FRANKENSTEINED
I am fifty-four, and I admit I have a soft spot for the ancient world, the one I grew up in, and the one I evolved until I reached my forties. Some would say it was neither better nor worse; fuck it, yes, it was better, mostly because it was more compatible with me; I fit in, and at least I could understand it. Especially when you went to a restaurant.
You sat down. You ordered. A plate landed. You picked up your silverware and you ate. You left satisfied or disappointed. It wasn’t that fucking complicated.
But things have changed.
At one point, restaurants and chefs decided to offer a generous, noble, and modern experience that would turn customers into kings. I always viewed it as a desperate attempt to atone for this old saying about restaurants: a kitchen is not a democracy.
Like fools, we thought we could groom and mold this creature as we see fit. But instead, we created a monster. We have “Frankensteined” them.
They escaped the lab and set themselves free, and of course we have lost total control over them.
And now... They haunt our dining rooms. They terrorize our kitchens. They give nightmares to cooks and servers. They howl reviews in the dark.
And they are always right.
The aftermaths of that revolution have turned restaurants' kitchens into administrative offices. So yes, it is our curse, our responsibility. Because we have let fear and doubt enter into the kitchen, and it transpired in the dining room, so substitution creeped in and became mechanical, automatic, Pavlovian. We allowed a system where customers can order a dish with twenty-four lines of modifications.
No garlic.
Sauce on the side.
No butter.
No salt.
Half rare, half well done, grilled but finished in a pan.
What the hell!
Everything can be replaced or adjusted until meals taste like anything, and the orders look like an appeals court.
The customer doesn’t order; he pleads his case.
He doesn’t take pleasure; he negotiates.
He doesn’t finish your plate; he apologizes.
And he goes home on parole, assigned to house arrest with a doggy bag.
You might not like what you're about to read, but let me give you some fucking news: you must be realistic; your meals aren’t infinitely customizable. The freedom to undo and redo at will pushes cooks to stop deciding. We forgot the golden rule: limits create trust, and frames give meaning.
And when everyone wants to be right, everyone ends up being wrong.
As paradoxical as it may sound, Choice was supposed to deliver the customer from the boundaries of menus, but it paralyzed them, and the menu stopped guiding. Now when the plate hits the table, nobody eats right away. It starts with an audit; you look, analyze, and check if this moral choice will match the person that you're trying to be this week. And if it doesn’t, your plate will judge you with every bite. Of course not before you took a fucking picture of it.
The worst part? It works, but just enough to ruin the meal but not enough for anyone to admit it. Somewhere along the way, flavor became suspicious, the sauce became dangerous because fat is visible, and butter became ideological. In a nutshell, joy became optional.
Except for sugar. Sugar doesn’t scare anybody. Sugar is our friend. Strangely, there’s no one complaining there. Funny.
So in the end, the pleasure is on hold, pending the guest’s approval.
In today's restaurants, we offer multiple-choice menus that you can read like insurance policies. Don’t worry, we put garnishes on the side to anticipate the potential damages to your aura. In other places, we provide the ingredients, and you’re free as a bird to do whatever the fuck you want with them.
But you didn’t count on the fact that the responsibility would slide onto your shoulders. And instead of sitting down and enjoying your meal, now you’re under pressure and have to work on your lunch too. You have to build your bowl, select your protein, choose the veggies, and pick your dressing.
And please, hurry the fuck up because there’s a line behind you.
Once you’ve finished eating, a little sad gray angel taps your shoulder and whispers in your ear that you did well and didn’t take any risks. You made the right choice. A safe choice.”
But “safe" is the exact opposite of memorable. And when food gets infected with this nonsense, everyone bleeds. The cooks. The servers. The customers.
This isn’t nostalgia or bitterness, but I am lucid. Lucid enough to recognize when a system keeps moving but stops making sense. And nowadays, before every service, I am tempted to print a note at the bottom of the menu:
“If you’re disappointed, it’s partly your fault too. The longer and more you modified the order, the smaller the pleasure gets.”
We know better than anyone that, regarding cooking, when structure disappears, balance collapses, and everything turns bland. Harmless.
And now it's impossible to turn back; we are far too deep in, so we keep anyway to please. So go on; don’t be scared. You can swallow your food without thinking or feeling, because we’ve removed fear and guilt, and we slapped blandness on the menus like a substitute seasoning.
I will finish by painting a bleak picture that is the aftermath of this twisted game. People never talk about that trauma. But it is very real, and behind my burners, every night, I witness quiet tragedies and endless pain. Every night I see a vegetable cry because it just wants to be cooked in butter. But instead, it ends up steamed, somehow to expiate your sins, and his at the same time.
I hear everywhere that everyone wants to eat or cook “authentic" food, but nobody wants to face the consequences. But authenticity has a smell. And it stains. It leaves marks on the tablecloth, on chef coats… and sometimes even on your conscience. And that you can't sanitize it.
I have noticed that when food becomes ideological, eating becomes a source of anxiety. And when pleasure has to justify itself, something essential disappears…common sense.
But I can promise you that it will not leave quietly.
It leaves screaming because real cuisine doesn’t whisper. It talks loudly, often with its mouth full. And it screams that flavor and taste have decided to fight back.
Pots and pans have joined the resistance.
So did I.
But will you?
Excerpted and adapted from the book Food, Bullshit, and… Other Complications by Alex Fenot. Published by Foodnbullshit (2026). © 2026 Alex Fenot. All rights reserved.
4/12.26
NEWSLETTER
YOUR SEAT AT THE TABLE STARTS HERE
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.
Contact:
FRANKENSTEINED
I am fifty-four, and I admit I have a soft spot for the ancient world, the one I grew up in, and the one I evolved until I reached my forties. Some would say it was neither better nor worse; fuck it, yes, it was better, mostly because it was more compatible with me; I fit in, and at least I could understand it. Especially when you went to a restaurant.
You sat down. You ordered. A plate landed. You picked up your silverware and you ate. You left satisfied or disappointed. It wasn’t that fucking complicated.
But things have changed.
At one point, restaurants and chefs decided to offer a generous, noble, and modern experience that would turn customers into kings. I always viewed it as a desperate attempt to atone for this old saying about restaurants: a kitchen is not a democracy.
Like fools, we thought we could groom and mold this creature as we see fit. But instead, we created a monster. We have “Frankensteined” them.
They escaped the lab and set themselves free, and of course we have lost total control over them.
And now... They haunt our dining rooms. They terrorize our kitchens. They give nightmares to cooks and servers. They howl reviews in the dark.
And they are always right.
The aftermaths of that revolution have turned restaurants' kitchens into administrative offices. So yes, it is our curse, our responsibility. Because we have let fear and doubt enter into the kitchen, and it transpired in the dining room, so substitution creeped in and became mechanical, automatic, Pavlovian. We allowed a system where customers can order a dish with twenty-four lines of modifications.
No garlic.
Sauce on the side.
No butter.
No salt.
Half rare, half well done, grilled but finished in a pan.
What the hell!
Everything can be replaced or adjusted until meals taste like anything, and the orders look like an appeals court.
The customer doesn’t order; he pleads his case.
He doesn’t take pleasure; he negotiates.
He doesn’t finish your plate; he apologizes.
And he goes home on parole, assigned to house arrest with a doggy bag.
You might not like what you're about to read, but let me give you some fucking news: you must be realistic; your meals aren’t infinitely customizable. The freedom to undo and redo at will pushes cooks to stop deciding. We forgot the golden rule: limits create trust, and frames give meaning.
And when everyone wants to be right, everyone ends up being wrong.
As paradoxical as it may sound, Choice was supposed to deliver the customer from the boundaries of menus, but it paralyzed them, and the menu stopped guiding. Now when the plate hits the table, nobody eats right away. It starts with an audit; you look, analyze, and check if this moral choice will match the person that you're trying to be this week. And if it doesn’t, your plate will judge you with every bite. Of course not before you took a fucking picture of it.
The worst part? It works, but just enough to ruin the meal but not enough for anyone to admit it. Somewhere along the way, flavor became suspicious, the sauce became dangerous because fat is visible, and butter became ideological. In a nutshell, joy became optional.
Except for sugar. Sugar doesn’t scare anybody. Sugar is our friend. Strangely, there’s no one complaining there. Funny.
So in the end, the pleasure is on hold, pending the guest’s approval.
In today's restaurants, we offer multiple-choice menus that you can read like insurance policies. Don’t worry, we put garnishes on the side to anticipate the potential damages to your aura. In other places, we provide the ingredients, and you’re free as a bird to do whatever the fuck you want with them.
But you didn’t count on the fact that the responsibility would slide onto your shoulders. And instead of sitting down and enjoying your meal, now you’re under pressure and have to work on your lunch too. You have to build your bowl, select your protein, choose the veggies, and pick your dressing.
And please, hurry the fuck up because there’s a line behind you.
Once you’ve finished eating, a little sad gray angel taps your shoulder and whispers in your ear that you did well and didn’t take any risks. You made the right choice. A safe choice.”
But “safe" is the exact opposite of memorable. And when food gets infected with this nonsense, everyone bleeds. The cooks. The servers. The customers.
This isn’t nostalgia or bitterness, but I am lucid. Lucid enough to recognize when a system keeps moving but stops making sense. And nowadays, before every service, I am tempted to print a note at the bottom of the menu:
“If you’re disappointed, it’s partly your fault too. The longer and more you modified the order, the smaller the pleasure gets.”
We know better than anyone that, regarding cooking, when structure disappears, balance collapses, and everything turns bland. Harmless.
And now it's impossible to turn back; we are far too deep in, so we keep anyway to please. So go on; don’t be scared. You can swallow your food without thinking or feeling, because we’ve removed fear and guilt, and we slapped blandness on the menus like a substitute seasoning.
I will finish by painting a bleak picture that is the aftermath of this twisted game. People never talk about that trauma. But it is very real, and behind my burners, every night, I witness quiet tragedies and endless pain.
Every night I see a vegetable cry because it just wants to be cooked in butter. But instead, it ends up steamed, somehow to expiate your sins, and his at the same time.
I hear everywhere that everyone wants to eat or cook “authentic" food, but nobody wants to face the consequences. But authenticity has a smell. And it stains. It leaves marks on the tablecloth, on chef coats… and sometimes even on your conscience. And that you can't sanitize it.
I have noticed that when food becomes ideological, eating becomes a source of anxiety. And when pleasure has to justify itself, something essential disappears…common sense.
But I can promise you that it will not leave quietly.
It leaves screaming because real cuisine doesn’t whisper. It talks loudly, often with its mouth full. And it screams that flavor and taste have decided to fight back.
Pots and pans have joined the resistance.
So did I.
But will you?
Excerpted and adapted from the book Food, Bullshit, and… Other Complications by Alex Fenot. Published by Foodnbullshit (2026). © 2026 Alex Fenot. All rights reserved.
4/12.26
NEWSLETTER
YOUR SEAT AT THE TABLE STARTS HERE
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.
Contact:
alexandrefenot@gmail.com
NEWSLETTER
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.