by Hannah Seo
Hannah Seo is a Korean-Canadian writer and science journalist based in Brooklyn.
A while ago, I was set to get dinner with my boyfriend and his parents in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, the neighborhood where he grew up. He scrolled through Google Maps and landed on Hainan Chicken House for our get-together. When we arrived, the two of us sat at a table and waited for his parents to show up when a trendy and somewhat diverse quartet of twenty-somethings entered the establishment. As they were seated at the table behind us, one of them immediately asked another, "so what does The New York Times recommend here?" Agitated, I eavesdropped for the next hour, growing increasingly frustrated as they asked the waiter for her recommendations for every section of the menu, discussed the history of Erewhon, recounted recent travels and their desires to go to Osaka, and took pictures of every dish while describing each as "interesting."
Why this was such an upsetting tableau to witness I couldn’t articulate at the time. But now I realize what was so eerie to me: this group didn’t really seem to enjoy their night out. In fact, how much they enjoyed their food, or each other’s company, didn’t seem to matter. The purpose of the night was clear: the satisfaction of visiting an establishment praised by tastemakers, and being able to talk about it later.
To me, this group was a perfect example of a mode of consumption and experience that has completely taken over our culture. It’s a mode fueled by algorithms and social media that dictates how so many of us decide where to go, what to do, and where to eat. We learn to prioritize how our lives might look when broadcast to others, placing higher importance on other people’s post-hoc reactions over our own in-the-moment enjoyment. This mode of consumption conditions us to efficiently collect experiences as badges of honor that will inspire envy, and alienates us from the meandering route of exploration that might offer us self-discovery. I call it the pyramid scheme of taste.