalo-style to wings fried in duck fat and Champagne  

Brooklyn-based butchers Ben Turley and Brent Young spend a lot of time around their shop The Meat Hook’s industrial ovens, giant backyard smoker, and variously sized grills. But today they’re going to prove you don’t need professional-level (and size) machines to make delicious chicken wings. On this episode of Prime Time, the two make 10 different styles of crispy, saucy, and smoky chicken wings that you can make at home in your own kitchen.

The duo demonstrates various dry rub, batter, and brining techniques, like basic 12 hour dry salt rub, cornstarch dredge, and a baking powder coating. But for the more adventurous wing master, they take it a step further with a recipe for Cool Ranch Dorito dry brine, and even a “bubble batter” that involves Champagne and duck fat.

As for the tools needed for these recipes and demonstrations, you won’t need a walk-in-closet-sized smoker, for example, because Ben and Brent will show you how to use your air fryer and Instant Pot to achieve that same wood-smoked flavor. Other tools involve everything from an Air Fryer to a plane old sturdy pot that’s good for heating oil. And those more curious about frying and cooking techniques, the butchers try everything from deep frying, to air frying, to pan frying, to broiling, to even using the microwave in one step of one of their processes.

Check out the video to find your next favorite type of chicken wing, and see all of the recipes below.

Recipes for Wings, 10 Ways

Salted and deep fried chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep time: 12 hours
Cook time: 7 minutes

Ingredients:

1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)
Kosher salt (to taste)
Canola oil (for frying)

Instructions:

Step 1: Add wings to a sheet tray fitted with a rack. Using a paper towel, dry wings, salt wings and place uncovered in the refrigerator. Allow to dry out for 12 hours.

Step 2: Add 6 inches of canola or vegetable oil to a large Dutch oven or tabletop fryer.

Step 3: Remove wings from the refrigerator while oil preheats.

Step 4: Bring oil to 360 degrees, fry for 7 minutes. Remove to a paper towel lined plate, season with salt, toss in desired sauce and eat.

Air fried with baking powder chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep time: 12 hours
Cook time: 22 minutes

Ingredients:

1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)
½ cup baking powder
Kosher salt (to taste)

Instructions:

Step 1: Add baking powder to a bowl. Coat each wing in baking powder, then add wings to a sheet tray fitted with a rack, place it into the refrigerator, uncovered, overnight.

Step 2: Remove wings from the refrigerator 30 minutes prior to cooking.

Step 3: Add wings to the air fryer basket in 1 single layer. Use the chicken setting and cook for 22 minutes at 392 degrees.

Step 4: Remove wings, season with salt, toss with desired sauce and eat.

Smoked and air fried chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 30 minutes
Cook Time: 35 minutes

Ingredients:

2 cups wood chips (favorite flavor)
2 cups water
1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)
Kosher salt (to taste)

Instructions:

Step 1: Add wood chips and water to the base of an Instant Pot. Turn on the steam setting and let wood chips warm up and soak for 30 minutes. Release the steam, open Instant Pot and add a steamer basket.

Step 2: Add 12 wings to the steamer basket. Place the lid back on, turn on the pressure cook setting. Pressure cook for 20 minutes. Release steam/pressure.

Step 3: Remove the steamer basket of wings and set the wings into an air fryer basket.

Step 4: Place wood chips into the bottom of the air fryer to add more smokiness. Turn the air fryer to the chicken setting but lower the time to 15 minutes. Cook and remove wings from the air fryer. Season with salt. Toss wings in desired sauce.

Cornstarched, salted, and roasted chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 1 hour
Cook Time: 25 minutes

Ingredients:

½ cup cornstarch
2 teaspoons kosher salt
Cooking spray
1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)

Instructions:

Step 1: Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Step 2: In a medium bowl, whisk together cornstarch and salt.

Step 3: Dip each wing into the dredge, and add to a sheet tray fitted with a rack. Let stand at room temperature for 1 hour.

Step 4: Spray wings with cooking spray, place in the oven and cook for 15 minutes. Flip and cook for an additional 10 minutes. Remove and toss in desired sauce.

Steamed and broiled chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 35 minutes
Cook Time: 30 minutes

Ingredients:

1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)
Salt (to taste)

Instructions:

Step 1: Preheat the oven to broil.

Step 2: Fill a large pot with 3 inches of water and fit with a steamer basket. Bring to a simmer.

Step 3: Add a single layer of wings to the steam basket, place the lid on. Steam for 20 minutes allowing the fat to render.

Step 4: Remove to a sheet tray fitted with a rack, dry wings with a paper towel.

Step 5: Dry with a paper towel before placing the tray into the broiler. Broil on high for 5 minutes, then flip and broil on high for another 3 minutes. Remove wings, season with salt and toss in desired sauce.

Microwaved and broiled chicken wings: aka the 15-MINUTE WING!

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 5 minutes
Cook Time: 15 minutes

Ingredients:

1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)
3 cups water
Kosher salt (to taste)

Instructions:

Step 1: Preheat the oven to broil.

Step 2: Add wings to a microwave safe bowl, add enough water to cover, cover bowl with plastic wrap. Microwave wings for 5 minutes on high.

Step 3: Remove, dry wings on a paper towel and place onto sheet tray

Step 4: Broil on high for 5 minutes skin side up, flip and broil for an additional 5 minutes.

Step 5: Remove from the oven, season wings with salt and toss in desired sauce.

Poached and pan-fried chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 4 minutes

Ingredients:

1 pound thick cut bacon
⅔ cup bacon fat
⅓ cup canola oil
4 cups chicken stock
1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)

Instructions:

Step 1: Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Step 2: Add 1 pound of thick cut bacon to a sheet tray. Cook for 20 minutes until fat has rendered out and bacon is crisp. This should yield 2/3 cup bacon fat.

Step 3: Poured bacon fat into a high sided braiser or cast iron pan. Add canola oil and bring to 365 degrees.

Step 4: Add chicken stock to a medium sauce pot. Add wings, bring to a simmer and let poach for 20 minutes. Remove to a paper towel lined sheet tray and dry.

Step 5: Add dried, poached wings to bacon fat/canola oil — be careful of splatter here! Fry wings for 3 minutes on the first side, and 1 minute on the other side.

Step 6: Using a spider or slotted spoon remove to a paper towel lined plate. Season with salt. Toss wings in desired sauce.

Dry-brined and baked chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 12 hours
Cook Time: 35 minutes

Ingredients:

¼ cup ranch seasoning
2 teaspoons smoked paprika
2 teaspoons garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)

Instructions:

Step 1: In a medium bowl, combine ranch seasoning, smoked paprika, garlic powder, onion powder and teaspoon salt. Stir until combined.

Step 2: Dip 12 wings into seasoning mixture. Set wings onto sheet tray fitted with a rack. Place in the refrigerator, uncovered for at least 12 hours or overnight.

Step 3: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Remove from the refrigerator. Bake wings for 25 minutes to render fat.

Step 4: Turn the oven to 425 degrees, flip wings and cook for an additional 10 minutes. Remove wings from the oven, toss in desired sauce.

Chicky-dusted and convection-roasted chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Cook Time: 45 minutes

Ingredients:

¼ cup tapioca flour
2 tablespoons rice flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)

Instructions:

Step 1: Preheat oven to convection roast (fan assisted) 425 degrees.

Step 2: In a medium bowl, whisk together tapioca flour, rice flour, and baking powder. Dredge 12 wings into mixture. Place directly onto a sheet tray skin side down. This will allow the skin to “fry and crisp” in its own fat.

Step 3: Roast for 25 minutes, then using tongs, flip wings to finishing cooking an additional 20 minutes. Remove wings from the oven, salt and toss in desired sauce.

Bubbly battered and duck fat–fried chicken wings

Yields: 12 wings
Prep Time: 2 hours
Cook Time: 45 minutes

Ingredients:

1 cup cornstarch
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 dozen wings (split, tips removed)
2 quarts Duck Fat
¼ cup vodka
½ cup rice flour
½ cup champagne
Kosher salt (to taste)

Instructions:

Step 1: Add cornstarch and baking powder to a bowl, whisk together. Dip 12 wings into the mixture and set onto a sheet tray fitted with a rack. Let them sit at room temperature for 2 hours.

Step 2: Add duck fat to a high sided cast iron pan. Bring duck fat to 365 degrees.

Step 3: Prepare the batter by whisking vodka, rice flour and champagne. Using tongs, dip each wing into batter. Add directly to oil. Continue until all wings are dipped and in the oil. Fry for 5 minutes.

Step 4: Using a spider, remove from oil onto a sheet tray fitted with a rack. Season with salt. Toss wings in desired sauce.

The pandemic didn’t stop the New York City-based restaurant group from opening new locations of Carbone, Sadelle’s, Parm, and more

For restaurants, 2021 has brought some degree of hope. As workers — and diners — get vaccinated, restaurant dining rooms are beginning to more closely resemble pre-pandemic scenes. But the costs of 2020 linger. Many restaurants are struggling to hire staff. Months worth of deferred rent payments now due could push more to close for good; scores of restaurants already have. And then there’s Major Food Group, the powerhouse restaurant group that’s on an expansion tear.

Over the past four months, while restaurants all over the country have slowly attempted to regain their footing, MFG has opened four restaurants and announced plans for several more. The New York City-based group, founded by Mario Carbone, Rich Torrisi, and Jeff Zalaznick, kicked off the year by opening a new location of Carbone, its Italian-American celebrity magnet, in Miami’s South Beach at the end of January. Just a few months later, in April, it opened ZZ’s Sushi Bar, a hybrid of New York’s ZZ’s Clam Bar and a sushi club with a members-only component in Miami Design District. That same month, the group debuted an outpost of its casual Italian-American restaurant Parm at Woodbury Commons, an outlet mall in Central Valley, New York. And in March, it opened a Sadelle’s inside Kith’s new Paris store.

Timed to the start of basketball season this fall, MFG will open a 7,700-square-foot lounge at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center arena; also this fall, a new version of Torrisi Italian Specialties will open a block away from the original Italian restaurant and deli that launched Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone into the restaurant-world spotlight in 2009. Later in 2021, Carbone and Sadelle’s will open in Dallas, and by mid-June, Contessa, an all-day restaurant in Boston’s new hotel the Newbury, will be up and running.

Miami’s role as MFG’s home away from home will be secure with even more restaurants later this year: an Italian trattoria in the city’s Art’s District and an American steakhouse in the Brickell neighborhood are planned. MFG has also just nailed down locations for two Sadelle’s restaurants, one in Miami’s Coconut Grove and the other on Miami Beach. The Coconut Grove location will open this year, while the other, a bigger build-out that includes a market, will take longer. Finally (for now), MFG is also working on an “Israeli concept,” most likely for the South of Fifth neighborhood later this year.

“We’re quick on our feet. We pivot fast. We know when we want something and we go after it. We felt that way about Miami very quickly,” Zalaznick says of the rapid expansion. “I had the good fortune of finding myself here [in Miami] right at the beginning of the pandemic. As soon as I got here I realized the potential, and we started moving.” (Zalaznick himself also made the move down to Miami.)

The restaurant industry is booming in South Florida. Eater Miami editor Olee Fowler says Miami’s lower rents and the state’s looser COVID-19 restrictions (Florida restaurants have been able to open for indoor dining at 100 percent capacity since September) were a draw for New York City restaurateurs. “There’s always been an overlap between New York and Miami. We jokingly call Miami the sixth borough,” Fowler says. “Since the end of September, Florida has basically been open for business. Florida has a beautiful wintertime where everyone can be outdoors hanging out, and [New York restaurateurs] saw it as an opportunity.”

The New York-to-Miami migration is a phenomenon fueled by “a one-percenter exodus” from NYC, with Curbed noting that it’s not exclusive to restaurants: New York City art galleries have also opened up branches in Miami, following wealthy financial institutions and individual wealthy collectors. And over the past year, Miami Design District, home to ZZ’s Sushi Bar and that upcoming trattoria, has seen profits grow at surprising rates over the past several months, despite the dismal state of retail elsewhere. Compared to the year prior, sales at Design District businesses were up. “Since July, sales were up 20 to 30 percent. [They were] up 40 percent in January and February. March, we were 93 percent up,” says Craig Robins, CEO and president of DACRA, the real estate development company behind Miami Design District. “I don’t know if there’s another retail destination in the country that’s had the kind of growth we had.”

Robins says the new MFG restaurants are a “perfect addition” to the neighborhood. “The Design District restaurants, they’re fun and casual. You still feel like you can go in jeans and a T-shirt, even if the food is the highest level,” he says. MFG’s restaurants operate on this higher end of the spectrum, with dining rooms that are festive without feeling stuffy. “Everybody knows there’s so much demand,” says Robins. “You feel privileged and acknowledged just to be at a table, and then the level of service and the quality of food is outstanding.”

When Carbone Miami opened, Fowler says, the buzz was immediate. “Miami’s all about a scene and being the hot cool spot to be,” she says. “Carbone has done that exceptionally well.” Brand familiarity helped with the buzz, she says, given that New York-Miami exchange, as did Carbone’s menu of unchallenging Italian-American classics done well. The difficulty of snagging a reservation only added to Carbone’s appeal. “Miami loves that type of stuff. It’s all about the VIP scene,” Fowler says. “That’s how we are, for better or for worse.”

Giovanny Gutierrez/Chat Chow TV

Even in New York, the U.S. city hardest hit by the coronavirus pandemic in its early months, there was demand for MFG restaurants, despite the group’s temporary inability to deliver on the ambiance. When Carbone reopened for takeout only in March 2020 after a brief closure, demand for $32 spicy rigatoni and $69 veal Parmesan drew crowds so large the police were called in to disband them.

MFG, with its newest restaurants, seems to be leaning into the air of exclusivity it’s long cultivated with a system that makes reservations scarce. At many locations, reservations can only be requested exactly one month to the day, and just for one day; now it’s adding actual private clubs to its portfolio. According to the New York Times, MFG’s Barclays Center lounge, Crown Club — which will serve popular dishes from existing MFG restaurants along with items from chefs at other NYC restaurants — will be open only to those with courtside Brooklyn Nets tickets, limiting its 250 seats to those who could already shell out at least $475 for courtside access.

Rapid expansion, according to Zalaznick, is nothing new for the group, which once opened seven New York restaurants in a single year. The newest additions are part of an already robust portfolio that includes 10 restaurant concepts in New York City (not including multiple locations of Parm, a casual ode to Italian-American comfort food), two in Las Vegas, two in Tel Aviv, and one in Hong Kong. All of them are expected to reopen. “We were really smart about the way we did our closures and the way we did delivery, and when we opened and how we opened,” Zalaznick says of how the group avoided pandemic-related slowdowns. “So far we’ve made a lot of big changes and big moves, and they’ve worked.”

These moves include MFG entering new kinds of venues. Simon Property Group, the real estate investment trust probably best known for its malls, is a minority stakeholder in MFG and the driving force behind the fast-casual Parm popping up next to the likes of Auntie Anne’s and Chipotle at Woodbury Commons, and soon, in Burlington Mall in Burlington, Massachusetts. As far as outlet malls go, Woodbury Commons is at the highest end, home to outlets for brands like Dior, Prada, and Givenchy; if Major Food Group were to open at any outlet mall, it would be this one. Earlier in the year, the group made another brand-appropriate expansion, opening a Sadelle’s, the MFG contribution to all-day dining, at Kith in Paris, the streetwear shop’s 16,000-square-foot European flagship. Here, Parisians looking for the latest sneaker drop or designer collaboration can take a break for a bagel and caviar.

If the group’s ongoing global expansion seems out of step with the overall state of the restaurant industry, it’s not necessarily incompatible with the state of the world at this point in the COVID-19 pandemic. Those disproportionately bearing the economic costs of the pandemic were those with less to begin with. The world’s wealthy, who were able to wait out the worst of the pandemic lockdowns working from their vacation homes, haven’t lost the means or desire to expand their car collections, bid on diamonds, or charter jets. And it’s this clientele that MFG seems to be banking on as it opens restaurants that meet many of these customers where they are, whether it’s the restriction-free playground of Miami, a private sports lounge, or Paris’s newest shopping destination selling $75 cropped tees.

From an operations standpoint, Zalaznick says, the pandemic may have actually benefited the group. “It made us smarter and better and gave us the opportunity to reflect on our business and how we can be better as a company and operate more efficiently,” he says. “We try to turn every negative into a positive, and this is the ultimate example of that.”

Blame the company offering you cheap rates by underpaying its workers, not the underpaid workers

*pinches bridge of nose* Look, everyone is still getting used to some new normals, one of which is the proliferation of grocery delivery services like Instacart. On the surface it seems great — someone else brings your groceries to you! But, as with any service that relies on the folly of humans, there are setbacks and mistakes. Maybe you asked for low-fat mayonnaise, and the store was out, so the person bought you Miracle Whip. Maybe there are a few bruises on your apples, or maybe they couldn’t find the apples so they swapped them out for something else, maybe even something ridiculously un-apple-like, such as onions. Annoying, yes! Maybe even ridiculous, yet still people should roll with it, understanding that mistakes happen, especially when you’re using a service that brings groceries to your door.

But sometimes people do not roll with it. On April 27, Bitch editor Evette Dionne tweeted that “Men must be banned from being Instacart shoppers,” and after receiving dozens of affirming replies, tagged Instacart, writing, “Train male shoppers better please.” Later, after receiving pushback, she said that the previous tweets were jokes, but whatever her intention, the tweets launched thousands of complaints about incompetent men who couldn’t find certain items, or made replacements the recipient considered odd, or asked too many questions about the order.

Spun into a joke about the incompetence of men in the pop feminism space of the internet, the assumption was that these mistakes were somehow connected to manhood and patriarchy, and that it is the women, as it were, who should be shoppin’. It’s true, yes, that many men are terrible. It’s also true that the gig economy is based on paying next to nothing for a service that offers cheap rates by underpaying workers of all genders.

Grocery delivery services like Instacart have seen a profit boom since the pandemic began because not everyone has the physical ability or the time to do their own grocery shopping. And yes, it is ridiculous, as one person tweeted, to order eight potatoes and receive eight bags of potatoes. But someone, maybe even some idiot guy, is being potentially exposed either way, only now it’s typically an underpaid gig worker. Over the past year, Instacart workers have gone on strike for increased pay, only to be retaliated against with a cut to their bonuses. They rely on tips to make anything close to a living wage, and Instacart has a history of penalizing workers and suspending their accounts for things that aren’t their fault, like canceling an alcohol order when it’s discovered the customer was a minor.

Shoppers are also subject to low ratings when they get orders wrong, usually because a store was out of a certain item, which in turn keep them from higher-paying orders. One Instacart shopper described the experience of receiving a low rating to Vox, after trying to communicate to a customer that several of the items were out of stock:

The way Instacart works is this: A handful of orders appear on the shopper dashboard, and shoppers choose which orders they wish to fulfill, typically by how much pay the order promises. However, shoppers with higher customer ratings get first pick — the higher-paying orders. Even though shoppers in the, let’s say, 4.9- to five-star range provide virtually the same quality service, those even slightly below a perfect five-star rating can slip to orders that pay significantly differently.

...When I received a four-star rating after dozens of five-star ratings, my average dropped to 4.96. With it, my newly limited batches shrank my average earnings from $25 per hour to much lower, likely below New York’s $15 minimum wage. I became a bottom feeder, seemingly receiving the leftover orders that, by other shoppers’ definition, paid an amount that was not worth accepting.

Twitter user Dan Sheehan also commented on customers’ expectation of a “luxury service,” and that when shoppers must take dozens of orders to make a decent day’s wages, they don’t have the time to make sure every piece of produce is perfect. Also worth noting that those who complained on the thread of dumb mistakes — like the eight bags of potatoes — were fully refunded after informing Instacart and the shopper who messed up was likely penalized with a blow to their rating. (And if they happen to be looking for a home for those free extra potatoes, try a community fridge or offering them to neighbors. We are living in a food crisis, after all.)

This is all to say we’re all human, and a man who has made it his literal job to go grocery shopping is not your shitty husband who forgot milk again. It’s a pandemic, and if you are this mad about your Instacart shopper bringing you the wrong ice cream flavor, there are other ways to focus your energy: Like, say, writing your senators about supporting legislation that classifies gig workers as employees who can earn living wages.

As the restaurant industry inches toward normalcy, many of those who launched pandemic-era pop-ups are wondering what’s next

Former Gramercy Tavern pastry cook Lauren Tran never expected her assortments of ube and coconut mousse chiffon cakes, longan macarons, and bánh bò nướng — a pandan-flavored tapioca and rice flour pastry — to appeal beyond her social circle. But when the recent pastry school graduate’s bánh boxes, a mix of Vietnamese desserts and French pastries, started selling out in minutes each week on Instagram, it turned her previous life plan on its head. “I was able to lean into who I am as a Vietnamese-American woman,” she says. Now, Tran is looking to translate that success into a business, Bánh by Lauren, that honors Vietnamese desserts with the respect and regard she sees given European and Japanese baked goods.

Amid the endless stream of destruction that the pandemic blasted at the restaurant industry, pop-ups started by laid-off workers quietly shone as a tiny bright light in the grim darkness. Stuck at home, with little hope for full employment, the people who once cooked or served everywhere from fast-casual chains to Michelin-starred dining rooms turned to the best resource they had to stay busy and make some money: their own knowledge, heritage, and creativity. The rise of pop-ups — representing a low barrier to entry for culinary businesses — has pushed forward laws regarding home-based food businesses, including one recently passed in Boston allowing for the selling of low-risk foods made at home, and one in Washington that will allow people to sell meals from their home.

But a year into the pandemic, with vaccines available or soon to be available to all adults and many states lifting restrictions on business, successful pop-up proprietors have reached a crucial moment in a situation that from day one was conceptualized as temporary. Some are considering whether they want to put down roots as a permanent full-time business, leave what they built and go back to working for others, or try to balance in the middle by finding a steady job while running the pop-up as a side hustle.

“I didn’t have an idea of a shop. I just knew that I wanted one,” Tran says of her pre-pandemic dreams of someday opening a French-style patisserie. “Now I know it has to be this.” The runaway success of Bánh by Lauren attracted the type of attention — in terms of opportunities and investment — she thought would take years, leaving her suddenly facing pivotal decisions about her plans as both a pastry cook and entrepreneur. But just as the pop-up model brought her overwhelmingly fast success, working for herself gave her the time and income to consider each decision carefully.

When Lupe Flores first messaged her friends to see if they were interested in buying a few of the crunchy tacos she always made for parties, the bartender and drummer just wanted to stay busy while bars and clubs were closed. More than a year later, from a permanent location inside Seattle’s Tractor Tavern, Flores’s Situ Tacos sells the kind of tacos stuffed with hushwe, Lebanese brown butter beef, that Flores grew up eating at the table of her Lebanese-by-way-of-Mexico grandmother; Situ tacos is named for her.

Flores’s pop-ups earned a following big enough that not quite a year after she first sold her tacos, the Tractor Tavern, looking to bring people to its bar and outdoor area while live music and concerts are prohibited, invited her to put down roots. “I’d been dragging my feet, because starting your own business is terrifying,” she admits. But the way her business operates symbiotically with the bar has been encouraging. The support she’s seen — from chefs, business owners, other pop-up operators — during the pandemic gave her faith in human beings, she says, and “the chutzpah it takes to open a bricks-and-mortar business in this unsure world.”

While Flores thrives as she returns to the face-to-face interaction she loved as a bartender, Dave Hadley, who was laid off from his job as a culinary director for a hospitality group, welcomed the opportunity to try something less consumer-facing. But when an old boss offered him a kitchen job making pizza for $13 an hour, Hadley asked himself, “What the hell am I doing?”

Instead, he was drawn to the entrepreneurship of a pop-up. Like any good Jersey boy, he turned to Taylor ham for help, folding it into a pork roll, egg, and cheese version of the Indian snacks he’d grown up eating. Samosa Shop features the flavors of his Caribbean heritage and works with other companies, like a pizza restaurant and kimchi brand, to create combinations that reflect other people’s backgrounds as well. The nontraditional samosas are now available at pop-ups all over the Denver area, with events announced on Instagram.

Having seen success so far, Hadley wants to bring the idea to a wider audience. He dreams of turning Samosa Shop into a frozen-food brand, something that would compete with Hot Pockets for space in grocery-store freezers around the country. But he remains unsure about immediate next steps. “I paid so much freaking money to go to CIA and get the best education, and then work with some of the best people in the country,” he says. “But they don’t teach you how to be successful by yourself.” He doesn’t plan to let that stop him, though. “I’m excited to be on that journey of not knowing. And I think we need to be okay with that.”

But not everyone has that luxury or is in the right place in their life to do so. Depending on location, details, and local cottage food laws, some pop-ups operated in a legal gray area that comes with its own risks. Some need a regular paycheck or more certain schedule, and the constant pivots turning the industry in circles, combined with individual situations — financial, personal, or professional — sent many pop-up entrepreneurs straight back to the stability of a regular job when the opportunity arose. Some didn’t find the same rousing success as Tran or Flores. For others, it simply wasn’t the right long-term fit.

“Running a pop-up taught me a lot about my own capacity for work and how I like to treat myself when I’m the person in charge,” says Hanna Gregor. The former line cook called her time running a fermented-foods pop-up a great use of eight months, but adds, “it just got to be physically exhausting.” She tried working with a partner and shifting to a subscription model to lighten the workload on the selling side, but shopping for the pop-up by bike got increasingly hard as orders grew. The impending Chicago winter made it less likely they would be able to draw customers to outdoor events or even just make extra trips on public transportation to pick up orders as COVID-19 cases surged. In late November, the bakery where Gregor had been volunteering to bake loaves for donation offered her a part-time job, and she works there now. The fermented-food concept took a back seat, at least temporarily.

“There are a lot of connections that you gain from being the face of something, as opposed to being the third line cook in back,” Gregor says. She hopes to take advantage of the flexibility of pop-ups — as the weather warms up, she’s had people contact her about selling at farmers markets and events. But at her own early stage in the industry, she didn’t feel ready to commit to starting a business. Though she likes how pop-ups sidestep some of the more savage parts of the traditional brigade system, she feels she gets more from mentorship and colleagues. “I’m still in that phase in my life where I’m like, ‘I want to learn more,’” she says. “I would love to observe folks who have done this for a decade longer than I have.” She hesitates, raising one of the issues that gives her pause about returning to cooking: “Ideally in a place where people are treated like people and make a living wage.”

Food and travel writer Naomi Tomky is the author of The Pacific Northwest Seafood Cookbook. Carolyn Figel is a freelance artist living in Brooklyn.

The 40 cent increase comes into effect May 1

Two weeks in a Korean quarantine facility took my sense of time, space, and rational thought — but never my appetite

We’ve all experienced some form of isolation over the past year due to the COVID-19 pandemic — either sanctioned by the government or by personal choice. My most potent experience of solitude was a mix of both: 14 days quarantined in South Korea, per the country’s strict travel policies, after traveling from New York to my hometown in December 2020 to visit my parents for the first time in seven years.

At a quarantine facility in Pohang, about 170 miles southeast of Seoul, I was given a room with an ocean view but no furniture other than a chair, a desk, and a small refrigerator. I slept on the floor and was not allowed to leave, even for exercise. Knowing that in two weeks I would get to hug my parents made it bearable. That, and the surprisingly incredible and abundant food, which would be dropped onto a chair outside my door three times each day. A phone call, not a knock, would let me know it had arrived.

Here is my diary of the mundane, exhausting, and weirdly delicious 14 days I spent in this Korean quarantine facility, in which I ate my feelings one bountiful dosirak at a time.

Day 1: The Journey

After a 13-hour flight, I am losing my sense of time a little bit, but there’s so much more travel and processing to go. There’s a temperature check and endless paperwork demanding my quarantine address and contact information. The staff calls the number of the facility to make sure the phone is working, in case they need to reach me. Everyone who lands in South Korea today has to download a quarantine app on their phone, which also allows officials to track my location, ensuring that I don’t leave my quarantine facility.

After more forms, phone calls, and interviews, I finally leave the gate, but I have to wait another hour to take a designated bus to the train station (to prevent local transmission of the coronavirus, foreign travelers are not allowed to use public transportation). I decide to have a quick dinner at the airport to fuel up for the rest of my journey. I treat myself with the Korean cockle bibimbap set, served in gorgeous copper bowls, complete with three banchan and a soup. Meaty cockles arrive perfectly seasoned with big chunks of peppers and scallions, and I get a whiff of sesame oil as I’m mixing them with a steamy bowl of rice. This is exactly what I need to feel like I’ve finally arrived in Korea. I take a picture with this gorgeous copper dinner set and send it to my parents with a trio of crying emojis.

After the bus ride, I’m escorted to a separate holding space until I can board my train to Pohang. The city is located in the province of North Gyeongsang, about 169 miles south of Seoul. Once again, I’m reminded how far I live from my parents.

There is only one other quarantining traveler on the high-speed train to Pohang, and we are given a whole car to ourselves. A police officer, entirely covered in a protective coverall, guards us the entire time, turning away any locals who try to sit near us. I feel like a walking disease. I am grateful that everyone is taking such serious measures, but the palpable wariness I’ve sensed from every person I’ve interacted with for the last 24 hours is more exhausting than I’d expected.

Once I finally arrive at Pohang station, I’m greeted by a staff member from the local health department, also covered from head to toe in protective gear, who confirms my information. And then, finally, I catch a glimpse of my dad, who’s been waiting for me to come home for such a long time. All I want is to run toward him and give him the biggest hug, but I’m not allowed. All I can do is wave at him, a sorry alternative, from 10 feet away.

My parents and I are awkwardly smiling at one another as the staff escorts me to the car to take me to my final destination. This seemingly never-ending journey is almost over. It’s been over 30 hours since I left my apartment in New York, and I feel greasy and exhausted. Finally, at 2 a.m. — after signing one last form, which says, “You aren’t allowed to leave your room during your quarantine” — I check into my home for the next 14 days, a small square studio with a desk and a TV. I’m buzzy and wide awake till 5 a.m. thinking about what my first meal will be tomorrow.

Day 2: Dosirak

First thing in the morning, I have to get tested. I should have been tested before checking into the quarantine facility, but had to wait for the next day, since I arrived late. My mom arranges for the local health department to pick me up. A driver arrives, which makes me feel very VIP, even if the reason for the special treatment is that I’m a potential national health hazard. I’m sent back after a slightly painful nasal swab test with a free bag of hand sanitizers and KF-94 masks. When I return to my room, there’s a gift waiting for me: my very first meal, wrapped in a white plastic bag, sitting on top of the designated meal-depositing chair in the hallway outside my room.

Early in the pandemic, the Korean government-issued comfort-food packages for quarantining individuals got global attention, full of delicious instant noodles, canned tuna, ready-to-eat soups, rice, and more. It was an appetizing alternative to the meals other quarantine individuals had — like those poor NYU kids who basically got sad salad and warm orange juice. Rather than stay at an Airbnb or a government-assigned hotel, I’d chosen to quarantine at a resort owned by POSCO, the company my dad works for. It had temporarily been transformed into a quarantine facility — equipped with a cafeteria at which I can’t eat — for employees and their families.

The food rules are simple: It comes three times a day in bento box form, called dosirak in South Korea, and is left on top of the chair outside my room. Staff will call when the food is ready, and I can open the door to pick it up — the only time I’m allowed to open the door during the quarantine.

I love dosirak, and the first meal is dreamy. I’d been expecting rice and maybe a couple of banchan, but this dosirak is premium: four banchan, two main entrees, a bowl of rice, and a soup, per set. By the time I return from my testing, they’ve already brought both my lunch and breakfast, so I combine them to have a quarantine feast of braised pollock, spicy braised chicken, seasoned spinach, rice cake-stuffed fish cakes, spicy raw squid jeotgal, egg, and dumpling soup, soy-braised potato and chicken, crispy spring rolls, seasoned dried squid, seasoned garlic stems, radish with yuzu, kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup. All of it for me.

The dosirak sets have been sitting on the chair for a few hours, so they are lukewarm by the time I dig in. But I don’t mind. I feel spoiled with so many choices. I go straight to the braised pollock for my first spoon of rice. The fish absorbs the spicy, tangy sauce and goes perfectly with rice. Without any break, I immediately reach for the spinach, one of my favorite banchan, followed by sharp, spicy kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup.

Considering the fact that most government quarantine packages consist of instant, premade food, I feel incredibly thankful to be eating something that actually tastes like home cooking. It’s only the first day, but I start getting emotional. Twelve more days feels like an eternity. I just wish my family were here.

Day 3: The Care Package

It’s been only two days since I started my quarantine, but who’s counting? My morning starts with checking my temperature and recording it on the app. Even though I’m in Korea, thousands of miles closer to my family, it really doesn’t feel like it. I still talk to my parents via FaceTime, just like when I’m back in New York.

My parents decide to come visit me, even though it only means I can shout to them from my second-floor balcony. They ask me if I want anything from the market. I have a whole list of things I want, but instead I simply ask for “anything that looks delicious!”

Families are allowed to drop care packages at the front desk of my quarantine facility, and the staff will bring it to the room. When I get the call that my package has arrived, I open the door, expecting a few items, but these are Asian parents. Abundance is their love language. An enormous bag fit to feed a family of 10 is waiting for me.

I hear my mom screaming from outside, “James! Let me see my son’s face!” I run to the balcony and yell back, “Mom! Why did you get me so many things? How would I eat all of these?” We both know that I will have no problem eating everything she brought me, but it feels good to banter. After taking countless pictures and videos to share in our family group chat, we scream, “I miss you!” to each other. My mom shakes her head in denial of the situation. “Just 12 more days,” I yell. “You waited seven years for me to come back to Korea, so 12 more days should be fine!”

I come back in and start unboxing the care package. The first mysterious black plastic bag is kkwabaegi, a Korean twisted donut, covered in sugar. It’s warm, chewy, and a needed reminder that I am indeed in Korea. You can’t get this kind of smell and taste in New York. The next bag holds a tangerine preserve for making tea. Triple-wrapped inside another plastic bag are bundles of kkaetnip, or perilla leaves. There are at least 50 leaves of kkaetnip and lettuce, which I plan to eat along with my dosiraks, followed by a package of jokbal (Korean braised pig feet), a whole napa cabbage, a bag of Korean gyul (tangerines), eggs, crackers, and even beer.

I didn’t specifically ask for any of these things, but it’s my mom — she knows me. Then, after all that, I get the call to pick up my dosirak. It’s always exciting to see what types of banchan I get, but I end up saving it for later so I can indulge in my jokbal spread. I have collagen-heavy, chewy jokbal, accompanied with fermented salted shrimp, ssamjang, wasabi-heavy soy sauce, napa cabbage, kkaetnip, and lettuce, just like how I would eat it at a restaurant. This particular jokbal is known for its diagonal slice, so I simply dip a piece into wasabi soy sauce to enjoy its extra-chewy texture. My favorite way of enjoying jokbal is to make a big ssam, so I grab a big piece of lettuce with a few jobak pieces, followed by a dollop of ssamjang and fermented salted shrimp. I wrap them all up in a big pouch and shove it into my mouth. My butt is warm from sitting on the heated floor, and I’m downing big jokbal ssams while watching Korean TV shows. In this moment, I think, This quarantine isn’t so bad, after all.

Days 4-7: Timelessness

Let me tell you more about my quarantine room. It’s a typical Korean studio with minimum furniture, which means no bed, no couch, nothing — just a floor (which, again, is mercifully heated — it’s 28 degrees outside). There’s no separate kitchen, just a small fridge. It’s typical in Korean culture to sleep on the floor, especially for members of my parents’ generation. I later realize that the quarantine facility purposely took out the beds to make their cleaning job easier after the quarantining individual leaves. At least there’s a jaw-dropping ocean view.

Every morning, I watch the sunrise and listen to the calming sound of the ocean waves. Even though it’s freezing outside, I open the doors to the balcony wide. Seeing the ocean whenever I look out the window helps me pretend I’m in some gorgeous vacation house that I could never afford instead of a tiny room that I’m not allowed to leave. I feel incredibly grateful. Some government-managed quarantine facilities don’t even have windows.

One complaint: There’s no microwave. If I don’t eat the dosirak right away, I end up eating it cold, which was fine the first few days, but now I’m seriously starting to miss hot foods. The pleasure of heated aromas. The feeling of warmth from the steam. Even the quick tongue scald from sipping hot soup. These are the sensations that get me worked up before taking a bite — and you can’t get any of it from room-temp food.

But the banchans are delicious enough, and again I’m grateful to have anything remotely this good, so I push through. I generally don’t have a big appetite at 9 a.m. when my breakfast gets dropped, so I tend to combine my breakfast and lunch dosiraks for a massive midday quarantine feast. One dosirak combo is particularly great: soy-braised garlic scapes, seasoned salted squid, spicy chicken with rice cakes, braised tofu, sesame shiitake mushroom, dried strips of squid, spinach, spicy stir-fried squid, kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup. Out of all these banchan, seasoned salted squid was the star. It’s jeotgal, a food category of salted preserved dishes made with seafood, and I can eat bowls of rice just with this. Also, with loads of the kkaetnip that my mom gave me, I make big ssam with all the banchan. I put three or four kkaetnip leaves on my palm with a spoonful of rice, spicy chicken, spinach, and kimchi. I tend to fill them up with so much that my kkaetnip ssam looks taut like a tennis ball.

I’m keeping strange hours because I’m working remotely with my office back in New York. I fire up my computer around midnight and work until around 8 a.m. in Korea. I usually sign off to rest and eat a large lunch a few hours later, around noon. By 5:30 p.m., I have dinner, and then — if I’m lucky — I fall asleep at 6. I wake up at 11 p.m., and my bizarre day starts all over again. The routine, weird as it is, gives my days some sense of structure.

Inevitably, though, my mind and body start feeling off. When a banana, wrapped individually in plastic, arrives in my dosirak on day four, I feel like I’ve won the lottery. This is the first time I’ve received fruit with a meal, and my eyes well up with joy. I can’t figure out if I’m genuinely this excited over a banana or if I’m losing my mind. It’s probably the latter.

I begin FaceTiming my mom over lunch to help with the loneliness. We don’t have to say much to each other; just eating with her makes me feel better. She shows me her humble lunch: just rice, napa cabbage, doenjang (Korean soybean paste), and seaweed. At the facility, I’m blessed with 12 different varieties of banchan, six entrees, and three soups. My mom is happy that I’ve been eating so well, but I feel some guilt as she eats her rice with cabbage and no meat. I can’t wait to share a feast with her once I’m out of quarantine.

Days 8-12: The Air Fryer Miracle

I’m finally more than halfway through quarantine, and I have a tower of unfinished cold rice, a couple of cold soups, loads of instant coffee, and a few other random unfinished dishes all spread on the shelf on top of the fridge that I’ve dubbed the pantry. Since I can’t go outside, there are trash cans on my balcony, where I keep a pile of clean dosirak containers. The higher the tower of dosirak containers gets, the closer I am to the end of my quarantine. I’m still desperately missing hot foods. I daydream about a bubbling pot of soondubu jjigae, a spicy silken tofu stew, and a big bowl of rice so steamy it fogs my glasses. I fantasize about the sensation of burning my mouth as I rush to eat just-cooked pork belly.

Suddenly, inspiration strikes. If I can’t have a microwave, what about an air fryer? I call the staff, asking whether it would be allowed. There is slight confusion, hesitation, and a long pause over the phone, and then, just like that, the receptionist says, “Yes, you can use an air fryer.”

I call my mom, crying.

My parents have a tiny air fryer that they don’t use, and this feels like fate. They drop it off over the weekend, along with another care package of goodies to get me through the next several days.

Along with the air fryer, wrapped in a silky red cloth like a treasure, my mom includes an adorable oven mitt, worried that I might burn my hands. There are other delightful treats, such as an assortment of fried things, like shrimp, squid, and potatoes. There are also steamed buns; juicy, plump Korean strawberries; tender persimmons, called hong si; and eggs.

I reheat the fried treats in my air fryer and eat them. Yes, I burn my mouth, and I’ve never been happier about it.

To celebrate the arrival of my air fryer, I treat myself to delivery Korean fried chicken and Korean pizza. I open the can of beer that I was saving from the last care package. Even though I’ve loved my daily dosirak, it’s such a treat to enjoy delivery foods. The moment I take the first bite of Korean fried chicken, I’m no longer exhausted by my journey and weird schedule. It’s a taste of home that no Korean fried chicken outside of the country could replicate. The chicken is so crisp, juicy with a spicy kick, and it takes me back to my childhood, getting Korean fried chicken with my brother. The so-called “Chicago deep-dish pizza” has fried shrimp, pineapple, red onions, and a sweet sauce that makes it uniquely Korean.

Quarantining by myself hasn’t been fun; staying up for 30 hours unintentionally, drinking so much coffee so that I won’t fall asleep while working, being unable to go for a walk besides onto my narrow balcony to throw away my trash, and dealing with my loneliness and insecurities with no one to talk to or distract me have all been low points. I’ve spent hours just staring at my face and my body, criticizing. I’ve heard of some creative people doing workouts while quarantined, but I would rather watch other people’s mukbang. Why do I feel exhausted all the time, even though I don’t move at all? My mind is filled with so many random thoughts, and not all of them feel great.

But eating incredible Korean fried chicken and pizza, sipping ice-cold beer in my pajamas while looking at the ocean on a Sunday afternoon? I couldn’t be any happier. Just a few more days until I get to be with my family.

Days 13-14: Mukbang

As it turns out, 14 days is truly no joke. I’ve spent almost half a month in this tiny room, spoiled by delicious dosirak three times a day. And now, because I treated myself with some fried chicken and pizza, I have four saved-up dosirak, stacked on top of one another, to enjoy as I like.

I’ve had three dosirak at once, but four? I challenge myself. (Anything for a little excitement.) I will try to eat 16 side dishes, eight different entrees, and four different soups. Nothing is labeled, so I decide to play a guessing game as well. Early on I found that filming myself eating and sharing the videos on social media took a bit of the sting out of dining alone day after day, and this meal, I figure, will be a feast worth sharing.

Having an air fryer is great for cooking eggs and reheating leftover fried chicken, but it’s not so useful when it comes to reheating rice or soup. And there are days — like this one — when I don’t feel like eating cold dosirak, days when I wish I could slurp hot noodles rather than eat rice. I find myself complaining to myself about my situation rather than being appreciative. But then I try to remember that so many people are struggling to get food, let alone a decent meal, during this challenging time. There are ajummas, an endearing term for middle-aged Korean women, who prepare these foods for me and deliver them several times a day. Putting on a smile, I film myself devouring four dosiraks at once. I finish every bite, and I’m once again thankful — if only for my metabolism.

By the time I begin to get used to my new schedule and the routine of getting calls from the office to pick up my meals, it’s almost time to leave. Before I can officially check out, I need to get tested one more time. Just like the first time, the local health department comes to pick me up, and I’m excited to walk outside my room for the first time in weeks, even if it’s just to the car. The news gets better: Expectedly, my test came back negative, and I can finally be with my parents. The only thing standing between us is one last night at the facility, and one last dosirak feast.

For my last quarantine feast, I open the cup noodles that I’ve been saving

There’s spicy pork bulgogi, stir-fried anchovies, kimchi, steamed cabbage, hamburger steak, radish kimchi, steamed eggs, and so much more. To make my last quarantine meal extra special, I open the instant ramen noodles I’ve been saving. I can’t even tell you how much I’ve missed slurping noodles. As I’m sipping the hot, beefy, spicy broth of the cup noodles with rice, I get emotional, thinking about this once-in-a-lifetime experience I’ve had, quarantining in my hometown, Pohang, spoiled with incredible food options and stunning the ocean views and sunrises every day for the past 13 days.

Self-quarantine can be difficult — both mentally and physically. But these Korean dosiraks were true gifts and became the highlight of my mundane days. Once I’m out, there will be so many options, but there will be nothing quite as meaningful as the lukewarm dosiraks that brought me so much joy and happiness when there was little of either to be found.

Day 14: Freedom

I can’t believe I’ve been quarantining in this room for the past 14 days. I get a call from the office, saying that I can leave now. Shortly after, my mom texts me that she is here. I look around the clean, empty room one more time, soaking in all the memories and feelings. Remembering those sleepless nights watching Korean food mukbang, those weekends when I felt so sluggish and started dancing around the room, peaceful mornings watching the sunrise with the sound of fishermen heading to work. Each day has been precious and memorable with different dosirak.

As I drag my luggage down to the elevator, there she is, my mom. And I give her the biggest hug one human has ever given to another. I’m sure of it. I thank the staff for all the work they’ve done, but especially for the air fryer.

My mom and I take dozens of pictures around the quarantine facility, letting everyone in my family know that I’m free after all. We head to the seafood restaurant nearby, known for serving spicy seafood stew with a whole crab on top, to celebrate our reunion.

We sit down to a feast with crab fried rice, jjamppong (spicy seafood stew), crispy pork, and smiles. These are things I’ve been dreaming about since I arrived at the airport. I see the steamy bowls of jjamppong coming to our table, and once they’re put down, I immediately take a sip of broth. It’s spicy, tangy, and blisteringly hot. “I’m so happy to eat with my son, finally,” my mom says. I smile back at her and pass her my bowl of noodles. “Try these too, mom. They are so delicious.”

Empowering the Diner is a BIPOC-focused event series designed to help attendees flex their purchasing power at bars and restaurants

Philly’s outdoor dining permits expire at the end of the year. Some advocates argue they should be a part of the city for good.

The spongy Italian flatbread is enjoying renewed popularity at both new and established bakeries, Italian markets, pizza shops, and upscale restaurants

Where to eat and drink in one of the most beautiful places on earth

Everything you’ve heard about Maui’s radical beauty is true: the undulation of the mountains and the lowlands, the cream-toned beaches that yield seamlessly to sea and sky, the volcanic rocks slicing through the million shades of green. Maui is larger than O‘ahu, though the forested reserves bookending its eastern and western points mean that its more populous towns are concentrated toward the island’s center — ideal for short, scenic road trips between restaurant-hopping.

Scores of dining rooms take advantage of the natural splendor, overlooking beaches or sitting along foothills or high perches ideal for watching pyrotechnic sunsets. But just as often, seeking out the most righteous meals in Maui means venturing to a plain-faced strip mall. A concise cross section of options defines this list: a handful of tourist destinations worthy of their popularity, a few locals’ hangouts for variations on traditional Hawaiian fare, and a requisite pit stop for pineapple-macadamia nut pie.

Update, Spring 2021: Maui’s post-pandemic restaurant scene is a mixed bag. During 2020’s near-complete shutdown of tourism, many favorite spots changed hands, downsized, or permanently closed their doors. Restaurants barely stayed afloat, often thanks to owners who filled every role from host to line cook to dishwasher. But a surprising number of new places opened too, some from laid-off kitchen staff who seized the opportunity to launch their own businesses. The “eat local” trend blossomed during the shutdown as well, resulting in new relationships between restaurants and island farmers, and a plethora of Maui-made products on menus and in grocery stores.

Note: Due to COVID-19 safety guidelines, restaurants are currently running at 50 percent capacity. Do yourself a favor and book far in advance, especially if you want that sunset-splashed table.

Prices per person, excluding alcohol:

$ = Less than $10

$$ = $10 - $20

$$$ = $20 - $40

$$$$ = More than $40

Shannon Wianecki writes about food, culture, and native ecosystems for publications including BBC, Smithsonian, and Hana Hou — the Hawaiian Airlines magazine. Growing up in Hawai’i her favorite snack was raw opihi (limpet) fresh off the rocks.

Part of the Eater Guide to Hawai‘i

Biden’s not taking away your meat, as Republicans claimed this weekend. But partisan conflict over eating animals is just getting started.

What’s the next adult-aimed flavor going to be? Roasted brussels sprouts? Beef tartare? Existential ennui?

Like the Riverdales and Winx Clubs of the world, Goldfish crackers are getting an edgier, more adult reboot — starting with a new spicy flavor, made in collaboration with Frank’s RedHot sauce. Like the hot sauce, the crackers will carry notes of vinegar and cayenne pepper.

Hot and spicy is the most-requested flavor for Goldfish on social media, according to a press release announcing the new product. Janda Lukin, chief marketing officer for Campbell Snacks — which owns Pepperidge Farm’s Goldfish — told USA Today that the goal of the spicy cracker is to attract adult consumers.

“This flavor is for the older, mature audience, who requested and can handle the heat,” said Lukin, who also revealed that the brand is working on additional flavors aimed at adults. (Roasted brussels sprouts? Beef tartare? Existential ennui?)

As Lukin pointed out to USA Today, Goldfish were once geared more towards adults than their kids. Early on the crackers’ history, they were bar snacks, per Fast Company; even Julia Child reportedly regularly served Goldfish as her Thanksgiving appetizer alongside her favorite upside-down martini. It wasn’t until the ‘70s, when Goldfish began running TV ads, and the ‘90s, when the fish-shaped cracker acquired a smiling face, that the cheesy snack became more of a childhood staple.

While Goldfish isn’t looking to alienate its sticky-fingered, lunchbox-toting core demographic with these new, more “adult” flavors, obviously the company decided it wanted a piece of the grown-up pie, too.

The RedHot flavor will be available in stores starting in May, while supplies last. Adults, time to fucking go wild!!

• Goldfish teams up with Frank’s RedHot for limited-edition spicy crackers. How to win a free bag [USA Today]