Foodies Clan

Finally, a pumpkin dessert that isn’t dominated by spices — or, for that matter, pumpkin

I was on the hunt for canned pumpkin puree, and so far, it was not going well. After finding the shelf at my go-to grocery store completely cleared of the familiar orange cans, I drove across the street to another major grocer — and again, no luck. Despite the suburban perks of having a car and several large grocery stores within driving distance, a quick errand was turning into a multi-stop scavenger hunt (in the pouring rain, no less). By the time I entered the baking aisle at the third store, my feet were thoroughly soaked and I was peeved. I’d never been more relieved to see cans of pumpkin puree lining the shelf.

America’s collective obsession with everything pumpkin continues to baffle me (I get it, but I don’t get it). Though I’ve come around to appreciating its namesake pie, I’ve found many pumpkin-flavored treats a bit too moist, heavy on the spice, and/or one-dimensional and predictable. So why did I jump on the bandwagon and develop a pumpkin cake for this month’s column? Precisely because I wanted the challenge of creating a version that wasn’t dominated by spices, had a decently structured crumb, and worked in tandem with other flavors for greater nuance — in other words, a cake that would make my search for pumpkin puree worth it.

This pumpkin brown butter whiskey cake fits the bill and then some. During the development process, I deliberately chose to omit the usual cinnamon and spices, and turned to brown sugar and brown butter to channel the same warm, autumnal notes on a cleaner canvas. Instead of using liquified butter, the brown butter is refrigerated until it’s solidified and creamable (a technique I picked up from this recipe), which requires some planning ahead but results in a tighter crumb while maintaining the browned butter’s deep nutty flavor. Unlike other pumpkin-heavy recipes, this cake calls for just half a cup of puree — enough to impart the characteristic earthiness of pumpkin without monopolizing the overall flavor, and perfect for using up any leftover puree you may have in the fridge. Whiskey is the final piece that ties the dessert together, adding just the right amount of edge and depth to both the batter and whipped cream. (I’m a firm believer that sweets are better with a bit of booze; I have yet to be proven wrong.)

“Pumpkin brown butter whiskey cake” may be a mouthful, but with every bite, you’ll realize that each of these ingredients rightfully deserves a place in the recipe’s title. The cozy, subtle flavors play off one another to create a cake that exudes everything I love about fall without relying solely on pumpkin or the classic spices to carry the dish. Like many recipes I develop, this one-layer cake is versatile enough to be a treat to nibble on throughout the week (been there, done that) or a crowd-pleasing, seasonal dessert to share at the dinner table. Regardless of the occasion, I’ll be making it again and again — as long as I remember to keep canned pumpkin puree stocked in my pantry at all times.

Pumpkin Brown Butter Whiskey Cake Recipe

Makes one 8-inch round cake

Ingredients:

For the cake:

½ cup (113 grams or 1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup (140 grams) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon kosher salt
¾ cup (150 grams) light brown sugar
1 large egg, at room temperature
½ cup (120 grams) pure canned pumpkin puree
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons bourbon or whiskey (no need to use top-shelf liquor)
¼ cup whole milk, at room temperature

For the whiskey whipped cream:

¾ cup heavy whipping cream, cold
3 tablespoons powdered sugar
1 tablespoon bourbon or whiskey
Pinch of kosher salt

For the topping:

Chopped nuts (pecans or walnuts work well), toasted coconut chips (like this one), or crushed gingersnaps

Instructions:

Step 1: Start by browning the butter: Cut the butter into rough chunks and melt in a small or medium saucepan over medium heat. Continue cooking the butter, stirring with a rubber spatula as it foams, until it browns and smells nutty, about 5 to 7 minutes (be sure to stir constantly as the butter begins to brown). Immediately pour the butter, along with the browned bits, into a small heatproof bowl or measuring cup — it’s important to get it out of the pan quickly, or the solids will continue to darken and burn.

Step 2: Refrigerate the butter for 1 to 2 hours, until solidified but soft enough to cream. If your butter is too firm, remove it from the fridge and let it sit at room temperature until softened.

Step 3: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease an 8-inch round cake pan with nonstick cooking spray. Line the bottom with a parchment round, and grease the parchment.

Step 4: In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt.

Step 5: Using an electric mixer or a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the brown butter until smooth. Add the brown sugar and cream together until well-combined and fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes.

Step 6: Beat in the egg until incorporated, then scrape down the bowl with a rubber spatula. Add the pumpkin and vanilla and beat until combined. The mixture may look slightly curdled at this point, but will come together in the next step.

Step 7: Add half of the dry ingredients to the bowl and beat just until combined. Beat in the milk and 2 tablespoons of whiskey. Scrape down the bowl, then beat in the rest of the dry ingredients, taking care not to over-mix.

Step 8: Transfer the batter to the prepared pan and smooth the surface with a small offset spatula. Lightly drop the pan on the counter one or two times to get rid of any air pockets. Bake the cake for 28 to 32 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through, until it’s lightly browned and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Step 9: Let the cake cool for 15 minutes, then gently run a small offset spatula around the edges to loosen. Carefully transfer the cake to a cooling rack.

Step 10: While the cake is cooling, make the whiskey whipped cream: Combine the heavy cream, powdered sugar, whiskey, and a pinch of salt in a large bowl. Using an electric hand mixer or a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, whip the cream until medium-to-stiff peaks form and it holds its shape. Do not over-whip.

Step 11: When the cake is completely cool, spread the whipped cream on top. For a cleaner look, I like to run a small offset spatula around the top edge of the cake to create an even “wall” of cream and go back to gently smooth the top. Garnish with chopped nuts, coconut chips, or crushed gingersnaps.

Note: If you refrigerate the assembled cake (covered), allow it to soften at room temperature for 20 to 30 minutes before enjoying.

Joy Cho is a freelance writer, recipe developer, and pastry chef based in New York City.
Celeste Noche is a Filipino American food, travel, and portrait photographer based between Portland, Oregon, and San Francisco.
Recipe tested by Deena Prichep

Everybody calm down, some slices — especially in Brazil — just require it

Despite living most of my life in the U.S., I grew up in a deeply Brazilian household. Along with greeting everyone with a kiss on the cheek, binging novelas with my grandmother, and wearing only white on New Year’s Eve, that meant we ate nearly everything — even the occasional cheeseburger — with a fork and knife. Most notably, though, this includes pizza.

When I recently asked a family member about why she eats her pizza with a fork and knife, she responded, “Well what else would you eat it with? Your hands?” As a dual citizen, I’ve learned to enjoy my pizza both with cutlery and without, but there’s something about burnt fingers, greasy hands, and tomato sauce stains that does have me siding with the utensils, a move that, especially during my two-year stint in New York, risked me being labeled a “pizza-forker” with the likes of former Ohio Governor John Kasich and NYC Mayor Bill de Blasio. But in my and the entire nation of Brazil’s defense, there’s a pretty good reason for it.

Brazil’s first brick-and-mortar pizzeria opened in 1910 in São Paulo, following a wave of Italian immigrants who had settled there at the end of the 19th century. Brazilian pizzaiolos took creative liberties with the dish, incorporating nontraditional and often bulky toppings that run the gamut from hard-boiled eggs to canned tuna to brigadeiro, a sticky chocolate mousse made with condensed milk. Brazilian pizza became, well, Brazilian, and over the decades its popularity throughout the country boomed to the fanaticism we see today.

Modern Brazilian pizza menus are like a journey into my grandmother’s kitchen, with everyday ingredients like chicken, ham, tuna, eggs, olives, broccoli, onions, and requeijão (a softer version of cream cheese) available as standard toppings. Take the Portuguesa, for instance, a staple topping combo with hard-boiled eggs, onions, peas, ham, and loads of cheese. It’s gravitationally impossible to lift a slice without losing an ingredient or two. The only way to keep the slice’s topping mix — and thereby culinary integrity — intact is to use your fork.

Another example is the quatro queijos, an extra-cheesy concoction of mozzarella, parmesan, gorgonzola, and the soft catupiry cheese. It comes piping hot, and lifting it with your hands can set off an avalanche of gooey cheese onto your lap. I would never attempt to eat such a slice without utensils, and if you happen to find yourself in a Brazilian pizzeria, you shouldn’t either.

I will also note that most Brazilian pizza crusts are nothing like the firm New York slice that’s easy to hold or fold over like an envelope — which explains why slice culture doesn’t exist here. You’d never see President Jair Bolsonaro casually eating pizza on a sidewalk with his hands in Brazil, as he recently did in New York. Back home, the crust structure is thinner and softer and almost crepe-like toward the very bottom. If he or anyone tried to pick up a fresh slice overloaded with toppings, it would quickly flop over.

Yet even as lighter, Neapolitan-style pies and gourmet pizzas multiply across Brazil, most diners continue reaching for their utensils. It can be a tough pill to swallow, especially for outsiders. Chef and native New Yorker Sei Shiroma had to come to terms with this when he opened his first pizza restaurant, Ferro e Farinha, in Rio de Janeiro in 2014. Shiroma’s pies are made with naturally fermented dough and cooked in a wood-fired oven, which, unlike traditional Brazilian pizza, results in a light and crispy crust. “This is the kind of pizza I recommend you eat with your hands,” Shiroma tells me.

The chef, who moved from New York to Rio a decade ago, used to give this advice to all his diners, and when he opened his first pizzeria, forks and knives weren’t part of the picture. Diners often asked for them, and Shiroma says he would use that as an opportunity to educate them on the “best way” to enjoy his pizza — i.e. with their hands.

Shiroma has since given in to Brazilian pizza-cutting culture and is well on his way to opening a fourth location. He says he’s not here to tell diners how to eat, but rather, serve them really good pizza. And at all his restaurants, the tables are now outfitted with forks and knives. “Pizza doesn’t have to be the kind of pizza that New Yorkers think of as pizza,” says Shiroma. And it doesn’t have to be eaten that way, either.

So the next time you order a pizza in Brazil, or New York, or wherever your favorite sit-down pizzeria lives, feel confident reaching for a knife and fork if the slice calls for it. And if you ever see anyone else doing the same, cut them some slack. They might just be from Brazil.

Carla Vianna is a travel writer and photographer living in Rio de Janeiro. Nicole Medina is a Philly-based illustrator who loves capturing adventure through her art using bold colors and patterns.

Spices are just as essential to well-being as cans of beans or pasta

The pandemic has led to a proliferation of mutual aid food banks and free fridges around the country — fridges and pantries where people can drop off food for others to pick up and use, no questions asked. Earlier this year, a screenshot from Facebook user Eric McCool, “sharing wisdom from a food bank volunteer,” made the rounds on Twitter. Among McCool’s tips: If you’re donating canned goods, make them pop tops. Peanut butter and jelly are worth nothing if you don’t have sandwich bread. But notably, “spices, salt & pepper are a real gift.”

Most food pantries prioritize staple foods that either have a long shelf life or are versatile and calorically dense, like canned vegetables and tuna, dried pasta, beans, and rice. Less frequent considerations are spices. However, they are no less essential than a can of corn. Like, sure, dried lentils boiled in water and served over rice is a hearty meal. But with no salt and pepper, no herbs, no garlic, what the hell kind of meal is that for anyone to enjoy?

It also turns out that the government thinks that people using SNAP and WIC benefits don’t deserve to add flavor or fun to a meal. Twitter user @pervocracy recently pointed out the ways the government acts on the ethos of “people shouldn’t buy junk food with benefits! but they shouldn’t have fancy food, either!”; for their purposes, spices count as “fancy.” Alaska’s WIC benefits prohibit purchasing any herbs and spices (including garlic and ginger), sharp cheddar, and any condiments. In New Jersey’s WIC benefits, individually wrapped slices of cheese are prohibited, as are “fruit-nut mixtures” and pickles. And SNAP benefits list things like honey, coffee, vanilla extract, and bouillon as “accessory foods,” and affect retailers’ abilities to be eligible to sell foods to SNAP recipients. This is often done under the guise of “health,” with the government saying they’re encouraging people, especially children, to eat fresh vegetables instead of packaged and processed foods. But unseasoned carrots aren’t going to make a vegetable lover out of anyone.

America does a great job of convincing us that being poor is the fault of the individual. If you rely on SNAP benefits or food pantries or free fridges for your food, the message is that it’s your fault, and that “beggars can’t be choosers.” Luckily, many continue to push back against that narrative, pointing out how poverty is a structural issue. Sure, dried oregano or cumin seeds are not anyone’s main source of calories. But, as should be obvious by now, food is about more than calories. It is how we connect to our bodies and our cultures, how we pass on traditions and take moments to enjoy ourselves. So if you’re a donor to your local food pantry or neighborhood free fridge, add some spices to your bag.

It’s easy to see how these additions get overlooked. You can’t make a meal out of Italian seasoning, and salt and pepper are so ubiquitous you’d think they came with every rental kitchen. But if $2 can buy two cans of black beans or one canister of red pepper flakes, most people would budget for the former. And the spices are what transform those beans from a vehicle for calories into a meal, whether it’s Cuban frijoles negros or a black bean dal.

Hopefully one day we’ll redistribute all of Jeff Bezos’s wealth and everyone will be able to afford equitably grown turmeric. But until then, it’ll be a community effort to make sure everyone is not just fed, but nourished. A meal without any seasonings — without salt — is boring as hell. So next time you’re donating to your pantry, consider spices the staples that they are.

McDonald’s new plant-based burger, which launches in the U.S. today, tastes basically like any other McD’s burger

At long last, after years of begging from vegetarians, McDonald’s finally debuted its long-awaited meat-free burger, the McPlant. Right now, the chain is only testing the burger, made in collaboration with plant-based meat brand Beyond Meat, at eight of its locations across the United States, including just a short drive away from my apartment in the Dallas suburbs. And so, in the honorable pursuit of journalism, I braved an uncharacteristically cold and rainy day to try out the hottest new thing in the world of plant-based burgers.

The McDonald’s drive-thru in Irving, Texas boasts a large digital sign announcing the McPlant’s arrival. In addition to the Beyond patty made with rice, peas, and potatoes, which was developed exclusively for McDonald’s, there’s a slice of American cheese, a messy tangle of shredded iceberg lettuce, pickle slices, and a couple glops of mayonnaise and ketchup. (The U.S. version is slightly different than the McPlant that debuted in the U.K. in late September, which boasts vegan cheese and a vegan “special sauce,” making it the chain’s first-ever vegan burger.) All together, the elements on the U.S. McPlant make for a decidedly welcome new fast-food vegetarian option.

But there’s really not much to rave about when it comes to the McPlant. It boasts a flavor that’s definitely somewhere in the vicinity of beefy, but the patty is arguably a little under-seared, leaving it a bit floppy and hard to manage, especially while eating in the car. It could also benefit from more seasoning, and a dash of mustard would add a touch of acidic balance to all the richness from the mayo and grill grease.

But those are all things that could also be said about McDonald’s beef burgers. Even though the McPlant isn’t exactly earth-shattering, it’s a perfectly serviceable burger in a pinch, especially when you’re road-tripping or in desperate need of a late-night meatless meal.

Its real competition among those looking to make the switch to eating less meat, however, is the Impossible Whopper. Introduced by Burger King in 2019, the Impossible Whopper is arguably the gold standard of meatless burgers at American fast-food restaurants. Developed by Burger King and Impossible Foods, it’s juicy, meatier than the Beyond patty, and gets an added dose of authenticity thanks to a lightly charred exterior created in Burger King’s signature flame broiler. Right now, if there’s a Burger King and a McDonald’s sitting across the street from each other, there’s no real reason to choose the McPlant over the Impossible Whopper.

Ultimately, the McPlant is a pretty big win for vegetarians, especially those who frequently find themselves at a fast-food restaurant without a whole lot of options. It’s also a solid choice for folks who are just looking to reduce their meat consumption, whether for health or environmental reasons. Now that McDonald’s is finally in the game, it’s likely that the coming months will bring a meatless arms race to the world of fast food as every chain tries to figure out what its future looks like with less meat. Less meat at fast-food chains can only be a good thing, but there’s going to be a point when folks get tired of simply being grateful that meatless options exist and demand the same care and attention that’s put into making beef and chicken taste great.

Chefs say they’re ditching avocado because it’s unsustainable. Or maybe it’s trend is just over.

In 2008, in my senior year of college, a friend and I decided to make brunch. We schleped the extra mile to Whole Foods, where we bought organic eggs, crusty bread, and thick-cut bison bacon, all to craft some sort of open-faced sandwich with. The piece de resistance, however, was a thin layer of mashed, salted avocado applied between the bread and the eggs. I’m not saying I invented avocado toast, but to us and our friends (none of whom grew up with avocado), it was novel.

That novelty, which many people across the country were experiencing at that time, turned into an obsession. Avocado became a metonym for an entire millennial aesthetic. Chefs opened avocado-only restaurants. Avocado shortages became news as a nation worried where it’d get its heart-healthy fats. And finally, as avocado toast appeared at Starbucks and Dunkin’, the fervor waned. Which is why it’s hard to take chefs seriously when they say they’re ditching avocado because its cultivation is unsustainable. Sure, but it’s also just part of everyone’s diet now. Avocado is normie food.

We’ve learned some more things about the avocado in the past 13 years since I wowed my friends with the sparkling innovation of avocado and eggs, and not just that it’s singlehandedly responsible for millennials’ low rates of homeownership. According to the Sustainable Food Trust, avocado’s popularity in North America and Europe is responsible for the crop’s massive carbon footprint, as most avocados are still grown in Central and South America. Increased cultivation has driven up productivity “to the detriment of the environment and there have been accusations of deforestation associated with plantation expansion, which has negatively impacted biodiversity.” Its popularity has also meant populations in Central and South America, for whom avocado has long been a staple food, have a harder time accessing it.

Which is all why some chefs are saying they’re doing away with avocado on their menus. Thomasina Miers, co-founder of UK restaurant chain Wahaca, told the Guardian she switched from avocado to fava beans as the base for a guacamole-type dip because avocados “are in such global demand they are becoming unaffordable for people indigenous to the areas they are grown in.” The Guardian spoke to other chefs who’ve used peas, sunchokes, zucchini, and pistachios as avocado replacements. Tim Lang, a professor of food policy at City, University of London, says this is what happens when “an exotic food becomes normalized with no thinking through of the consequences.”

The key there, however, is that avocado has become thoroughly normalized. It’s obviously great that more chefs are possibly considering the ecological impact of their menu choices, and giving more thought to local and seasonal produce sourcing even if that’s not “authentic” to the cuisine they’re making. But this would have happened anyway. Avocado toast is not a dish worthy of destination dining anymore, because by the time it shows up on the menu at Dunkin’, the trend is over.

Chefs could probably have phased out avocado on their menus without much fanfare, but nods toward sustainability have also become their own trend, whether it’s Eleven Madison Park eschewing meat (except for the rich people steak room) because it’s unsustainable, fast-food chains embracing plant-based meat, or brands vowing net-zero emissions by 2050. It’s the right thing to do, but it’s also good for business to be seen making that choice. And of course, we can’t know what’s in any chef’s heart of hearts. Maybe Daniel Humm honestly wants to shepherd in a new era of sustainable, vegan cooking. Or maybe vegetables are just cheaper than heritage duck, and he found a way to spin a cost-cutting measure to his benefit. Or maybe it’s a little bit of both!

Either way, avocado is not a surprise on a menu anymore. It has been woven into the West’s culinary fabric as much as pumpkin spice, sriracha, and turmeric. It is the skinny jeans of food, reliable if not fashionable anymore. Which is honestly great. Instead of bearing the weight of our collective trend-chasing, avocado can now go back to just being food. May she rest well.

Making the holiday-appropriate dessert is a boozy two-month process that you need to begin right now

For most of us, this time of year is all about autumn and the beauty of the harvest season. There are overly ambitious Halloween costumes to be dreamed up and then abandoned, apple picking to be done for whatever reason, orange and yellow leaves to be peeped. But for the rare few, this time of year means Christmas, because it marks the beginning of the long, dedicated, two-month process that goes into making a holiday-appropriate, dried-fruit-studded fruitcake.

A traditional fruitcake, the kind that you find wrapped in plastic in boxes in American and (more often) British grocery stores around the holidays, is typically made months in advance. That boozy flavor and frequently claggy texture that is synonymous with fruitcake? Fruitcake gets that way because it has been quite literally preserved: for two months (or more!) leading up to Christmas, fruitcakes are “fed” alcohol once a week (or more!), which gives them their rich, alcoholic flavor. As Claire Saffitz reminds you in her Dessert Person recipe, making a fruitcake is not a process that you decide to take on in the middle of December — it’s a process that you start right about now. And even if you think you don’t like fruitcake, which many people think they don’t, you should make one anyway.

Fruitcake is one of very few desserts that inspires a near universal derision. Most people will eat pie if they’re not pie people, cake if cake isn’t their favorite, and brownies just because they’re there. But there are whole vendettas against fruitcake. “How Did the Fruitcake Become a National Joke, and Can It Be Redeemed?” Thrillist asked in 2019. “Did We Always Hate Fruitcake?” Chowhound wondered a year later. The New York Times’ Cooking’s recipe for fruitcake is called “Good Fruitcake,” which one could only take to mean that most fruitcakes are bad. If you make your own fruitcake at home, though, you quickly — well, actually, slowly — learn that it doesn’t have to be this way. (And for the record: even though the American media likes to insist otherwise, there are plenty of people who love fruitcake.)

Many fussy, drawn-out baking projects require at least an intermediate level of skill and knowledge, and if you don’t have either, the croissants you spent two full days obsessing over will be disappointing and sad. A long baking project with a mediocre result can deflate even the most thick-skinned of bakers.

But fruitcake isn’t that. The process of making the actual cake part of fruitcake is fairly novice-level baking — macerate some dried fruit and nuts in alcohol, fold them together with flour, sugar, and eggs, pack the batter into a tin, and bake. The main thing that requires some intuition is the length of the bake: Because the batter is extremely dense and heavy, you have to bake the cake low and slow to make sure it’s fully cooked in the center. The real fun begins, though, once the cake has cooled. After poking holes in the surface, you drizzle booze all over it, wrap it in plastic wrap, then tin foil, then store it in a dark, cool place. Every week until Christmas, you repeat this process until just a whiff of the drunken cake could knock you over. The whole operation is exciting and fun and weird, and not unlike having a low-stakes pet.

Last year, I stored my tightly wrapped fruitcakes in my basement, tucked inside a securely sealed plastic storage container that I had used for moving. Once a week, I would trudge down the basement steps, take the lid off the storage container, carry the cakes upstairs, delicately unwrap them, pour two tablespoons of brandy over the top of each cake, wrap them tightly again, trudge back down the stairs, put them in the container, then start all over again the following week. (When my mom lived in England and made fruitcakes, she kept them under her bed.) A few weeks in, I came to feel a real affection for the boozy boys — I was their sole caretaker and I was responsible for loving them and caring for them. Although I caught myself saying “I hope these actually taste good” out loud more than once, it became less about the final result and more about the investment. When you have a child, you can dedicate all of your energy to raising them well, but at some point you still have to let go. Fruitcake is not dissimilar: at a certain point, you also have to let go.

If that sounds like a lot of work for a kind of cake you aren’t sure you even like, you’re right. But this kind of devotion is paramount to appreciating all that fruitcake can be. It’s not enough to buy it pre-packaged from a store — it’s no wonder people find it gross and disappointing. When you put in the time yourself, feeding it like a heavily boozed-up Tamagochi, you come to appreciate its nuances and layers and flavors.

Last year, at the end of my first fruitcake season (for which I set a calendar reminder, if you can believe it), I removed my cakes from their subterranean den, layered them in jam, marzipan, and royal icing, just as Saffitz’s recipe had directed me to, and stared at them like they were my children, finally all grown up. When I finally ate a slice on Christmas Eve, the flavors were complex, intense, and delicious. I was a fruitcake convert — and all it took to get there were two months and a bottle of brandy.

The legendary weatherman and “Today” host enlists top chefs like Sohla El-Waylly, Sean Sherman, and Marcus Samuelsson to share their takes on Thanksgiving classics

When he was first approached to record a podcast centered around holiday cooking, longtime Today weatherman Al Roker had some doubts. “I wasn’t sure it would work,” he says. “Do people really listen to podcasts to cook?” But as soon as he started preparing for Cooking Up a Storm With Al Roker, his new Thanksgiving-themed podcast, it immediately became clear that the format actually did make sense.

“Cooking is really sort of like theater,” Roker says. “It’s a multi-sense experience — there’s the smells, there’s the sights, and there’s also the sound of cooking. In some ways, it’s easier to concentrate on what you need to do because you’re not so distracted by what you’re looking at.” Home cooks and podcast obsessives apparently agreed, considering that the show immediately jumped into the top 10 most downloaded podcasts on Apple the day it was released.

The six-episode series is essentially a six-course Thanksgiving Day meal; Roker’s been a fixture of the holiday for decades thanks to his hosting duties at the annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. In each episode, Roker is joined by an expert like YouTube superstar Sohla El-Waylly, legendary food TV personality Ina Garten, and baker Maya-Camille Broussard to make six different classic Thanksgiving dishes, ranging from a turkey dry-brined with MSG and served with honey-thyme gravy and sweet potato pie with plantains.

Today Official Photo

When it came to selecting guests for each episode, Roker and his production team wanted to make sure that the show reflected a broad swath of Thanksgiving experiences. He enlisted close friends Marcus Samuelsson, who joins Roker to prepare his recipe for berbere-spiced brussels sprouts, and Alexander Smalls, who cooks up a classic cornbread dressing studded with oysters on the podcast. He also met some new faces, like El-Waylly, who developed a dry-brined turkey breast that Roker says is totally “mind-blowing.”

“These folks are just a really great cross-section of America, along with being terrific chefs,” Roker says. “Getting to talk to them about how they came up with these dishes and their experiences with Thanksgiving and what it means to them was really special.”

One of the podcast’s most compelling moments comes toward the end of the series, when Minneapolis chef Sean Sherman joins to share his recipe for cranberry wojape, a traditional Lakota recipe made with berries, dried rose hips, and maple syrup. “It was really important to us to bring in Sean’s perspective, and he was really eloquent in talking about it,” Roker says. “I think we are a great enough country that we can recognize that, while we have this idealized notion of the way things went, we need to look at how Thanksgiving developed from a realistic standpoint, and perspectives like Sean’s are really important.” (The holiday, of course, stems from a meeting of English colonists and members of the Wampanoag Peoples in 1621.)

Despite his enthusiasm for these classic recipes, Roker isn’t totally committed to cooking Thanksgiving dinner at home — at least not anymore. In addition to his Thanksgiving Day parade hosting duties, his children have gotten older and are working on families of their own. Now, you’re more likely to find Roker dining at New York institution Daniel, helmed by chef Daniel Boulud.

“I first did an interview with [Boulud] when I worked at WNBC in New York and he was a brand new chef at Le Cirque. While we were talking, I was holding his three-month-old daughter Alex and we’re talking about Thanksgiving,” Roker says. “Now we fast-forward it 34 years, and all of our kids have grown up, and Daniel is our tradition. We’ve been very fortunate that we could do that.”

This year, though, Roker says he might consider staying at home to cook Thanksgiving dinner, if only to try out some of the new recipes he learned in working on the podcast. “Doing this podcast has reinvigorated my Thanksgiving dinner,” he says. “Like I said, this turkey recipe is a revelation. It’s a dry-brined, flat-roasted turkey and the flavor is just unbelievable. You usually don’t think of turkey as having a great flavor.”

Roker hopes that listeners of the podcast feel that same sense of new energy with these recipes, but cautions against reinventing the wheel too much — this isn’t the time for a modern, deconstructed Thanksgiving dinner with pressed turkey cubes and cranberry-scented air.

“There are dishes that are just central to your family’s traditions, and if they’re not there, you run the risk of a Thanksgiving Day revolt,” he says. “If your family looks forward to your mac and cheese or your green bean casserole, then by golly, you ought to do that. But there’s nothing wrong with introducing something new while keeping up with traditions.”

All six episodes of Cooking Up a Storm With Al Roker are available for streaming on all major podcast platforms, including Spotify and Apple Podcasts.

With dedication to both new and old winemaking techniques, the vineyard is able to produce quality wine at multiple price points

Even in the days where automation is king, the workers at the Francis Ford Coppola Winery rely on as many hands-on and old-world techniques as they do new-school ones when it comes to making wine. On this episode of Dan Does, host Daniel Geneen visits the company’s reserve vineyard in Geyserville, California, and observes the entire process from vine to bottle.

He begins out in the field, where the EVP of production and chief winemaker Corey Beck shows him cabernet sauvignon grape vines that were planted in the mid-’80s. A team of skilled pickers meets them and blitzes the vines, pulling off hundreds of clumps of grapes in the blink of an eye. The higher-quality wines need hand picking, explains Beck, to keep out as many leaves as possible, and as not to disturb the more sensitive branches and vines.

Once the grapes are picked and the majority of the leaves are removed by hand, they’re headed to a crushing machine that is harsh enough to break the skins, but not so harsh that it crushes the seeds, which would release bitterness into the wines. The crushed grapes and juice are then sent to ferment for about two weeks in open-air tanks that can hold up to 55 tons of liquid.

The wine from each tank is taste-tested, and put in toasted oak barrels to age. From there it undergoes secondary fermentation, which changes it from malic acid to lactic acid, giving it a creamier mouthfeel and making it more palatable.

Check out the video to see other parts of the process, like the bottling process, how the Coppola Claret wines get their signature gold netting, and more.

Squid Game gave us the dalgona candy challenge, but you can maximize the sweet reward with the double dalgona challenge. 

Maybe you live in one of the approximately 142 million households that have watched Squid Game, the terrifying South Korean survival drama series turned global phenomenon. And maybe you’re one of those viewers who was so inspired by the Netflix show’s third-episode dalgona candy challenge that you tried to make the candy on TikTok, where #dalgonacandy has racked up over 1 billion views.

And then maybe, once you made all of that dalgona candy, you asked yourself: What do I do with all of these sweet, crunchy shards of burnt sugar? The answer is simple: go for a double dalgona challenge.

But before we get to that, let’s take a minute to look at how dalgona got yanked from its Korean roots in the service of 20-second TikTok videos and, in the process, became a symbol of global food culture.

In the much-obsessed-about third episode of Squid Game, players avoid death by chipping away the outer edges of the traditional Korean sugar candy, leaving the design at its center intact. Although it’s now widely known as dalgona, in Korea, the candy is typically referred to as ppopgi, which roughly translates to the verb “extract” (as in, extract the umbrella shape or die). When Player 111 receives an illicit hint about the upcoming challenge on a tiny slip of pink paper, the English subtitle reads “honeycomb,” but the Korean words read “seoltang [sugar] ppopgi.”

The candy is an old-fashioned treat made on the streets of South Korea. When my mom was growing up in Seoul, children would gather around vendors after school, watching as they melted sugar in a special ladle, then stirred in a pinch of baking soda, causing the sugar to foam before being plopped down, pressed into a thin disc, and gently stamped with a cookie cutter. The children would carefully nibble around the stamped design to see who could leave the center figure intact. The savviest among them might use a toothpick or pin to chip away the outer edges, just like the contestants in Squid Game — though Mom insists it was all about the licking and nibbling technique. (Just imagine her delight/mortification watching Squid Game.)

Ppopgi is essentially the same candy known as honeycomb or sponge candy in cultures around the world — hence the “honeycomb” translation. If you let the frothy melted sugar set without pressing it, the result is a golden, crispy-crunchy treat full of little holes.

So why is everyone calling it dalgona candy, and how did dalgona become a viral trend not once, but twice in as many years? The explanation illustrates the global evolution of language. In 2020, South Korean actor Jung Il Woo appeared on a Korean reality TV show at a cafe in Macau drinking a wildly frothy instant coffee, which he likened to ppopgi. Calling it a dalgona coffee — the casual term “dalgona,” meaning “it’s sweet,” is frequently applied to ppopgi — Jung kicked off the #dalgonacoffee obsession that swept the early-pandemic world.

My sister and I, in the throes of pandemic recipe sharing-turned-cookbook writing, tried it and were amazed: whipped instant coffee with the flavor and, miraculously, the same frothy texture of pre-hardened ppopgi. Because it’s nearly impossible to make ppopgi without burning the sugar at least a little (more often, a lot), it tastes remarkably like a cappuccino from a big-chain coffee shop. And while most instant coffee has too much burnt-coffee flavor for our liking, it becomes extraordinary when whipped and spooned over milk — or better yet, a vanilla milkshake.

So that brings us to the double dalgona challenge: dalgona candy shards sitting atop dalgona coffee whip, spooned over an iced vanilla milkshake. The candy, if you make it right, stays crunchy to the very end, giving you plenty of opportunity to appreciate the revelation contained in every spoonful of those brilliant textures and flavors: Dalgona candy is fun, but it tastes way better in a milkshake than on its own. It’s a challenge, in short, that you’re sure to win.

Double Dalgona Milkshakes

Adapted with permission from Serious New Cook: Approachable and Inspiring Recipes by Leah Su Quiroga and Cammie Kim Lin copyright © 2022.

Makes 2 large milkshakes

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons instant coffee, decaf or regular
2 to 3 tablespoons white sugar (3 tablespoons whips more nicely, but folks without a serious sweet tooth may prefer to use 2)
2 tablespoons hot water
Ice
2 scoops of vanilla ice cream
1 cup or so of cold milk
Dalgona candy shards (see below for instructions, if you haven’t already tried the dalgona candy challenge)

Instructions:

Step 1: Make the dalgona whip: Combine the coffee, sugar, and hot water in a large bowl. Whip it, preferably with a hand whisk, until your arm feels like it’s going to fall off and the mixture becomes thick, glossy, and marvelously viscous—think firm peaks of Marshmallow Fluff or Swiss meringue. (You can definitely use a hand mixer on medium, but where’s the fun in that? Plus, going too fast results in foamy, rather than super-fine, bubbles—rather like a mediocre cappuccino vs. a stellar one.) Set aside.

Step 2: Make the milkshake: Fill two tall glasses about ⅓ full of ice. (Trust us, the ice helps temper the inherent sweetness of everything else.) Add a scoop of vanilla ice cream to each, and pour in enough cold milk to cover it; the glass should be no more than two-thirds full. Using a long spoon, stir it together briefly, breaking up the ice cream just a bit. Then, spoon the dalgona whip over the ice cream. Top with a spoonful of dalgona candy shards, and serve with a long spoon for mixing and devouring.

For the Dalgona candy shards:

If you’ve already eaten your #SquidGame #dalgonacandychallenge poppgi, try your hand at the more honeycomb-like dalgona. Set a piece of parchment paper on a large plate or baking sheet, and set aside. Place ¼ cup white sugar and 2 tablespoons filtered water in a small saucepan over medium heat; do not stir. (Minerals or impurities in the water or on your utensil will cause the mixture to crystallize.) Keep a close eye as it melts and boils, watching for it to change color just the slightest bit. (The mixture has to come to a boil and continue boiling for a few minutes, which is tricky because you don’t want it to burn.) As soon as you notice the melted sugar starting to turn gold, remove it from heat and, as rapidly as you can, stir in ¼ teaspoon baking soda until it becomes a frothy blob, around 5 seconds. Immediately dump it onto the parchment in one big pile, and allow it to cool and harden (a few minutes, if you nailed it). Once it’s rock solid, whack it with something to break it into small pieces. (If it smells more than a little burnt, it is! Ditch it and try again.)

Cammie Kim Lin, co-author of Serious New Cook: Approachable and Inspiring Recipes (Fall 2022, Rizzoli USA), is a home cook and New York University writing professor.
Leah Su Quiroga, Cammie’s co-author and sister, is a professional cook and the former co-chef at Chez Panisse in Berkeley.
Molly DeCoudreaux is a food photographer based in San Francisco.
Food styling by Leah Su Quiroga and Cammie Kim Lin
Recipe testing by Kai Kim Lin

Studies show COVID transmission on a plane is highest during maskless mealtimes, but you don’t need to starve to stay safe

Last April, as I boarded a plane at the very start of the pandemic to return to my family in California, I used about 14 sanitizing wet wipes to rub down every square inch of my seat, the windows, the ceiling. I watched with a mix of horror and bewildered end-times amusement from behind my double-layered masks as every single passenger around me did the same. Its bizarreness was only trumped by the feeling that I’d probably travel like that for the rest of my life.

Yesterday, 18 months after that first pandemic takeoff, I sat on an early morning flight and pulled down my mask with abandon to eat the snack I’d just been handed. I looked around me to see that every other passenger also had their masks resting below their chins, chomping down on the terrible nut and seed bars distributed by the flight crew. I hadn’t even considered packing a wet wipe.

It’s possible we’ve all gotten a little too comfortable. As the Wall Street Journal notes, a recent medical study by a group at the University of Greenwich in London showed “a 59% higher risk of viral transmission during a one-hour meal service on a 12-hour trip compared with staying fully masked for the whole flight.” I’m no scientist, but that is a lot of risk to assume for the very limited upside of a (usually tragic) in-flight meal. Sure, we know a lot more about COVID-19 than we did all those months ago when getting on a plane felt like a possible death sentence, and highly effective vaccines have given us a tremendous level of protection even if we do get sick. But still, taking off masks in the extremely cramped confines of a plane — even with the constant flow of fresh and filtered air — presents serious risk, something I was clearly not thinking about when I risked it all for one of the driest snack bars on earth.

Early in the pandemic, with a mind for keeping masks on faces, airlines pulled back on — or completely halted — food service. But now, airline food is definitely back on the tray table. And while it’s true that planes have excellent air filtration systems — we were told by a very chipper flight attendant at the beginning of my recent flight that the air in our plane was completely refreshed every three minutes — you really, really should have a mask on for as much of your flight as possible.

Of course, the answer isn’t just “don’t eat for 12 hours.” The main issue, as researchers in the study pointed out, and as should be common sense at this point in the pandemic, arose mostly from so many passengers taking off their masks simultaneously. The researchers’ advice for airlines: Pace meal delivery times, such that alternating groups of passengers eat, while others remain masked. But airlines haven’t been particularly agile in responding to public health guidance, especially if it has the potential to piss off some of the huge fragile babies — sometimes known as adults — who buy airline tickets. So don’t count on an updated meal delivery protocol on planes any time soon.

Here’s my suggestion for all of us: Just wait a few extra minutes to eat your snacks or sip your coffee or pull back the steamy plastic wrap on that sad tray of mashed potatoes and boeuf bourguignon. It’s not ideal if everyone around you has their mask off, but keeping yours on while others eat will still provide an extra layer of protection. And just imagine how much better that airplane food will taste 20 minutes after everyone else has eaten, knowing you’re the one of the only ones enjoying the fresh airplane air — with your mask off.

This simple trick transforms kimchi into a condiment I put on everything

This post originally appeared in the November 1, 2021 edition of The Move, a place for Eater’s editors and writers to reveal their recommendations and pro dining tips — sometimes thoughtful, sometimes weird, but always someone’s go-to move. Subscribe now.

Having grown up on a heavily Korean diet, I find myself naturally gravitating toward the briny, spicy, pungent, and savory when it comes to flavor profiles. No matter what dinner is — noodles, rice, even pizza — I always need something punchy on hand, like kimchi, to complete my meal. There inevitably comes a point, though, when kimchi goes from pleasantly fermented to mouth-puckeringly sour (definitely still edible but not quite as enjoyable). When I find my kimchi approaching peak ripeness, I’ve learned the best way to give it new life is to fry it up.

Cooking kimchi isn’t a new concept, but it’s an underrated one, in my opinion. The method (if you can even call it that) is as simple as it gets: Drain the kimchi juice, chop up any large pieces, lightly coat a nonstick pan with oil or butter, and fry the kimchi for 5 to 7 minutes over high heat, stirring occasionally. Eventually, any residual liquid evaporates and the kimchi looks reduced and a bit dried out; along with this visual cue, your kitchen will also begin to smell gloriously savory. The result is concentrated, slightly softened kimchi that still packs a punch but in a less biting, acidic way — I think of the flavor as mellowed out but also sealed in.

Once you’ve pan-fried some kimchi — perhaps the jar you bought weeks ago and forgot about in the deep recesses of your fridge — the sky’s the limit in terms of how you can use it. Cooked kimchi is commonly eaten with Korean meat (the zip cuts through fatty pork belly beautifully) or lightly boiled tofu (another delicious study in contrasts), but it can also work well in anything that needs a boost of acidity without the crunch and sourness of raw kimchi: a burger or hot dog topping, inside a grilled cheese or quesadilla, or simply mixed with rice, a drizzle of sesame oil, and torn seaweed. For an easy lunch, I’ve been frying kimchi with a handful of spinach until they cook down together, then piling it all on top of a well-toasted English muffin smeared with furikake and cream cheese. The savory, spicy, creamy combo is uniquely satisfying.

It’s amazing what heat and a few minutes on a pan can do — this simple trick transforms fermented cabbage into a deeply flavorful and versatile condiment I can add, warm or cold, to pretty much anything I eat. Based on how often I’ve been reaching for it, I’ve gotten smarter and started cooking my kimchi in batches; even then, I somehow end up working through it all by the end of the week. Although I’ll happily eat kimchi in any form, the pan-fried stuff takes it to the next level — and it requires next to no work, which is the kind of win-win situation I’m all about.

Joy Cho is a freelance writer, recipe developer, and pastry chef based in New York City.

“How Steven Wong Moves 80,000 Pounds of Lobster a Week” marks Eater’s fourth Emmy win

Eater brought home another New York Emmy with a win at the 64th annual New York Emmy Awards. “How Steven Wong Moves 80,000 Pounds of Lobster a Week” took the top prize in the Informational/Instructional Long Form Content category (beating out, among other nominees, two other Eater videos in the category). The episode, part of Eater’s Vendors series, was produced by McGraw Wolfman, along with Murilo Ferreira on camera, editor Jay Simms, coordinating producer Stefania Orrù, and executive producer Stephen B. Pelletteri.

Eater received a total of six Emmy nominations in 2021, across the Daytime Emmy Awards and the New York Emmy Awards. This Emmy win is the brand’s fourth, joining three other New York Emmy-winning videos including “How One Of America’s Coolest Ice Cream Brands Was Built,” part of the Queer Table series and winner of a 2020 Best Human Interest Program or Special award.

Watch the award-winning video above, and explore the entire Vendors series on YouTube.

From adding air conditioning to letting customers see staff sitting, operators can create restaurants that are not only safe, but comfortable to work in

In their GoFundMe for HAGS, a “community driven tasting menu restaurant” chef Telly Justice and sommelier Camille Lindsley hope to open in New York, the two outline their vision for a radically inclusive restaurant. Among their goals, they write that diners should not be surprised “to see our staff sitting down.” I was shocked to read it, not because I think front-of-house staff should never be able to sit down, but because it just hadn’t occurred to me that it would be possible. And I admit I was a bit ashamed to realize I had internalized the idea that sitting was a sign of bad service.

For a long time, the harsh conditions of restaurant work have been spoken of as inevitable, and even something to be proud of enduring. Anthony Bourdain recalled in Kitchen Confidential being berated for asking for burn cream, and then watching a fellow cook whose hands “looked like the claw of some monstrous science-fiction crustacean, knobby and calloused under wounds old and new,” move a sizzling pan out of a broiler with his bare hand. “I had been identified as a pretender,” he wrote, for not having the same physical endurance. It’s part of the macho culture that’s plagued the restaurant industry for decades — if you can’t stand the heat, literally get out.

Because of the pandemic, workers are getting out — and in record numbers. Many in the food service industry, which reported quitting rates of 6.8 percent in August, have had a moment to rethink the conditions that have become the norm across restaurants. It’s not just about pay. Restaurant work is physically taxing. No matter where you are in the restaurant, you’re on your feet all night, either carrying heavy plates and zipping between tables, or hunched over in a hot kitchen with barely any time for a bathroom break. And then there’s the customers, who might harass or abuse you.

While the pandemic has unfortunately emboldened some customers to be more demanding than ever, it has also opened a conversation about the realities and difficulties of restaurant work. There have already been calls to improve worker pay, and provide benefits like health insurance, child care, and sick leave. But now, some operators are rethinking the very physical nature of the work as a way to counter reticence and burnout. They have implemented new technology, upgraded their spaces, and redesigned how restaurant work happens in order to make that work better. And through that process, operators and workers are rethinking just what about restaurant work really is unchangeable.

Technology can make things smoother for busy fast-food restaurants

According to Andrea Cherng, chief brand officer at Panda Restaurant Group, which owns Panda Express, upgrading and automating the kitchen equipment makes things easier on employees, and more efficient. The company has been testing woks that don’t need to be physically flipped and can prepare bigger batches of food, and clamshell grills, which cut cooking time in half. Together, Panda Express says this will mean employees can spend less time actively cooking in a hot kitchen. And because of the increase in to-go orders amid the pandemic, “we installed high-capacity shelving in the dining rooms that not only saved our associates some extra steps but also improved guest experience.”

Other fast-food, fast-casual, and chain restaurants have been looking to tech upgrades to streamline work, especially when they may not have enough workers. Domino’s is planning on upgrading its POS system, making it easier for new workers to learn. McDonald’s and Wendy’s have been testing voice-recognition software at drive-thrus so workers won’t interact with customers directly, and Wendy’s may use Google AI technology to remind cooks when to flip burgers on the grill. And many chains have turned to apps and loyalty programs to ideally streamline the orders coming in.

As always, there are obstacles. There’s the slightly dystopian element of a computer hearing your McDonald’s order while cooks you never see make your meal on the other side of a wall, or even not having a human element at all. There are also some more practical concerns. “For example, the Panda automated woks are difficult to fit in every one of our stores nationwide,” says Cherng, so while Panda Express is integrating them into as many locations as possible, it’s not a guaranteed fix for all workers. This is something most restaurants, regardless of national presence, have to reckon with — the physical realities of location. Sometimes buildings are old, or narrow, and kitchens can’t just be put anywhere. There is also the cost.

Sound, heat, and architectural changes make things more comfortable for workers

Chris Shepherd, owner of Underbelly Hospitality in Houston, recently made major upgrades to his restaurant UB Preserv, which all began with speaking to employees. “I had a server come to me at one point and be like, ‘It’s so loud in here. I’m not sure we can do this.’” So Shepherd made the decision to close the restaurant for five days, at the beginning of August, “to noise-dampen the dining room for our servers, [and] insulate everything so it would keep a cooler temperature,” he says. “And then we ripped the entire kitchen ceiling out and replaced it all so that they would not be hot.” He says the whole project cost $25,000, not to mention the days of lost revenue from being closed.

Many restaurants are still doing their best to stay afloat in the pandemic — and even in good times, small businesses don’t always have cash reserves to pay for upgrades and remodels. But as some owners argue, those upgrades made with workers in mind are essential for future success. Changes like adding air conditioning and reworking the sound system had an immediate impact on employees, says Shepherd.

Katy Kindred, co-owner of Kindred and Hello, Sailor in North Carolina, has also taken time this year to rethink her spaces, rebuilding the service stations at both restaurants to be less cramped and more efficient, and adding “oh my God, so much air conditioning to both kitchens.” Like Shepherd, Kindred finds that adding AC is maybe the most obvious practical way to make things more comfortable for workers in the kitchen. “I love the busy nights where I’m physical and running around, and a lot of people that get in the restaurant business actually like the physical work,” she says. “But it definitely doesn’t have to be in the blazing heat.” And at Kindred’s forthcoming bakery Milkbread, she says they called the HVAC designer back to the construction site to add more.

Kindred says making changes like that helps employees feel respected, rather than like a disposable group only worth what they can endure in the cruelest conditions. But regulating heat in the kitchen will also soon be a matter of federal importance. The Biden administration announced OSHA will be crafting new safety rules to protect workers from excess heat. “Rising temperatures pose an imminent threat to millions of American workers exposed to the elements, to kids in schools without air conditioning, to seniors in nursing homes without cooling resources, and particularly to disadvantaged communities. My Administration will not leave Americans to face this threat alone,” President Biden said in a statement. So by upgrading the AC, these owners are just getting ahead of the curve.

Many operators can agree on better sound dampening in the dining room or a cooler kitchen; some changes are more contentious. Consider anti-fatigue mats. Designed to prevent foot and back pain in kitchen workers who would otherwise be standing on concrete flooring for hours, plenty of restaurants don’t use them. According to Shepherd, his kitchen staff has repeatedly rejected rubber mats. “Every time I put mats in the kitchen, they pull them out immediately. My staff hates them,” he says, because they are hard to keep clean and turn into one more thing to spray down at the end of the night. Instead, he’s hoping there are more innovations in kitchen flooring materials that are easy to clean, soft on the joints, and provide drainage without major topographical shifts. “I can 100 percent blame at least one knee surgery on drains,” says Shepherd.

Millicent Souris, now the director of emergency food at St. John’s Bread & Life, a food pantry and soup kitchen in Brooklyn, worked in restaurants starting as a teenager. She previously told Vox that in multiple kitchens she worked in, it was owners who refused to provide anti-fatigue mats in the kitchen, deeming them unsightly. She tells Eater that at one restaurant she worked at, managers said they were “disgusting.” “And I was like, ‘Well, they save people’s backs and feet because you’re standing for these hours.’... I was like, ‘I need these. And also, you don’t offer health insurance.’” Souris says the aversion to rubber mats is a “fine dining trickle-down,” as chefs and owners worry about aesthetics in all parts of the restaurant.

And some owners have been willing to make even more drastic changes to the space in service of staff. Donnie D’Alessio, owner of Comfortland in Astoria, Queens, has decided that shutting down the dining room, converting it to prep and storage space, and offering only takeout, delivery, and some outdoor seating was the best thing for his employees. “I think just having more space is helpful,” he says. “At this point I don’t think we will ever be able to give the dining room back to diners.” It hasn’t hurt business, either. D’Alessio says during a recent brunch shift where he worked the line, Comfortland did about 400 covers across delivery, takeout, and outdoor tables.

Restaurant work attracts people who want to be on their feet and working in a fast-paced environment, and one that doesn’t have nine-to-five hours. “I do like the physicality. I do want to participate in my body in that manner,” says Souris. “And then there’s the line; past that, it’s grueling.” And while many owners are willing to make practical changes to enable easier physical work, workers argue the cultural issues leading to fatigue and physical exhaustion are much harder to undo.

If the work culture doesn’t change, these will all be Band-Aids on a bigger wound

When Yannick Benjamin, who uses a wheelchair, was designing his Harlem restaurant Contento, he ensured it could be accessible to everyone, staff and customers alike. There’s a low bar so wheelchair users can pull right up, enough space to navigate between tables, and other details that allow ease of serving. When Pete Wells reviewed the restaurant, he remarked on the design: “Night after night, I see restaurants that are theoretically wheelchair accessible. What I rarely see are wheelchairs,” the New York Times critic notes.

However, both socially and legally, those details should be unremarkable. Indeed much of what the restaurant workers I spoke to said would be helpful to combat burnout and fatigue were things that should already be available to them. The ability to take a break or a sick day and wheelchair-accessible spaces are mandated by local and/or federal government regulations like the Americans with Disabilities Act. But there are loopholes, and many restaurants take advantage. “I feel like restaurants are all crime, all the time,” says Rebecca Bass, who spent 11 years as a server and restaurant manager.

Bass, who has one leg, details how at various jobs she had difficulty navigating the space, whether it was because a bathroom was downstairs or the tile floors became wet and greasy. She was also told she wasn’t allowed to sit down in view of customers, even if her prosthetic was causing her such pain she couldn’t wear it that day. At one job, she says, “I was not allowed to come in if I was on crutches because it was a bad look for customers. Which is an incredibly illegal thing to say.” And because her work did not provide her with insurance, she couldn’t afford a better-fitting prosthetic. This is on top of intrusive questions from customers she’d often receive about her leg.

There are also changes to be made around the hectic scheduling and long hours common in much of the restaurant industry. Jason Berry, co-founder of Knead Hospitality + Design, which owns Mah-Ze-Dahr bakery and restaurants Mi Casa and Lil Succotash, also hopes to make drastic changes around schedule and work expectations. In the coming months, Berry will pilot a four-day workweek for salaried employees, which includes assistant managers, managers, sous chefs, and executive sous chefs. “Sixty to 70 hours is pretty standard historically for a manager or chef, spread across 12-to-14 hour days at the restaurant, but now people are understandably not as willing to take on that many hours while sacrificing their personal lives,” Berry says. These employees will still be working four 12-hour days, but they will be allowed to do admin work at home. Still, the program is just for salaried employees. Berry also plans to hire more hourly front- and back-of-house staff, which means there will be more coverage and ideally less burnout.

“A shift that is physically grueling and hot and everything, if it’s two hours shorter, becomes much more bearable than if it’s the whole night,” says Souris. Paying hourly workers more for shorter shifts and scheduling more people can help ease the strain that these workers face. D’Alessio says that on top of shutting down the dining room at Comfortland, he schedules enough people so no one is overworked, rotates stations so no one gets too fatigued, and communicates with customers so they know when things might take longer than expected. This sometimes means food sells out quickly, or Comfortland shuts down early. The challenge is teaching customers to be fine with that.

“Whatever you can do to appease this imaginary customer is how a restaurant is structured,” says Bass. Souris agrees, saying that the underlying problem with everything from hot kitchens to ADA compliance to burnout is the mindset among restaurant owners that the customer is not just always right, but needs to have every need anticipated and every whim catered to.

Reports on the labor shortage often make it seem like restaurant work is inherently stressful and dangerous. But “hard work is not uncomfortable,” says Souris. There are always going to be physical realities of restaurant work, and of a specific space. Sometimes a building is old, or has two floors, or is landmarked, and it’s architecturally impossible to modify. But as some of the examples above suggest, there are changes that can make the work easier — and the biggest change of all might just be culture. “People have such insane ideas about the levels of service that they should have,” says Souris, “You’re like, ‘You’re going to dinner. No one’s supposed to bend over backwards for you.’” Sometimes, the easiest change is being willing to say “no.”

That’s also going to mean customers approaching restaurants with different expectations, and ideally appreciating what the restaurant is doing to treat its workers well, even if it means the dining experience changes a bit. Maybe the restaurant closes an hour early. Maybe your meal takes 10 minutes longer. Or maybe, you’ll think twice if you see a server sitting down. Because if that really irks you so much, says Bass, “what is wrong with this industry that that is the culture we’ve created?”

Carolyn Figel is a freelance artist living in Brooklyn.