03.25.21

March 25, 2021 | 34st.com

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Letter from the Special Issues Editor 4 EGO

Meet Restaurateur Ellen Yin

On telling the story of the COVID–19 crisis through food

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Philadelphia’s Chinatown, COVID–19, & Anti–Asian Racism

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Surviving on Penn’s Sophomore Dining Plan

22 PHOTO ESSAY

What's Cooking with Street Multimedia

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rom start to finish, the process of putting together this edition of Street’s beloved Dining Guide has been guided by one fundamental question: What has food meant to us in the past year?

As we’ve navigated everything from stay–at–home orders, to mask mandates, to a nationwide toilet paper shortage, what role have our favorite home–cooked meals, our go–to takeout orders, and viral TikTok recipes played in helping us brave the chaos?

Perhaps food is a source of comfort in a time where headlines feel more like they’re ripped straight from the script of a post–apocalyptic sci–fi flick rather than real life. Or maybe it was a point of connection after in–person celebrations gave way to Zoom calls. Food might have been a point of obsession and insecurity, a reminder of the crowded restaurant meals and resident hall potlucks we once enjoyed, or even an avenue to advocate for the rights of others. And then, of course, there are those who would shake their heads at the notion that it is anything more than a source of sustenance.

In the past year, food has meant many different things to many different people; attempting to assign a clear–cut label to it is a waste of time. Just as the advent of a pandemic has unequivocally shaken up every other aspect of our lives, it has changed the way we think about the nutrients that we put into our

Beatrice Forman, Editor–in–Chief Hannah Lonser, Special Issues Editor Chelsey Zhu, Campus Editor Mehek Boparai, Culture Editor Karin Hananel, Assignments Editor Lily Stein, Features Editor Denali Sagner, Features Editor Julia Esposito, Word on the Street Editor Kyle Whiting, Music Editor Peyton Toups, Deputy Music Editor Kaliyah Dorsey, Focus Editor Emily White, Style Editor Eva Ingber, Ego Editor Aakruti Ganeshan, Arts Editor Harshita Gupta, Film & TV Editor Isabel Liang, Design Editor Alice Heyeh, Street Design Editor Mia Kim, Deputy Design Editor Jesse Zhang, Street Multimedia Editor Caylen David, Street Audience Engagement Editor

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bodies, too.

In the story of the COVID–19 crisis, food is a key character. By examining the new ways that we have learned to relate to it, we reflect on how the world is different—and more complex—than the one we inherited with snack times and basic school lunches.

Through moving personal essays, cutting–edge profiles, and hard–hitting interviews, our Dining Guide aspires to do just that.

SSSF,

Hannah

Features Staff Writers: Sejal Sangani, Angela Shen, Lindsey Perlman, Mira Sydow, Amy Xiang, Pranav Mishra Focus Beat Writers: Rema Bhat, Kira Wang, Jean Paik, Gabriella Raffetto Style Beat Writers: Naomi Kim, Matthew Sheeler Ego Beat Writers: Maddie Muldoon, Nick Plante, Fernanda Brizuela, Saranya Das Sharma, Lily Suh Music Beat Writers: Emily Moon, Allison Stillman, Nora Youn, Evan Qiang, Walden Green Arts Beat Writers: Jessa Glassman and Avneet Randhawa Film & TV Beat Writer: Arielle Stanger Staff Writers: Meg Gladieux, Aidah Qureshi, Jillian Lombardi, Kathryn Xu, Alice Heyeh, Phuong Ngo, Aria Vyas Multimedia Associates: Dhivya Arasappan, Sage Levine, Sophia Dai, Sophie Huang, Samantha Turner, Sudeep Bhargava, Sukhmani Kaur, Alexandra Morgan Lindo Audience Engagement Associates: Kira Wang, Samara Kleiman, Stephanie Nam, Yamila Frej

Copy Editor: Brittany Darrow Cover Design by Isabel Liang

Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Bea Forman, Editor-In-Chief, at forman@34st. com. You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com ©2021 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a–okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Wednesday.

nothing — not even IBS — can stop me

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Photo by Ana Glassman

United by Blue Is Back How UBB both unites the Penn community and protects our oceans | MADDIE MULDOON

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he moment you enter the United by Blue (UBB) on Penn’s campus, you find yourself at ease. Whether you're camping out at a table to write a paper with a mug full of foamy latte by your side, or trekking to your dorm with a refreshing iced coffee, UBB's coffee is iconic in any form.

Though its drinks, pastries, and sandwiches are delicious, UBB is more than just a coffee shop. Not only does the company sell clothing and other merchandise, but it also does so with an important mission: For every product purchased, UBB removes one pound of trash from oceans and waterways.

Co–founders Mike Cangi and Brian Linton started the business in 2010 with the goal of making a tangible impact on the environment, and more specifically on the oceans. “We started with just four T–shirts that we sold to a couple dozen stores back in 2010, with the mission of removing one pound of trash for every product that we sold. We started our first waterway cleanups the same month that we sold our first T–shirts, and the brand has evolved based on that same principle ever since,” Cangi says.

United by Blue now has a full line of men’s and women’s apparel, bags, and accessories at two storefronts— UBB’s flagship store is located in Old City, and its second location is on Walnut Street on Penn’s campus. UBB products can also be found on the company's website and through other retailers at about 1,200 stores nationwide, including REI, Whole Foods Market, and Macy's.

Every sale that UBB makes directly funds beach cleanups, which it organizes and hosts itself. “We don’t donate to a nonprofit or pay somebody else to do the work on our behalf—we actually have a team in house. That, in a lot of ways, makes United by Blue equal parts an environmental organization and a business," Cangi says. UBB has hosted over 300 cleanups in the past ten years in 48 states, and it's worked with over 13,000 volunteers to remove nearly 3.6 million pounds of trash from waterways

in the United States and abroad.

Though UBB started as a clothing brand, the co–owners decided in 2013 that they wanted to try their hand at a physical retail store. They didn’t believe that many Philadelphians knew of the brand, which prompted them to open their first location in Old City.

Cangi explains that they didn’t want to open UBB as a traditional store: “We wanted to have something that was more community–driven and experiential. We felt the best way to build community was through having coffee and giving people a spot to sit down, meet people, and to feel like they’re part of the brand without having to buy a new backpack or T–shirt. We wanted people to be able to just buy a cup of coffee and feel at home, like they belong."

At first, UBB just served coffee at its original location.

The shop then began selling pastries and snacks. The following year, it opened its location on Penn’s campus and expanded the menu to serve breakfast sandwiches and a few other items. Eventually, it equipped the store in Old City with a full kitchen that serves breakfast, lunch, and brunch. Several items from the flagship store menu are served at the Penn location as well.

Cangi and Linton founded UBB with limited knowledge of the food industry, which Cangi believes contributed to their slow start. Talented team members, managers, and chefs have helped them to reach the place that they're at today. Partners such as ReAnimator coffee, which roasts coffee specifically for UBB in Philadelphia and trains all of the shop's baristas, have bolstered their success.

“I think that’s what has helped us stand out on a block that has a lot of food and coffee. On Walnut Street, we’re sandwiched between a Dunkin’ Donuts and a Starbucks, but when we opened up, we were the only ones to offer an organic option, something that’s more fresh and local," Cangi says. "Fortunately, students and the rest of our customers resonated with that. It’s been

a fantastic location for us, despite the challenges of the pandemic, and it’s a space that we love and believe in the future of."

United by Blue’s Old City location was closed for a little over a month at the start of the pandemic before reopening. But the location on Penn’s campus just reopened on Feb. 1 for takeout service and Feb. 15 for indoor seating for the first time during the pandemic.

If not for the help of the University, UBB's Penn location might have never been able to reopen. “The University owns the real estate on Walnut Street. They’re our landlord. They’ve been integral in making sure that we can remain on campus and succeed long-term," says Cangi. "Some of the other businesses around the city that we’ve unfortunately seen close didn’t have landlords who were truly invested in the neighborhood and community, whereas I think the University of Pennsylvania has done a great job remaining accommodating and lenient with us."

But according to Cangi, when UBB's Penn location first reopened, business wasn’t even at 10% of what it usually was at that time of year. Though sales remain lower than normal, Cangi says that UBB is heading in the right direction. He's thankful for the students and customers who know and love UBB—the people who have come back for food and community, even during the pandemic.

Despite the circumstances, United by Blue has achieved its goal of becoming an integral part of the Penn community, and the UBB family is optimistic about what lies ahead.

“We want to be an extension of campus in a lot of ways, a spot for people to work independently or meet with peers and professors," Cangi says. "That’s what is special about UBB. It’s an independent shop, not a chain or a franchise—which, at a location like Walnut Street on Penn’s campus, allows us to be part of the community and build deeper relationships.”

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Philadelphia Restaurateur Ellen Yin on Female Empowerment in the Food Industry Restaurateur and Wharton alum (W'87) Ellen Yin shares how women–owned businesses are rewriting the narrative of the COVID–19 pandemic. | AIDAH QURESHI

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n 1997, before Fishtown was full of the hustle and bustle that we know it to be and Old City was Center City’s furthest frontier, Ellen Yin (W '87) opened Fork at 306 Market St., one of the only restaurants that stood facing the waterfront at the time. Her goal was to keep the business afloat, but over 20 years later, Fork is not only still standing, but also critically acclaimed.

Much has changed both for Yin and the restaurant industry since Fork’s opening.

Yin is the founder and co­­–owner of High Street Hospitality Group, which includes Fork Restaurant, High Street Philly, a.kitchen + bar, High Street on Hudson (their first outpost in New York) and High Street Provisions at Franklin’s Table—a Penn favorite.

“When I started, the restaurant scene was just starting to revive itself from the recession in the late eighties,” says Yin. “Things like outdoor dining and higher end restaurants weren’t very prevalent.”

Through her experiences working at both

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White Dog Café and La Terrasse as a student before opening Fork, Yin experienced the growth of the city alongside her own growth. “We had something new and different,” says Yin about the success of Fork. “We were doing farm–to–table food before farm–to–table was even really a widely–used term.”

But Yin has contributed more than just great restaurants to Philadelphia's food scene. This past year has been hard on the restaurant industry, with shutdowns resulting in what is projected to be years of repercussions. “I don’t think ever in my career I’ve felt like I’ve wanted to cry, but having to lay off so many people was really heartbreaking,” says Yin. “I tried to keep on the team those who were most vulnerable.”

Looking back over the year, Yin admits her initial naiveté, saying, “at first, I thought it was just temporary, at that point, I never thought that it would be a year full of trying to navigate through all of the restrictions.” Fork had to adapt

from catering to a handful of people at the restaurant to making meals for essential workers, including doctors, nurses and other hospital staff. “[We made sure] that the people who needed food got food.”

The pandemic also drove Yin and her team to pivot to a model that relied on outdoor dining as well as providing more takeout options, like many other restau-

“I don’t think ever in my career I’ve felt like I’ve wanted to cry, but having to lay off so many people was really heartbreaking.” - Ellen Yin

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rants in the area.

Despite all of the obstacles that the pandemic has thrown her way, Yin has been able to find a silver lining.

“At the beginning of this pandemic, a lot of flaws in the restaurant industry became exposed,” said Yin when asked about the impetus behind amplifying the voices of women in the restaurant industry. One such effort was Let’s Talk, an action–led movement driven by women restaurateurs to provide industry–wide tools and resources. Yin became involved with the organization by attending a similar meeting for women restaurateurs in Chicago. The participants talked about their challenges, both personal and professional, and shared advice and support.

“Although I am experienced, I have never experienced a pandemic,” Yin said jokingly, “having other people that you have something in common to and can relate to … I think everybody needs that.” Following the Chicago event, Yin saw the potential of establishing such a group in Philadelphia. “[My friend] asked whether I’d be interested in starting something similar in Philadelphia and I said, ‘absolutely.’”

Beyond that, recognizing that talk without action can become tiresome, the organizers of Let’s Talk created the Sisterly Love Food Fair, a pop–up market filled with women–led businesses. While Let’s Talk is more geared towards female restaurateurs, Sisterly Love engages a variety of professions, including but not limited to local makers, entrepreneurs, and anyone working in the hospitality industry.

“There are more small businesses run by women than there are female executives and [therefore,] women are disproportionately affected by this pandemic,” she says while stressing the need for events such as the fair, businesses, which she calls “the fabric of our community.”

In honor of International Women’s Day on March 8th, Let’s Talk hosted a virtual event moderated by Angela Duckworth,

“There are more small businesses run by women than there are female executives and [therefore,] women are disproportionately affected by this pandemic.”

- Ellen Yin

Photo Courtesy of Ellen Yin

well–known Penn professor and author.

The event was paired with a multi–restaurant tasting dinner, curated by 19 women in the industry. The group sold over 275 dinners. However, this is not the last of what Yin has planned.

“We have several panels with the Wharton school coming up … virtually at Penn through Wharton Women in Business,” says Yin. Alongside the panels in partnership with Wharton, Yin has helped to organize upcoming events in partnership with 100 Women in Finance, as well as panels in partnership with the Philadelphia city government. However, she stressed that supporting your local female business can be as easy as choosing to buy lunch there instead of a fast–food chain, or by simply tagging them on social media.

For those interested in working in the food industry, Yin’s advice is that “[although] it may seem like a glamorous business, remember you’re working holidays … and sometimes you’re the one cleaning the bathroom or you have to run to the store," she recommends that “the best thing is to get some hands–on experience.” Yin also stressed the importance of perseverance in order to keep small businesses afloat: “The longer you stay alive, the longer you are able to be inventive and creative.”

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A “Second Home” in Danger of Collapse

Philadelphia’s Chinatown restaurants sit at the crux of anti–Asian sentiment and the COVID–19 recession— and pay a steep price.

By Amy Xiang

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n high school, Henry Chow (C ’10) helped out around his parents’ restaurant, Sang Kee Peking Duck House. More than 15 years later, after going through the traditional route of attending college and pursuing a career in consulting, Chow is back at the family business.

Now, his title of general manager doesn't even come close to capturing the role that he plays at Sang Kee. “Sometimes I’m a dishwasher, sometimes I pick up the phone for take–out, sometimes I'm a cashier, sometimes

Henry Chow

heavily impacted by pandemic closures, like food service.

About 10% of Asian American businesses are in the restaurant industry, a greater proportion than for any other racial group. And a Yelp study conducted from February through November of 2020 found that consumer interest in restaurants located within Chinatowns in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and other cities has trailed those in other zip codes, demonstrating that the economic effects of the virus split along racial lines.

“It's definitely a Philadelphia institution that you see a lot of families come to as their go–to Chinese spot for birthdays, gatherings, casual meals, or just popping in solo. It's a place that I think a lot of people feel like is their second home,” Chow says.

From March until May 2020, while Sang Kee was

Photo courtesy of Henry Chow Photo by Samantha Turner

I'm a construction worker,” Chow says. “But I also think strategy and investments in technology and about how to get through things like the COVID–19 pandemic.”

While many businesses are struggling to stay afloat during the pandemic, restaurants in Chinatown were the first to feel this hit. Before the first confirmed COVID–19 case in the United States, and long before many businesses and schools were shut down, racist, xenophobic, and otherwise ignorant attitudes about the origin of the virus were already decreasing the foot traffic in Chinatown.

Nationwide, Asian American businesses have faced declining sales, higher unemployment rates, and anxieties about racial discrimination. Out of all racial groups, Asian Americans were most likely to be unemployed long term in 2020, in part because they’re employed by industries 6

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Now, after over a year of operating during the pandemic, Chinatown restaurants worry that lingering racist sentiments will continue to affect their bottom line.

Sang Kee was founded in 1980 by Henry Chow's father, Michael Chow, making it one of the oldest Chinese restaurants in Philadelphia. The restaurant is known for its Hong Kong–style barbecue meats, like roast pork and duck that sizzle with an umami flavor, tangy barbecue ribs, and traditional stir fries like beef chow fun.

Over the past 40 years, Sang Kee has garnered an excellent reputation both in and outside of Chinatown—it’s often cited as one of the best Chinese restaurants in the city. However, even more important than rankings, according to Chow, is the personal connection that so many people have with Sang Kee.

shut down completely due to COVID–19, Chow found himself behind the scenes, figuring out the best way to approach the pandemic from a business standpoint. He realized that, in order to survive, they would need to earn the trust of the public.

Chow wrote a list of every possible precaution the restaurant could take, such as requiring face masks, conducting daily temperature checks with staff, putting up plastic barriers at the cash register, and doing contactless handoffs. When Sang Kee opened back up for take–out and delivery in May, every single item on Chow’s list was checked off.

“We were basically like, 'There's nothing on this list that we can afford to not do—we need to be able to say we're doing every single one. That's the only way

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Photos by Samantha Turner

for people to trust us. That's the only way I'm going to trust somebody else. If I can think of it, then we're going to do it,'” Chow says.

There was another reason why Chow was so adamant about taking these safety precautions and explaining them so thoroughly to the public: As a Chinese restaurant, Sang Kee was associated with COVID–19, which originated in Wuhan, China.

The business was suffering as a result.

“In January and February and early March, before we had shut down, our sales had already plummeted,” he says. “We were just sitting around most days wondering what to do, wondering what would happen to us.”

Fariha Khan, associate director of the Asian American Studies Program at Penn, says the recent wave of anti–Asian sentiments and violence that have stemmed from COVID–19 is nothing but a repeat of history. In addition to teaching courses on South Asians in the United States, the Asian American community, and Muslim American identity, Khan also teaches ASAM 180: "Asian American Food," which uses food as a lens to explore ethnicity, migration, and race, with a special focus on Philadelphia’s Asian American population.

Khan says she loves teaching the course because of how connected food and identity are, especially in many Asian cultures.

“When you cook for someone, that's a real expression of care. When you share lunch with someone, that's also an expression of connection,” Khan says.

“When you hide your food, or you're embarrassed by the way that it smells or the way that it looks, it’s also really linked to identity.”

Chinatown, located in Center City, was formed of-

ficially in the mid–1800s, when Cantonese immigrants opened laundries, restaurants, grocery stores, and other businesses on Race Street. Since then, the neighborhood has been at the center of many issues of urban renewal and gentrification. In the 1960s, portions of Chinatown were destroyed to make way for the construction of the Vine Street Expressway and the Pennsylvania Convention Center, both of which broke up the neighborhood and have caused massive amounts of pollution.

In the late 1990s, the Philadelphia Phillies baseball team was looking to build a new baseball stadium in the middle of Chinatown. After massive protests and rallies led by the Philadelphia Chinatown Development Corporation, the stadium was built elsewhere. “[Philadelphia’s] Chinatown has had a history of always struggling to legitimize their existence in a space that is their own," Khan says. “Many of us at Penn consider Chinatown to be a place where you can consume—you can consume food, you can consume products, you can consume an ethnic identity. But Chinatown is actually much more than that: It’s a neighborhood where people live, and go to school, and go to work.”

Walking into Nom Wah today, one can find modern– style dim sum with authentic flourishes: brown and crispy turnip cakes, hot wonton soup, and lots of steamed vegetables. However, the history of Nom Wah actually goes back almost 100 years ago. In 1920, Nom Wah Tea Parlor opened in New York's Chinatown and specialized in mooncakes and other baked goods, before rebranding as a dim sum restaurant in 2011. Shortly after, the owners opened a location in Philadelphia’s Chinatown.

Barb Leung is the head of marketing and operations for Nom Wah, where she has worked for the past nine years.

Over the last year, she says Nom Wah’s business has gone down by 80%.

Nom Wah’s Philadelphia location is right behind the Pennsylvania Convention Center, so the loss of foot traffic has hurt the business, says Leung. With people going out less in general and most of the Convention Center’s conferences going virtual, there’s nobody left to be lured in by the smell of soup dumplings off the street.

Still, the circumstances of owning a restaurant during a pandemic weren’t the only thing driving down sales. Similar to Sang Kee, Nom Wah experienced a huge decline in business starting in early January, as the first COVID–19 cases began spreading in Wuhan.

“There were a lot of xenophobic attitudes that were at play before the actual pandemic hit the United States,” Leung says. “I want to say that ignorance played a larger component than racism at the start, but I’m not certain.

I think some people who didn't mean to be xenophobic ended up being xenophobic because they just were parroting whatever they heard from their friends or from family or from the news.”

Nom Wah, like Sang Kee, also opted to shut down completely between March and May. The Philadelphia location is currently offering only takeout and contactless delivery. Leung says that all decisions regarding the reopening phases are made by the restaurant staff, as they have the closest contact with customers.

“Our Philadelphia location opted to close because a lot of the staff live in multigenerational homes, and you don’t know how [COVID–19] will affect your 80–year–old mother, or your young children, or whoever else lives in your household,” Leung says. The prevalence of multigenerational households in Asian American communities has made COVID–19 even riskier, as many older adults live with their children who may be exposed to the virus while attending work or school.

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food delivery services such as DoorDash and Caviar were helpful in bringing in business. But they were also somewhat limiting. Not only are customers confined by a radius of a few miles, but there is also a significant delivery fee.

In addition, Leung says, “There’s only so much takeout and delivery that you’re willing to eat.”

As a result, Nom Wah kickstarted a new service where customers in New York can order packages of frozen dumplings directly from the website and have them delivered for free within a four–hour window. Customers can then cook these dumplings on their own and enjoy the taste of homemade Chinese food.

Nom Wah isn't the only restaurant that has taken this opportunity to expand its delivery options. Chubby Cattle, a renowned hot pot restaurant founded by a group of recent Penn graduates, with locations in Philadelphia, Las Vegas, Dallas, and Denver, began offering hot pot delivery during the months when its indoor dining closed.

“Hot pot usually isn’t for delivery; it’s really a dine–in experience. But COVID–19 pushed us to get creative and ramp out our delivery platform,” David Zhao (W ’20) says.

Zhao is one of the founding members of Chubby Cattle, and he oversees everything from lease acquisition and construction management to financing and marketing. The now–owners and operators of Chubby Cattle dedicated between $5,000 to $25,000 to the project while they were students at Penn, bringing the total investment value to $1.5 million. Their vision was to create an innovative hot pot experience by serving ingredients using a refrigerated conveyor belt.

While Zhao is aware of the larger implications of anti–Asian racism and violence, he hasn’t seen an impact on Chubby Cattle directly.

“Our customer base is probably a biased sample size because it's all people who are trying out new food and who are interested in exploring new cultures,” Zhao says. “I think they’re less likely to be part of the same demographic that participates

in the anti–Asian racism that we see today.”

Zhao says this past year has been tough and confusing, but he's happy to finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Unlike Sang Kee and Nom Wah, Chubby Cattle is currently offering dine–in at 25% capacity, in addition to delivery and pickup services.

Zhao is optimistic about the future. “I think the capacity will continue to increase, hopefully back to 100% by next semester. And hopefully by then, University City students are all back on campus, and we can go back to operating normally and sustaining that community,” he says.

But right now, restaurants aren't free from the reality of the pandemic or anti– Asian discrimination. Hate crimes targeting Asian Americans have increased drastically: According to the nonprofit organization Stop AAPI Hate, nearly 3,800 hate incidents—ranging from online harassment to physical assault—have occurred against Asian Americans over the past year. This pattern of discrimination reached a breaking point when a shooter killed eight people—including six women of Asian descent—at three spas in the Atlanta area on March 16. Around the country, Asian Americans are calling attention to their experiences with systemic racism.

The narrative of Philadelphia's Chinatown over the past year is just a part of this reckoning.

“Asian Americans are forever foreigners. They have yet to be fully assimilated or yet to be fully considered American,” Khan says. “Even though there isn’t anything about Chinatown that is not American, it’s easier to continue this narrative that is built around misinformation, fearmongering, and racism.”

Photo courtesy of David Zhao

David Zhao

Photo courtesy of Barb Leung at Nom Wah

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Photo by Avi Singh

These Philadelphia Bakeries are Using Food to Fight Racism

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a s t summer, in the midst of the Blac k L i v e s M a t t e r p r o t e s t s and the COVID–19 pandemic, bakeries across the country participated in Bakers Against Racism bake sales: virtual bake sales to donate to organizations in the fight for racial justice for Black people in the United States.

The idea for Bakers Against Racism began in Washington, D.C. from three resident DC pastry chefs, Paola Velez, Willa Pelini, and Rob Rubba. Pelini was struck by the tragic murder of George Floyd and decided that she wanted to use her skills to support the Black Lives Matter Movement, so she asked Velez for her help in hosting a pop–up bake sale. Velez had experience hosting a different pop-up bake sale, Doña Dona DC—whose proceeds went to Ayuda, an organization that provides legal, social, and language services to low-income immigrants in Washington DC, Maryland, and Virginia. She offered a fantastic model to emulate. Together, the three founded the Bakers Against Racism organization.

Although the organization began small, it quickly gained attention across the country, and attracted approximately 1,000 bakers from various cities who hosted their own bake sales. Bakers Against Racism has raised over two million dollars unofficially, in what they call “the world’s biggest bake sale.” Here in Philadelphia, over 30 bakeries and cafés have participated in the Bakers Against Racism virtual bake sales.

Street spoke to one baker and two bakeries who participated last summer: Camille Cogswell, High Street Philly, and Fitz and Starts.

Camille Cogswell, the main organizer of Bakers Against Racism for the Philly bakers, said she was inspired by the collective action of the organization as a whole.

"I first heard about [Bakers Against Racism] from another friend in the restaurant industry and immediately reached out to one of the organizers, Paola Velez, who was an acquaintance and fellow pastry chef. I was, like so

Camille Cogswell, High Street Philly, and Fitz and Starts share their participation in the Bakers Against Racism Sale. | REMA BHAT

many others, deeply disturbed by the ongoing deaths of Black people ... I wanted to speak out and try to contribute to building more equitable communities and systems.

I liked that [Bakers Against Racism] was encouraging us, as bakers and chefs, to use the skills we know as a tool to speak up and make change," says Cogswell.

Velez reached out to Cogswell and asked her to organize for Philadelphia. She sold brownies, lemon curd tea cakes, banana pudding, and ham & cheese brioche buns.

Cogswell raised $2,000 which she split between two different Philly organizations that provided mental health and wellness services to the local Black community. After the first sale, she did three more in 2020 and donated those proceeds to organizations and projects fighting for racial justice.

"I know that it takes so much more than a bake sale to have a true impact on policy and ingrained systems and biases, but it all has to start from somewhere, and the more people who believe in a movement, the more power, and persuasion it has. So, I think that every single contribution, every time someone speaks out against racism or thinks selflessly to benefit those in the community who haven't had equal opportunities, it all makes a difference," she says.

High Street Philly, located on S 9th Street, and @highstphilly on Instagram, sold strawberry crullers, spelt chocolate chip cookies, raspberry cream cheese muffins, and their signature cinnamon buns in their virtual bake sale.

“We have always believed in using the tools we know how to use (food!) to champion causes that are important to us, and this is no exception. When we learned about Bakers Against Racism, it was a perfect fit to leverage the skills of our talented bakers to support something our entire team believes in: standing up against the unjust treatment of Black people in our country,” says Ellen Yin, a spokesperson of High Street Philly.

The restaurant, whose proceeds went to ACLU Penn-

sylvania, said the team wanted to support local organizations, and emphasized the importance of Bakers Against Racism's influence in nearby communities.

“Bakers Against Racism does an incredible job of raising awareness in the local communities it touches and on a greater scale, across the nation. We think the proceeds and physical donations are one piece of making an impact, but the awareness and fostering meaningful dialogues in our communities on these issues is also paramount,” says Yin. In addition to their participation in Bakers Against Racism, High Street Philly is committed to fighting racism in their everyday operations by creating a diverse and inclusive environment for their team, purveyors, suppliers, vendors, and guests. “The entire ecosystem needs to be actively anti–racist in order for progress to be made,” says Yin. “We make every effort to carry that through in our operations, business decisions, and the causes we choose to support.”

Fitz and Starts, located on S 4th Street and @fitzandstartsphilly on Instagram, also participated. Fitz and Start’s inspiration to participate in the Bakers Against Racism sale began with the owner Pat O’ Malley’s memories of old school fundraiser bake sales. “I thought [Bakers Against Racism] was an amazing initiative that tapped into the nostalgia of fundraiser bake sales I experienced growing up, and provided the opportunity to highlight some Black–run projects here in Philadelphia,” O'Malley says.

Fitz and Starts sold lemon buttermilk chess pies, poppyseed cakes, and hazelnut linzer cookies. They donated their proceeds to Women Who Never Give Up, a non– profit based in New Jersey that is dedicated to helping families get justice in the criminal justice system. Like Yin, Malley emphasized the importance of supporting local organizations and their work in fighting for freedom.

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Middle Child owner Matt Cahn never set out to be an activist. Yet his sandwich shop is shaking up the food industry. | BEATRICE FORMAN

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iddle Child is loud.

In pre–pandemic times, the 18–seater Washington Square deli blasts a mix of rap and late '90s rock. Customers flit between diner counter stools and rows of tables, shooting the shit with Jefferson Hospital surgeons and old curmudgeons alike about the Phillies, local politics, and the weather. It was the kind of place Rupert Grint could pass in and out of unrecognized, order a hoagie the size of his head, and blab to the New York Times about.

Now, in the times we’ve grown accustomed to, Middle Child’s loudness has found a new forum: Instagram.

Sat at the intersection of a food blog and a finsta, the restaurant deals in cross–sections of sandwiches stuffed with pillowy scrambled eggs and cured deli meats alongside rants. Captions shout in all caps about things you’d sooner see on one of those ‘activist’ pages with the pretty infographics: COVID–19 superspreading, workers' rights, and Black Lives Matter.

The choice, while unorthodox to the neighborhood deli ethos, is exactly the point. As diners are dying, Middle Child is attempting to build a cultural hub out of a sandwich shop for a clientele whose values differ from those of the old men who hold court at corner tables.

“I don’t really care what Middle Child does or if we’re exactly like an Italian or Jewish deli. The idea is just that it feels casual, like those places, and that there's this sense of eternal comfort. It's the kind of place where you could just chat with the person next to you simply because they're sitting next to you,” says 31–year–old owner Matt Cahn, a Cherry Hill–bred advertising copywriter turned deli culture defender and devotee.

Cahn is sandwich obsessed. His memories coalesce around sandwiches—the sloppy roast beef sandwiches he’d split with his dad at relics like Little Pete’s, the Italian hoagies he’d order hungover during college in Boston, the turkey clubs he’d spread with bright, tart sumac vinaigrette at Court Street Grocers, the New York alternative deli that inspired his cooking ethos.

“Sandwiches are about nostalgia,” he says, noting that the best ones he’s eaten are unpretentious and messy.

That’s the vibe he hopes to strike with Middle Child’s menu. Cahn and his team aim to make the best versions of the classics, which is done through attention to detail more than anything else. Middle Child only serves BLTs when tomatoes are in season, for example, and their greens are dressed like salads before being squished between two pieces of ciabatta.

Yet, for all this talk of nostalgia and old–timey admiration, Cahn is quick to say Middle Child is “an 10 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 2 5 , 2 0 21

Picture courtesy of Star Chefs and shot by Jaclyn War-

Meet Middle Child: A Deli Where Justice is On the Menu

homage in concept only.” Everything else about the restaurant, from its clip art smiley green logo to sans serif menu (for inclusivity, of course) is designed to appeal to a fresher clientele. One that’s younger, less buttoned–up, and social justice–oriented.

Following a summer of perpetual protests spawned by the police killings of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Elijah McClain, Cahn and Middle Child began using their sandwich cult following to amplify social issues. After posting a June 11 Instagram video of Cahn changing the Middle Child website landing page to display “Black Lives Matter” beneath the logo, angry Yelp reviews began flooding in that charged the establishment with, well, being a dump.

“I counted so many roaches on the floor. [The place] is just one roach shy of a roach football team,” writes Yelp user Larry E on June 12. “It’s amazing that the soy boys who run this place discriminate against the Police because at this rate they should just be lucky to get the Tramps to come in.” In response, Cahn screen printed the now–deleted review onto short sleeve tees, with 100% of the sales going to Morris Home, a Philadelphia–based residential recovery program that caters specifically to the transgender community.

Sold at $30 a pop, the fundraiser–cum–clapback has raised over a thousand dollars and is exactly Middle Child’s style: brash.

“I would very happily alienate anybody who does not care about Black lives from coming into my shop.

I don't want that dirty money. Actually, I would rather live in a small apartment my whole life and not be making food for people who are fucking racist,” Cahn says.

The summer’s racial reckoning proved that Philadelphia’s restaurant industry is a community divided. As Hungry Pigeon co–owner Scott Schroeder faced public pressure to leave his restaurant after an Instagram post that thanked Black America for “hip–hop and

fried chicken” while debating the validity of demonstrations, and the Di Bruno Brothers grocery chain was handing out free sandwiches to police officers, smaller businesses like Poe’s Sandwich Joint were refusing to serve cops.

I would rather live in a small apartment my whole life and not be making food for people who are fucking racist." - Matt Cahn The question, it seems, isn’t whether or not Black Lives Matter. We know they do. It’s whether or not restaurateurs should be wading into political theater.

“I don't think you have to be outspoken about social justice, but I do think that as the times change and we’re confronted with more Trump–like figures, it does put pressure on restaurants to be more cognizant of their behavior,” Cahn says. “At the end of the day, my job and everyone else’s is just to make good food and keep people happy.”

For Cahn, however, being outspoken is just as much a part of Middle Child’s mandate as assembling Reubens is. The deli relies on community service to connect with customers as the coronavirus closed the storefront, hosting virtual profit shares with BIPOC– owned businesses and a remote gallery viewing to raise money for struggling concert venues.

Middle Child is a deli for Philadelphians, full stop.

But it conceives of those Philadelphians as empathetic, earnest, and as glib as it sounds, even a little woke.

“I know my customer. I know the food that we make. I know what they like to eat. And I know that their political views align with mine,” Cahn says. “So I don't need to worry as much about that one cop who hates us.”

DINING GUIDE

Illustration by Sudeep Bhargava

From Screen to Kitchen:

How Social Media Taught Me How to Cook Dalgona coffee, baked feta pasta, cloud bread ... the options are endless | PHUONG NGO

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he moment I entered 'foodtok,' I was hooked. This niche community on my TikTok For You page combined my three favorite things—social media, a nice aesthetic, and food—on my screen all at once.

And that was a recipe for the biggest change in my mundane quarantine life.

Before the start of the COVID–19 pandemic, and the isolation that came with it, I was not an adventurous cook. I stayed in my comfort zone, making scrambled eggs and brownies with premade mix. Like anyone afraid of trying something new, I was scared that if I attempted to make something more adventurous, I would inevitably fail. The recipes in the pages of Julia Child cookbooks looked too intimidating, and long cooking YouTube videos weren’t really my cup of tea.

So—like anyone else who refused to learn any new cooking skills—I stuck to making scrambled eggs.

The change in my cooking habits began with whipped coffee. This trend emerged on foodtok—one of the hyper–specific categories under the social media app that focuses on the cre-

ation and enjoyment of food and food alone—at the height of quarantine.

Somehow, seeing everyone on social media making this all–too–appealing concoction of stirred coffee and sugar made me want to try it.

The process was easy enough. I had sugar, a whisk, and, after a quick trip to the grocery store, some instant coffee. Even if I didn’t love drinking my Dalgona coffee (that’s what it’s really called; TikTok didn’t invent everything, you know), the fun in making it without having to strain myself made me more eager to try out more food trends.

Then came Jeremy Scheck, a student at Cornell University who, like the rest of the world, hopped on the bandwagon of creating TikToks during quarantine. When he and his spicy rigatoni with vodka, a recipe that was already recognized from Gigi Hadid’s Instagram (and thus, was attributed to her), popped up on my For You page, I knew I had to try it. Jeremy’s cooking videos—often simple recipes that can fit into a college lifestyle—were both informative and made cooking look easy.

I was hooked on the pasta with vodka sauce for weeks. It was simple, requiring only a handful of ingredients and spices that I already had in my kitchen cabinets, and tasted heavenly considering how little time and work I had put into making it. From there, I couldn’t wait to try more. My mom started to find me in the kitchen all the time. With my Zoom class as background noise, I made quesadillas for lunch or pasta with homemade pesto for dinner.

But TikTok cooking was not always so easy. I had my fair share of disastrous experiences in the kitchen. In my attempts at the pancake cereal trend, I didn’t realize how hard it would be to make nail–sized pancakes without a squeeze bottle.

Nor did I realize how difficult it was to make bread—even my stab at a beginner–level cloud bread didn’t even make it to the oven. The first time I took a stab at French macarons, the batter spread out instead of rising in the oven.

But my failed cooking endeavors never pushed me away from foodtok.

There was always something new for

me to make. I regularly found a new dish that made me want to get out of bed, run to the grocery store, and try making it myself. What also kept me on foodtok, especially on the days I didn’t feel like cooking, was the community that came up with the recipes. Joanne Molinaro, also known as the Korean Vegan, posts her vegan takes on traditional Korean dishes with beautiful cinematography. As I watch her cook, I learn not only how to make her dishes, but also about her life, which she eloquently narrates through touching stories and anecdotes.

Social media taught me how to cook during quarantine. It showed me, with the simplicity of short videos and beautiful visuals, how to leave my comfort zone and explore something new when everything else in my life came to a sudden halt. Though the life we had during the early parts of quarantine has been slowly phased out, I see myself holding on to the cooking skills I developed during these times now and into the rest of my life, and I look forward to trying out new food trends in the process.

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Ordering in During COVID–19 Isn't the Perfect Solution You Think It Is Illustration by Isabel Liang

Navigating a complex relationship between ethics, safety, and financial insecurity during the pandemic | MATTHEW SHEELER

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or the past year, COVID–19 has forced us to adapt to new precautionary guidelines, health protocols, and social pressures.

One of the newfound pressures that has developed is the idea that we should be ordering meals to our homes because it's safer—whether that comes in the form of getting groceries delivered with InstaCart or eating takeout via Uber Eats or DoorDash.

This seems like a convenient way to minimize the risk of spreading COVID–19 at grocery stores or restaurants. At the beginning of the pandemic, we saw a slew of articles advocating for the use of delivery services to combat COVID–19 and support restaurants. But for many people, including myself, this push for delivery highlights income inequality and ethical concerns.

As a first–generation, low–income (FGLI) student, I've experienced quite the ethical dilemma of balancing my financial insecurity with my desire to protect myself and others from COVID–19. Almost every day since the summer, I've had a nightly internal battle of deciding whether to order dinner from a delivery service, go to a grocery store to buy ingredients for a meal, or just not eat. With food insecurity on the rise, this is a battle many FGLI students and low–income Americans have dealt with since the beginning of the pandemic. We ask ourselves a question that we shouldn't have to ask: Should I eat tonight? I can't afford to order in, but I don't have any groceries at home. That's a common inner–monologue I've experienced while living in my off–campus

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home these past two semesters.

Unfortunately, I'm definitely not alone. Ordering in simply isn't an affordable alternative to frequenting the grocery store and restaurants in person. According to a study conducted by The New York Times, ordering food for delivery can be up to 91% more expensive than cooking at home or picking up food in person. When you use a delivery app, your money goes to the delivery worker, restaurant, and the tech company that runs the app. The extra fees—delivery, tax, service, and small order charges—pile on. You also have to factor in an appropriate tip. And in some cases, you even pay the restaurants or stores some extra fees of their own. The bill adds up quickly.

Considering that millions of Americans have reported that their households haven't had enough to eat or can't keep up with bill payments during the pandemic, it's certainly not feasible for everyone to adapt to the pressure of changing the way we eat. One of my friends told me that their roommate villainized them for going to the grocery store rather than using a delivery service like Instacart. This sentiment ignores the financial strain created by delivery services' extra fees, as well as the emotional strain of being told to do something you can't afford.

Using these services also shifts the risk of spread onto delivery workers. Although they face greater exposure to the virus by travelling from restaurants to homes, many workers haven't received hazard pay—or they receive as little as 78 cents extra per

day for working during the pandemic. So it's not as simple as it sounds to just opt for delivery, even when you have the financial means to do so. Making that choice requires accepting the fact that you are shifting your risk onto another person, which isn't a small factor when deciding what to eat for dinner.

As college students, we tend to be lower risk than older populations and essential workers like delivery drivers. As a result, you may be better off picking up pre–ordered food from restaurants yourself if you're not high–risk. This also avoids the price gouging of delivery services and provides restaurants with direct support.

It's true that delivery workers need demand in order to keep their jobs, and that might be a reason that you opt for delivery. The pandemic has created a complex relationship between food, ethics, and safety, and the 'best' way to be safe and support your community may differ slightly for people depending on income and personal values.

But recognizing that complexity is vital. Shaming people for not subscribing to your solution doesn't solve anything.

Even if you're financially secure enough to always use delivery, it isn't your place to tell others who may not be capable of doing the same how they should be living. Take this as a reminder that the COVID–19 pandemic has completely changed how we function individually and as a society. This seemingly simple solution to minimizing COVID–19's spread is definitely not that simple.

DINING GUIDE

Fresh From the Farm: Farmers' Market Vendors Prove Their Resilience During the Pandemic

Local farmers and bakers continue to bring joy—and great products—to Philly’s outdoor market scene. | JEAN PAIK

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ocated in the middle of towering skyscrapers and close–knit cafés, the Rittenhouse Farmers’ Market has been a staple in Philadelphia for over 20 years. Saturday mornings at the farmers’ market have been an especially popular activity for college students who are on campus this semester.

With just a 20–minute walk off Penn’s campus, you are bound to see the quintessential hustle and bustle of the outdoor market in Center City—dogs strolling by on leashes, rows of colorful produce, and lines of eager customers waiting by every street corner.

While the pandemic has undoubtedly left many local businesses in difficult positions, Philly’s market vendors have shown that they can rise above the hardships thrown their way. Their resilience is what has preserved the excitement of visiting Philadelphia’s farmers’ markets every weekend.

Wildflour Bakery, an artisan wholesale bread and pastry bakery located in Northeast Philadelphia, has been in operation since 2003. For years, Laura Yaghoobian and her husband, Nishon Yaghoobian, primarily focused on wholesale partnerships with local restaurants, caterers, cafés, and other small businesses. Laura Yaghoobian’s dream, however, has always been to open her own retail shop. So, when Wildflour Bakery was invited to attend one of Philadelphia’s open–air farmers’ markets nearly 13 years ago, it served as the perfect retail component to their business. Since then, their bakery has been a participant in many farmers’ markets in the area, including the Rittenhouse Farmers’ Market.

However, Wildflour Bakery faced some significant challenges due to the pandemic. Their wholesale orders—their primary focus at the time, according to Laura Yaghoobian—were decimated, as restaurants cut back on orders, schools closed their doors, and local cafés shut down indefinitely. The particular timing of the pandemic was another hurdle, as Wildflour’s sales normally tend to slow down in the winter and ramp up in the spring, right when COVID–19 shutdowns were first occurring.

But this didn’t stop the Yaghoobians from seeking alternate business ventures. To provide their products to members of the community who were im-

Photo by Sophia Dai munocompromised or scared to go to indoor grocery stores, Wildflour Bakery restarted their home delivery service—which proved to be a great success. "[The delivery service] was really what took off and sustained us for the first six to nine months,” says Laura Yaghoobian.

Similarly, Laura Yaghoobian saw farmers’ market sales increase dramatically, as customers flocked to more outdoor shopping options. In order to abide by safety guidelines and maintain the well–being of their customers, the bakery has been extremely cognizant about packaging their products to avoid any exposure to the air. Laura Yaghoobian hopes to continue their home deliveries, as well as their partnership with Philly Foodworks, an online market and food share program that offers local food options to the Greater Philadelphia region.

Despite the many challenges of the pandemic, Laura Yaghoobian’s passion for creating nourishing food has endured. More than anything, she loves the heartfelt interactions she has with her customers— when people compliment their baked goods at the farmers’ market, leave small “thank you” notes on their home delivery van, or send texts and emails to her.

Frecon Farms is another local vendor that has handled the pandemic head–on. As a family–run orchard, bakery, and cidery in Berks County, Pa., Frecon Farms has been in operation since 1944.

Steve Frecon, the owner of Frecon Farms, describes the effect of COVID–19 on the family business as a rollercoaster full of challenges and hurdles—but also some unexpected positives. Like many other businesses in the area, the pandemic severely impacted the farm’s wholesale program. In addition to maintaining their employees’ safety, Frecon Farms also had to find a way to handle their perishable produce.

In the early months of the pandemic, handling new forms of pre–ordering and packaging was expensive, chaotic, and difficult. However, the business wanted to overcome these challenges to send a message: Local agriculture could respond to the pandemic in the same ways that national agriculture or large big–box grocery stores could.

And Frecon Farms has certainly proved their resilience in the midst of this pandemic. They have seen an increase in sales at farmers’ markets and received a great amount of support and feedback from the local community. In addition to a bump in sales of their fresh fruits and vegetables, Frecon found that the farm’s UPick service, an opportunity to pick your own produce, has done extremely well. “We were shocked and amazed by the response of people looking to get outside—looking to do an outdoor activity where they felt safe—and an orchard and apple picking could present that sort of opportunity.” In the future, Frecon Farms is looking to expand more picnic tables and outdoor space for people to safely enjoy each other’s company.

Hands on the Earth Orchard is another long– time vendor at Philly farmers’ markets. Located in Lancaster County, Pa., the business has been in operation since 2012. Dave Fahnestock, the owner of Hands on the Earth, describes his business as a half– farm, half–retail business that always looks to produce good food. While the retail side of the orchard has shifted due to COVID–19, operations on the farm itself haven’t changed significantly. “Spring is coming, just like it did a year ago. Crops come and go. So I am blessed to be in a place where my daily routine has not been influenced too much now,” Fahnestock says. He's also grateful that he was able to jumpstart the business’s website early into the pandemic, and while it has been a challenge to navigate the shift to online orders, he finds that going online has actually made him feel closer to his customers. He noticed that he knows more people’s names from all the emails and messages he receives. While online purchases are a great option for consumers, Fahnestock still doesn’t foresee farmers’ markets ever truly going away.

Although we are grappling with another year of the COVID–19 pandemic, there is much to look forward to in Philly’s outdoor market scene. As students, the enjoyment we get from our trips to the farmers’ market is not something we can take for granted. Even beyond the pandemic, we should continue to support the businesses that make up the heart of Philadelphia’s farmers’ market experience.

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DINING GUIDE

From grab-and-go favorites to sit-down meals, Shop Penn has options to suit every diner, price point, and cuisine. With more than 40 dining destinations on or around campus, you’ll be sure to find whatever you’re craving.

Shop Local.

Shop Penn. #S HOPPE N N @S HOPSATPE N N

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S HOPSATPE N N.COM

Calling all Movers Shakers + Quakers

Foodies Friends + Fans

Spurritos Shakes + Salads

Your favorite Shop Penn neighborhood spots are serving up spring!

Baby Blues BBQ Federal Donuts Goldie Papermill Fresh Asian Kitchen High Street Provisions Pitruco Pizza United By Blue Spread Bagelry Kiwi Frozen Yogurt O’Chatto

Louie Louie Cavanaugh’s honeygrow Metropolitan Bakery Greek Lady HipCityVeg Smokey Joe’s SoBol Saxbys Just Salad

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Feast Your Eyes on the Psychology Behind Plating How eating can be a multi–sensory experience, even during COVID–19 | JESSA GLASSMAN Illustration by Sudeep Bhargava

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he artist works rhythmically, transforming her blank canvas into a carefully curated composition through passionate yet intentional movements. She thoughtfully crafts a cohesive appeal to the senses—one that you would be hard–pressed to find hanging on a museum wall.

She is not your archetypal beret–sporting, palette– holding artist. Her studio is loud and fragrant, and her work is edible. Her brushes are wooden spoons and whisks, her paints are bechamels and balsamic reductions, and her canvas is a plate. An artist of the kitchen, this chef harnesses the various sensory powers of food to make her diners salivate.

What is it about a beautiful–looking plate that makes us pick up our forks in anticipation and pull out our phones to brag on social media? The answer is simple—people like pretty things. A thoughtful presentation implies that the dish took lots of time to perfect, which solicits more appreciation from the eater and even justifies a higher price tag. A beautiful plate is associated with positive emotions that are appetizing to us and make us excited to dig in. A not–so–beautiful plate, on the other hand, comes off as boring and doesn’t stimulate the same excitement to take the first bite.

It may seem a bit bizarre to think that the way food is presented affects the degree to which it is enjoyed, especially if flavors remain unchanged.

Oxford professor of Experimental Psychology Charles Spence has dedicated much of his life to resolving this conundrum through studies that test the correlation between plating and perceived taste.

By giving different groups of people the same salad arranged on their plate either messily, neatly, or in a way that resembled a Kandinsky, Spence found that those who ate the artistically designed meal believed it was 29% tastier than their counterparts.

The study provides important insight into how chefs can best maximize their restaurant experience and turn Grandma’s secret recipes into five– 16 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 2 5 , 2 0 21

star quality dishes. Much like the principles and elements of composition that painters incorporate into their work, chefs have their own set of tools and techniques that instantly elevate the product of their cooking. Using bold and complementary colors, strategically placing garnishes, and even playing with innovative and contrasting textures like foaminess, stickiness, or crunch are just a few tactics that chefs can employ to elevate their dishes—ultimately enhancing the gastronomical experience.

Spence has also found a scientific explanation for optimizing taste by using specific types of dinnerware. To amplify sweeter flavors, he suggests the use of white, round plates. For savory tastes, angular, black plates are the best. Colorful plates are discouraged, as they can “flavor our perception,” according to Spence. Diners may subconsciously associate certain colors with certain flavors, such as orange with cheddar cheese or green with broccoli.

This may alter the way the meal in front of them is eaten.

Off the plate, ambience undoubtedly plays a critical role in the eating experience. According to Spence, bright light is preferred during the consumption of stronger flavors, while dim light is optimal for more subdued cuisines. While musical accompaniment with food is a domain worthy of much more scientific research, some findings indicate certain correlations. For example, higher–pitched sounds including wind chimes have been found to increase a diner's enjoyment of sweet foods. Likewise, lower–pitched sounds including brass are said to make savory food taste better. Factors ranging from how spaced out tables are, how comfortable chairs are, and even how warm or cold the room is can all influence how a diner enjoys their food—meaning that no element of the dining experience should be neglected.

As Spence’s findings support, nothing can stack

up to the experience of freshly grated parmesan on top of your spaghetti, table–side guacamole, or those huge wooden boats many restaurants serve sushi on.

When the pandemic hit, however, fine diners didn’t have much of a choice in how they ate. Restaurant lovers around the world found themselves trading fine china and the soft hum of Sinatra, small talk, and clinking glasses for cardboard containers on the couch. Carefully drizzled dressings were relegated to little plastic cups, and well–thought–out dishes became jumbled messes in Postmates drivers’ trunks.

To dress takeout dishes up, there are a couple of tips at–home diners started to incorporate into their mealtime rituals. For starters, removing the food they order from takeout containers and plating it as if they were professional chefs can boost enjoyment of the meal and partially replicate some of the restaurant experience. Setting the table rather than just eating next to stacks of mail and work could also make dining feel more sacred. Taking the time to properly reheat food instead of just shoving it in the microwave helps to maintain the integrity of the dish and prevent a sad lukewarm or soggy meal.

Some restaurants strategically adapted to the massive uptick in takeout orders in order to preserve some semblance of normalcy during these times. Do–it–yourself kits for dumplings, ramen noodles, and pizza dough help to ensure a fresh, hot meal while preserving the restaurant’s original flavors. With detailed instruction manuals to replicate the desired dish as closely as possible, families purchase a delicious meal and a fun, safe quarantine activity.

The ambience of eating in a restaurant is incredibly challenging to capture in a takeout box, but as the world slowly makes its way back to how it was prior to COVID–19, restaurateurs can get back to being artists as they curate each and every dish for the public to savor.

D I FNEI N ATGUG RU EI D E

I Lived on the New Sophomore Dining Plan for a Week.

This is What Happened.

An experiential dissection of Penn’s shift in dining policy and the meaning of dining as a Penn student | MEG GLADIEUX

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ometimes, it feels like Penn cares more about making money than the actual health of its students,” says Angelica Meliksetyan (C '24). That’s just one of many expressions of frustration since Penn’s February announcement that, starting with the Class of 2024, sophomores would be required to purchase a dining plan. For many, this new policy feels like an overstep that limits student freedom, not unlike the requirement for all sophomores to live on campus. But for Angelica, her Type 1 diabetes means that being forced to eat on a dining plan poses a threat to her health.

In the fall, sophomores will be able to choose from either two first–year dining plans or the “second–year 156” plan, which comes to about ten swipes and $18 Dining Dollars per week.

The cost—$1,998 per semester—is staggering. It’s almost exactly what I had budgeted for myself this semester: $1,500 for the plan with only Dining Dollars and $500 to spend on groceries and other food off campus. The main difference? I can get a lot more food with the same amount of money.

Is the new $2,000 sophomore dining plan really livable? I was intent on finding out for myself. I ate the last of the perishable food in my fridge, packed up my pantry, and set out to see if I could live on the “second–year 156” plan for a week—without getting too hungry.

The Rules: ten swipes across seven days, $18 Dining Dollars to spend however I wanted, and $20 of what I called "social food money" that I could use off campus. What could go wrong?

––––––––

Illustration by Meg Gladieux On day one, I woke up hungry. I ventured out to 1920 Commons to use my first swipe of the week.

I was nervous about finding enough things that I could eat: I have a gluten sensitivity and have been doing my best to keep my New Year’s resolution of minimizing my consumption of animal products. I was pleasantly surprised at what I was able to get: a quinoa bowl with warm apples, potatoes, fruit, and coffee.

Tanner Duve (C ’24) has similarly been content with the options in the dining hall that fit his vegan diet. “So far, I've actually been happy with the dining halls. I feel like there's a lot of vegan options, even if they sometimes get repetitive.” I also really enjoyed a lot of the meals I was able to get my first few days: rice noodles with tofu and vegetables, a rice and broccoli stir fry, and on a sushi night, I was even able to get a whole tray of vegetable rolls.

But others, like Angelica, have food restrictions that aren’t adequately accommodated by Penn Dining. Because of her Type 1 diabetes, she has to be extremely conscientious of exactly how many carbs she’s eating in relation to her insulin injections. Bon Appétit doesn’t provide comprehensive nutrition facts on its items in dining halls—Angelica fears what might happen if she eats anything with more than a few simple ingredients. “Without nutrition facts, I have no idea how much insulin to do. If I do too much insulin, then my blood sugar goes low, and I can have a seizure. Or if I do too little, it goes really high—you can be hospitalized for that, which really puts me at risk.”

Similarly, Peter* is frustrated by the lack of available information about food preparation, especially because of some of his strict religious dietary restrictions. Peter follows a form of fasting during Lent derived from the Eastern Orthodox

tradition where he eats only one meal per day and abstains from eating all animal products and forms of oil. “There are not a lot of choices, so I swipe through multiple times just to get the sides and fruit to meet my needs,” he says. As a first year without access to a kitchen, he doesn’t have much choice but to make do with what he finds in the dining halls.

For Peter, fasting during Lent is supposed to create more time to focus on prayer. But being limited to the dining plan is distracting from his religious practice.

However, Bon Appétit does make significant efforts to work with a variety of other religious diets.

Penn Hillel’s Falk Dining Commons has strictly kosher kitchens, and it’s a favorite among Penn students both within the Jewish community and otherwise. In fact, it’s the main reason that Elyakim Suissa (C ’22) chooses to remain on a dining plan as a junior. Elyakim has mostly been content with Penn’s dining options and appreciates the care of the staff at Falk. Bon Appétit also partners closely with both the Muslim Student Association and Hindu and Jain Association on campus to make sure that there are options that fit those particular diets.

Dan Connolly, Bon Appétit’s Registered Dietary Nutritionist for Penn Dining says that they try to use “descriptive menu nomenclature” so that students can best judge the content of what they’re eating. “The more that you let us know what you like and what you need, the better we can respond.

And Dan's the frontline of response,” adds Barbara Lea–Kruger, director of communications and external Relations for Penn Business Services. “We don’t know what [students] need unless they tell us,” says Connolly. Right now, he's only working with about 100 students with special dietary needs.

Angelica says she did reach out to Bon Appétit

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“There are lots of students who come here who don’t have a meal plan. So I help them out. Students should not be hungry.” - Macy* and Penn Dining at the beginning of the semester with her concerns: “It was not helpful—they didn't tell me anything. They said that they don't provide nutritional facts and they can't really do anything about that.”

Though her meal plan is subsidized by financial aid, if Angelica can’t eat in the dining halls without putting her health at a significant risk, thousands of dollars she could be using for other food still goes to waste. Angelica has also tried to get in touch with Student Disabilities Services to see if she could get some sort of stipend to buy outside food from the grocery store—they didn’t get back to her.

Instead, she found herself making do with what she could get in the dining halls: “There was a point when I didn’t eat anything but salad for a week.” After that, Angelica became sick. Fortunately, Angelica’s family lives in the Philadelphia area, and has been able to bring her food, but it’s still an unnecessary burden for her, especially as a first–generation, low–income student. “To think that I have to go through all of this again next year—it’s kind of ridiculous.”

–––––– On day three of my week on the “second–year 156” plan, I realized I needed to start budgeting my swipes—I had only five left with five days of meals to cover. It was time to use my Dining Dollars. While usually I grab lunch at Houston Hall once or twice per week with my Dining Dollars, I wasn’t going to waste $10 of my precious Dining Dollars on a single meal. I ventured to Gourmet Grocer to see what ingredients I could get to fashion into some supplementary dishes.

I went up and down the aisles for a while, trying to figure out what I could put together as a meal with limited options and limited funds. I settled on a gluten– free linguine and a bag of frozen vegetables. I also grabbed a bag of lentils for protein. Finally, I went for a box of KIND bars, which I hoped would make for a good snack to sustain me between meals. It came to $18.82—there went all of my Dining Dollars.

I put together a pasta dish with the frozen vegetables and linguine, cheating a bit by using olive oil, parsley, and salt from my pantry. I vaguely felt like I was on a low–budget version of Chopped or Guy’s Grocery Games. Regardless, what I put together would have gotten me eliminated in the first round, but at least it cured my hunger.

One of Penn’s major arguments for extending the dining requirement to sophomores is the lack of kitchens in much of on–campus housing. But what about those sophomores who will have on–campus kitchens—and

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Photo by Meg Gladieux

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will be paying a premium for it on their housing bill?

Some prefer to prepare their own food independently, but being forced onto a dining plan seems to devalue the kitchen and their ability to make that decision for themselves. There’s also a mental burden of constantly calculating how many swipes you have left and how to allocate them.

The finite nature of the dining plan makes it feel limiting, even stressful. But that restrictive nature can be even more anxiety inducing if you have a history of disordered eating.

Peter has struggled with disordered thoughts around eating throughout his life, mostly surrounding anxious thoughts around meals. The dining plan has only exacerbated those thoughts. Peter also has a lot of anxiety about the food he wastes by only eating very select items from the dining hall. The lack of control is overwhelming.

“My eating disorder is either volleying between the extremes of absolute control or complete lack of it. And it's extremely hard to keep control over the food with all these restrictions on the amount [of food] that you can get. Portions are just really aggravating,” he explains. Peter walks into the dining hall every day having looked ahead at the menu and planned what he will feel comfortable eating. “I'll go through all those things and make a plan— then sometimes it won't even be there.”

Before coming to campus for the spring, Peter tried to get out of the dining plan knowing that its restrictive nature wasn’t going to be healthy for him. But it didn’t

work out. Between sticking to his fasting diet for Lent and managing his food anxiety, the dining plan has taken a major toll on his mental health.

“When you're anxious about this stuff, when [it's] just constantly on your mind, it takes away a lot from the focus that's necessary in doing schoolwork. I really have been struggling with my classes because of this,” says Peter.

On the other hand, Adam Rose (C ’22) has chosen to remain on the dining plan as an upperclassman with both swipes and dining dollars, even though he lives off campus this semester. He likes the ease of being able to stop into a dining hall, especially when he has a lot of class hours and doesn’t have the capacity to cook. His dining plan also isn’t subsidized by financial aid, but he feels it’s worth it—apart from the amount of planning that goes into using meal swipes.

“That's actually, the greatest fault of Penn Dining— in order to get the most value, you really have to plan ahead on how you're going to use the dining options. Not everyone wants to do that … It doesn’t have to be this way.”

For dinner on day three, I ended up getting takeout from Hummus Grill with a friend. I went for the economical choice, a hummus platter, which took half of the social money I could use for the week. I ate half of it and saved the rest to repurpose for another meal.

The looming thought of my dwindling swipes made me extra conscious of everything I was eating. Meal plans are supposed to make eating effortless—to reduce student stress. Instead, it was exhausting, occupying an inordinate amount of my headspace.

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On the Penn Dining/Bon Appétit website, you can find lots of descriptions of different lifestyles and healthy eating choices: the benefits of Intermittent Fasting! Whole 30! Intuitive Eating! They’re shiny, trendy, and utterly impossible lifestyle choices to make if you’re on a dining plan. Niche fad diets aren’t accommodated in actuality.

“Personalized Wellness Plates” aren’t exactly feasible with the limited options in dining halls, especially for a busy college student. The messaging Penn Dining is preaching is contradictory to its practice, to say the least.

On day four, I met Macy*, who works in one of the dining halls at Penn. I had stopped in to grab lunch quickly before an afternoon full of studying. When I told her I would be paying for my swipe using Dining Dollars, she waved me through. I tried to scan my PennCard, but instead she shook her head and again gestured for me to go ahead. When I stopped in again that evening for dinner, Macy waved me through again. But this time, she pulled me aside in response to my confusion and whispered, “When I’m working, you don’t need to worry about paying.”

Macy went on to explain that she feels a certain duty to help out students: “There are lots of students who come here who don’t have a meal plan. So I help them out. Students should not be hungry.” When she sees a student paying with Dining Dollars instead of a meal swipe, she discreetly lets them go through. She’s aware that the $17 charge for a meal isn’t really equivalent to the amount of food they’re getting. “I feel like we should be willing to help our students. If it were our children away, we would want to help them.”

Food insecurity is another central rationale Penn gave for mandating the second–year dining plan. But for Angelica, the dining plan actually exacerbates her food insecurity. Her financial aid covers half of her meal plan, but she’s still paying for something she’s hardly able to use—and paying out of pocket for groceries. “I don't really know if I can afford it—not for another whole year.”

–––––––– On the morning of day five, I was out of KIND bars and ate lentils and leftover pasta for breakfast. With three swipes left, I knew I needed to make the most of what was to come. I ended up spending four dollars on coffee at Wawa and grabbing three protein bars to get me through the next three days. All of my extra spending money for the week was gone. I stopped at Commons for lunch, but only ate soup and the main noodle dish—I also picked up two garden salads, but saved them to be repurposed for later meals.

I was suddenly missing the ease that came with using my swipes at the beginning of the week. For dinner I ate the rest of my pasta over a salad, an idea I had actually gotten from Angelica, who had told me she had been swiping in mostly to get salads to repurpose into wraps. It ended up elevating the two–day–old pasta pretty well.

“That’s actually, the greatest fault of Penn Dining—in order to get the most value, you really have to plan ahead on how you’re going to use the dining options.

Not everyone wants to do that … It doesn’t have to be this way.” - Adam Rose (C ’22) On the morning of day six, I used one of my last two swipes for breakfast. I was able to get a pretty filling tofu scramble, grits, and fruit. I saved the breakfast potatoes and an extra banana I had sneakily slipped into my bag for later. One of my protein bars held me over for lunch, and after the success of my leftover pasta over salad, I took the rest of my lentils and breakfast potatoes, reheated them, and put them over the salad for dinner. The result was surprisingly delicious and filling.

Day seven brought the joyful anticipation of being able to return to my normal eating habits, but also a certain appreciation for the dining hall and a strange longing for being a first year, when my life seemingly revolved around dining halls. I happily ate my banana and protein bar for breakfast and then headed to Commons for lunch. I was reminded of something Macy had said to me earlier in the week: “You all are away from home, so you’re like our family.” There is something oddly homey about the dining halls, even if this semester, we haven’t really been able to eat in them.

Elyakim speaks fondly of the spirit in the dining halls, even during COVID–19: “The Falk Dining [Commons] workers all know your name.” There is a certain joy in the rapport between students and the dining workers that provides an element of comfort and constancy in the chaos of college life. Elyakim hopes that current first years can look forward to having some semblance of the experience of eating in dining halls, which he found to be an important experience for getting closer with friends during both his first and second years before the pandemic.

Despite the clearly overpriced cost of the dining plan, part of what we are paying for is not the simple transaction of food, but also the salaries of those who provide it. “I would like to think that by participating in the dining plan ... we're also contributing to these individuals and giving them a job,” says Adam. In fact, that’s the main reason Macy will sometimes let students come into the dining hall without paying.

“You students pay too much, so I let you go through—

because you all coming here pays our salaries.”

When campus was closed, around 140 Bon Appétit employees were laid off. There was outcry from the entire University community. But if students aren’t patronizing dining halls when campus is open, we’re effectively depriving them of business. It shouldn’t be the responsibility of students to make sure that dining staff are paid, but if the University isn’t giving them fair treatment, we may as well show our support by going to the dining halls and being friendly, kind, and appreciative.

–––––– The first–year dining plan is a certain rite of passage: We come together around the repetition of Commons' meals, Hill's soft serve, and the overpriced snacks at Gourmet Grocer. But like so many things for the Class of 2024, dining halls have not been a central part of their first–year experience in the way that they have been for past generations of Penn students.

This year, dining halls have become way stations for transactionally picking up meals to eat alone in dorm rooms. But with Penn’s new sophomore dining plan, maybe it will be a much–needed community– building element of the second–year experience in a fall semester promising some semblance of normalcy post–pandemic.

So, is the “second–year 156” plan livable on its own?

Yes—if you’re willing to eat lentils and leftover pasta for most of the meals that you can’t get in the dining hall. If you’re thrifty and economical, you can get away with the $2,000–per–semester plan—as long as you know how to stretch your meals the right way and have a little extra spending money.

Then again, we’re living in one of the most diverse and eclectic food cities in the United States. But what’s the point of that urban setting, its food niches, its variety, if students—especially those who can’t afford to spend extra money outside of the dining plan— have to exclusively live on meal swipes and making do with whatever they can pick up cheaply at Gourmet Grocer, Wawa, and food carts to supplement meals? Food and eating are incredibly personal parts of our lives. Is it really okay for the University to prescribe a lifestyle onto its students? College life is supposed to be about freedom and autonomy. The dining plans—at least the first–year and now second–year dining plan—are the opposite of that. *indicates name changed for anonymity Student Health Service — 215-746-3535: Student Health Service can provide medical evaluations and treatment to victims/survivors of eating disorders, regardless of whether they make a report or seek additional resources. SHS also has two registered dietitians available for consultation.

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Crust Vegan Bakery: "A Business Built on Beliefs" This bakery was able to open a new storefront, keep paying its workers, and donate to local organizations during the pandemic. | EMILY WHITE 2020 was one of the most difficult years the food industry has faced to date. With lockdown orders imposed nationwide to curb the spread of COVID–19, many restaurants were forced to lay off workers or close. In just the first month of the pandemic, eight million restaurant jobs were lost.

As beloved institutions were forced to shutter, Crust Vegan Bakery emerged as a unique success story. The Philly–area favorite opened an entirely new storefront in Manayunk—while paying all their workers a living wage and donating to aid organizations.

When Philly first locked down, Crust’s major sources of revenue dried up. “All the weddings were canceled, and then all the coffee shops and restaurants closed,” Shannon Roche, co–owner of Crust, explains. “So our business went into basically nonexistence.”

But Crust quickly adapted, packing up food that was likely to spoil and donating them to shelters or food banks. The company also drew on its savings to pay workers while they applied for unemployment insurance.

Almost half of Crust’s employees were denied benefits.

So Roche and Meagan Benz, Crust's other co–owner, began brainstorming solutions—anything from offering isolated workspaces and pickup options to letting customers buy the bakery's recipes online.

Once summer hit, Crust's co–owners began to realize that this model was unsustainable. Roche and Benz hadn’t paid themselves for six months in order to keep money available for their employees, but even that wasn’t enough.

In order to stay afloat, they had to do something drastic.

Around the same time, a friend of theirs chose to vacate his space on Main Street in Manayunk. Roche and Benz saw this as an opportunity to expand their business. It was then that the very first Crust Vegan Bakery storefront was born.

Signing a lease in June and soft opening in August was, by all accounts, a miracle. They tried to cut costs wherever they could. “Basically, if we could do it ourselves, we did it,” Roche says. “So it’s not fully decorated.”

Since June, Roche and Benz have been able to compile political art for their walls, plants to put in front of their bay windows, and vegan sauces and spices from local businesses to fill up counter space. Perhaps their most noticeable piece of decor is a Gritty figurine built by one of their cake decorators. They’re also in the process of building a free library and a “feed it forward” wall, which Roche describes as “a nod to the mitzvah wall at Lagusta’s Luscious [Commissary].”

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While it’s still a work in progress, the storefront has been wildly successful. In fact, it’s done so well that Crust is now looking to hire three to four more people.

The path to opening a new location was certainly a rocky one. Although the co–owners had both worked in the restaurant industry before, they had never operated their own commercial storefront.

But doing something new was, ironically, not Photo Courtesy of Crust Vegan Bakery very new for the two bakers. Formerly a student on the Ph.D. track for biochemistry, Roche’s exBusiness Network, refers to the idea that companies pertise wasn’t in the culinary arts. She became interested in are responsible for more than just profits—they should vegan baking for a rather practical reason: “I went vegan care about people and the planet, too. “We're never gowhen I was in college in rural Tennessee, and there were ing to have shareholders that make tons of money, and not a lot of vegan options at the time. So if I ever wanted Megan and I are never going to pay ourselves absurd to eat a cookie again, I had to learn how to bake one.” wages that are 15 times what our staff are making,” From then on, her love of vegan baking snowballed, Roche says. and eventually she decided to open her own bakery.

Of course, profit is still important. It’s what allowed Friends suggested that she reach out to Benz, who had Crust to build up enough savings to pay their workers similar aspirations. They clicked instantly. during the pandemic. But to Roche and Benz, it's not A big part of their connection was their shared inthe most critical thing. Supporting local organizations terest in vegan baking, but their similar experiences as that advance racial justice, climate justice, and animal queer women in a male–dominated industry gave them rights is a huge part of what they do. even more reason to open their own shop. HomophoCrust also cares about minimizing food waste, a bia, sexism, and racism are often unacknowledged but mission that has guided its co–owners' commitment pervasive components of the restaurant industry. to donating leftover food. As millions of people were “It can be a really hyper–masculine, very masochisplunged into food insecurity during the pandemic, tic environment, where you're punishing yourself by community fridges became an even more important working these wildly long schedules and not eating part of Crust’s business model. Although they’ve aland not sleeping, and then your shift ends, and you ways made a point to donate excess food around the all drink together,” says Roche. “It can create this really holidays, the increased demand for their goods over the toxic environment of really high highs and really low past year has allowed them to donate more frequently. lows.”

Unfortunately, it’s not cheap to make things ethicalRoche and Benz wanted to make sure their business's ly. Even though Crust wants everyone to be able to eat culture was exactly the opposite. Crust is a proudly quality vegan baked goods, there’s no way to produce queer–owned business, and a big part of that is fosterthem for a cheap price while also treating workers well ing an accepting culture. “I don't want to hide part of and using good ingredients. “We're using organic and lomyself to go to work. And I don't want any of my staff cal ingredients and fair trade chocolate, and the person to have to do that either,” Roche says. “I want them to that's making it has access to health insurance, and [paid be able to show up as themselves, whatever that is— time off], and is getting paid a living wage, which means whether it's that they're an immigrant, or they're Inthat the pop tart can't cost what it costs for you to go to digenous, or they're queer, or they're disabled.”

Costco and buy a box,” Roche says.

Another important component of their business But Crust Vegan Bakery is doing what it can to break model is being a triple–bottom–line business, which down the financial barriers to its food. Although 2020 means adapting their operations in line with issues that was a difficult year, Crust's commitment to justice never impact the broader community. The term, which Crust wavered. The bakery's only grown more successful beadopted as part of their membership to the Sustainable cause of it.

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ON COMFORT FOOD & COVID-19

An ode to the food that filled our stomachs—and our hearts—during quarantine

Compiled by Jesse Zhang

T

he past year that we've spent living under the COVID–19 pandemic has led people to seek comfort in unfamiliar people, places, and things—including food.

As we navigate this peculiar and difficult time, the food we consume has turned into more than just a source of nutrients. It provided people with a sense of familiarity and comfort. Whether it be a traditional family recipe that brings with it a much–needed sense of belonging as holiday gatherings are replaced by Zoom meetings, or a cup of homemade coffee that helps maintain a sense of normalcy, here are some of the food items and recipes that have brought 34th Street staff comfort over the past year.

Photo by Kylie Cooper For some, a favorite breakfast gave them a reason to wake up in the morning and the confidence to tackle their day. “During the pandemic, I’ve started to make vegan chocolate chip pancakes,” explains Kylie Cooper (C ’22). “It’s a super simple recipe that I like to jazz up with a side of fruit—and sometimes homemade home fries, too! Breakfast is my favorite meal, so making these pancakes every now and then is a great way to start the day and gives me time to relax.”

Photo by Lily Stein Lily Stein’s (C ’22) home–cooked meal of choice during quarantine was chicken shawarma. “It was an involved, complicated two-day process (marinating, blanching, refrigerating, cooking, sautéing the chicken), and I loved every step of it,” she says. “My whole family gathered around and ate it for dinner together, and I remember how accomplished and happy I felt.”

Photo by Mehek Boparai Photo by Karin Hananel The process of making a recipe from scratch also left some feeling a sense of accomplishment in trying times. For Karin Hananel (C ’22), this recipe took the form of a peach cobbler she made from peaches she picked herself. “I’m not super experienced with cobblers, so it was great to see this dessert turn out so well. I felt very cottagecore,” says Karin. “It’s nice to occupy myself with my hands and get away from my thoughts, which is hard to do in quarantine without looking at a screen.”

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Others used cooking as an opportunity to add something new to their days during the monotony of quarantine. Mehek Boparai (C ’22), a coffee enthusiast, says, “In an effort to curtail my spending and outside excursions, I took up the intense hobby of making cold brew with sweet cold foam every morning after breakfast to give me some semblance of routine.” For Mehek, the experience was “cathartic, relaxing, and always ensured I had something to look forward to so that I didn’t have to frequently check my news app.”

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Photo by Denali Sagner Similarly, Denali Sagner (C ’22) and her roommate “tried to perfect the art of the cheese plate” while spending days inside. Denali says cheese plates are “a really nice way to turn food into a communal activity and to find a new creative outlet. And, when it was nice out, we even got to move our cheese plate artistry to Cira Green and people–watch from six feet away!”

Photo by Sophie Huang In a COVID–19 world, food can represent family and tradition. Sophie Huang (C ’24) practiced folding dumplings with her parents over quarantine. “My dad would knead and cut the dough, my mom would stuff the skins with pork and vegetable filling, and I would fold them into little dumplings,” she says.

Photo by Sophia Dai “This is rigatoni pasta with vodka sauce, made with tomato paste, vodka, heavy cream, and ground turkey,” says Sophia Dai (C ’21) of her quarantine culinary venture. “After spending a lot of time on TikTok in quarantine and getting inspired by Gigi Hadid’s viral penne alla vodka pasta recipe, I decided to give it a go and try it out myself. Now, it’s become one of my comfort recipes: incredibly simple and delicious every time.”

Photo by Caylen David “I don’t really cook, so this is my regular order at Hummus Grill,” says Caylen David (C ’23) of his beef kabab platter. “The main reason it’s important to me is because it reminds me of food I eat with my family, so it’s nice to have that connection in a time where I can’t really visit with them [in person].”

Photo by Samantha Turner About an unusual celebratory dinner of steak and potatoes, Samantha Turner (C ’23) says, “It was the first nice dine–in restaurant experience that I had, and it marked almost one year since quarantine started. This was to celebrate [my] one year anniversary with my boyfriend.”

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W Grassroots Food Truck is Planting Seeds in the Philadelphia Community

Founders and chefs Troy Harris and Kareem Wallace provide more than just delicious food. | ARIELLE STANGER

Photo by Arielle Stanger

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hether you see it after a quick walk to Clark Park or an Uber ride to the Philly suburbs, the brightly colored Grassroots Food Truck stands proudly in the sunlight like it’s the promised land. It might be a chilly Sunday, but chefs Troy Harris and Kareem Wallace greet you with enough warmth to keep you going for days—and the gooey mac and cheese, sticky sweet potato fries, and herb– flecked falafel certainly don’t hurt either.

The food truck has been a dream in the making for several years, and the pandemic situation was both an impetus and an interference in its creation. Harris and Wallace have both worked at Falk Dining Cafe in Penn Hillel for over a decade, but were furloughed without pay this past fall a semester after campus closed. Thus, the Grassroots grand opening happened in early November.

When asked about how COVID–19 has impacted their business, Harris and Wallace shared that their methods of operation happen to be completely appropriate for pandemic life.

As many restaurants and caterers struggle with paying rent for indoor spaces they can’t fill, the take–out market has expanded exponentially.

This was the Grassroots plan all along, so not much had to be changed besides ensuring an extra level of caution and care.

The main negative impact of COVID–19 on Grassroots has been, predictably, slower business. With fewer people leaving their homes regularly, the truck has fewer customers. Without large gatherings, there are seldom opportunities for catering. However, with optimism clear in his voice, Harris expressed that the duo plans to “take Philadelphia by storm” this summer. As business and support pick up, Grassroots will not only be open five days a week, but will also spearhead programs that provide employment training and work opportunities to West Philadelphia youth.

Harris and Wallace are motivated by the changes they wish to bring to their home community. Grassroots was set to take off in spring 2018, but tragedy struck Harris’ home. His son Azir was shot in February, and remains paralyzed in both legs.

According to a previous Street article, Harris shared that “the cruel irony of it all … is how the negative effects of living in his neighborhood, the same effects that he was trying to prevent with the Grassroots project, could come around to harm his own family and hinder the project from moving forward.” Penn stu-

dents and faculty helped fundraise to aid Harris and his family in paying the immense medical bills.

Harris and Wallace are two of the most grateful people in the world. In addition to wanting to better their own communities, they want to give back to one that has supported them for so many years: Penn Hillel. Harris shared that he feels inspired and connected to Jewish values such as helping others, including strangers.

As an outlet providing easily accessible kosher food to the Jewish community in Philadelphia, Grassroots is truly an invaluable gift. T he intersectionality of Grassroots’ mission is impressive and inspiring. The values its founders learned while immersed in the Jewish community guide their goals: They partake in the Jewish concept of tzedakah, a form of social justice and action based on the idea of giving.

Grassroots, being a nonprofit, uses most of its proceeds to put others on the right track—no matter who they are or where they come from.

It's evident just how selfless Grassroots’ founders are. When asked about their favorite food items on the menu, the pair didn’t have just one answer. Instead, they shifted focus to receiving positive feedback and taking suggestions from consumers. Wallace said they’d be open to doing themed foods, like an Israeli menu, if people would be interested. Their favorite items are whatever their eaters love, because their food is meant to spread joy to others.

Grassroots Food Truck is a vendor with values. You can donate here, and be sure to check them out on Instagram and Facebook for weekly updates and special Sunday locations—they also offer pre–order pickup and delivery.

To Troy and Kareem—thank you. You and your team have already changed more lives than you know, and Street recognizes how lucky we are to have you at Penn and in the greater Philadelphia community.

DINING GUIDE

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by Alice C

Ghost Kitchens: The Restaurant Trend That’s Here to Stay Mysterious ghost kitchens have been popping up all over Philly, but what exactly are they? | KIRA WANG

C

OVID–19 has undoubtedly changed the Philly food scene, shifting both how and where we eat. By shutting down dine–in restaurants during the pandemic, food delivery services have been the only way for us to safely enjoy gourmet food from the comfort of our own home. In a time where we’re so reliant on UberEats and Grubhub, ghost kitchens have opened to fill the void—thriving where most dine–in only restaurants are struggling.

While ghost kitchens sound spooky at first, they’re really just restaurants on food delivery apps that don’t have any dine–in options, but rather only offer delivery. And they’re more ubiquitous than you might think.

From David Chang’s Fuku to Guy Fieri’s Flavortown Kitchens, celebrity chefs everywhere have been capitalizing on this newfound restaurant trend. After all, not having a physical restaurant provides infinite flexibility in cuisine and creativity. But ghost kitchens aren’t unique to celebrity chefs. They’re also run by restaurant chefs operating out of giant warehouses and working in the kitchens of other established restaurants.

By exclusively running through delivery services, restaurants can make any cuisine they want by simply changing their branding style on UberEats. For example, fried chicken restaurants can now sell salads and other healthy options by creating a new virtual brand, working right out of their already existing kitchens.

Because of this, ghost kitchens can provide room for both creativity and adaptability, and they're taking over the restaurant scene.

Dozens of Philly’s biggest ghost kitchens operate out of 3300 Fairmount Avenue in a kitchen warehouse known as Fairfoods. From tacos to burgers to dumplings, the ghost kitchens working in Fairfoods Warehouse have every type of cuisine imaginable.

Looking to order from a ghost kitchen? Here are a few of our favorites.

Fuku Celebrity chef David Chang, best known for being the mastermind behind Milk Bar and Momofuku Noodle Bar, has expanded his famous fried chicken concept restaurant Fuku to Philadelphia as a ghost kitchen. With juicy fried chicken sandwiches and jalapeño powder-dusted fries, Fuku is unmatched in both its execution and simplicity.

Billy Pete’s Take Out Billy Pete’s Take Out specializes in comfort food. Operating out of 3300 Fairmount Ave., this ghost kitchen has everything you could possibly want for a late night snack. From burgers to loaded tater tots, order from here if you’re looking for something greasy and satisfying.

L–Jeffe Mexican Street Food L–Jeffe Mexican Street Food has nachos, tacos, burritos, and more.

With their chunky guacamole and their signature empanadas, L–Jeffe provides hot, fresh Mexican food in generous portions. Also a member of the Fairfoods Warehouse Family, order from this ghost kitchen when you’re looking for late night tacos.

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U N DDEI NIRNI NITNG HGEGG B UUI DITDETEO N

Even before he came to Penn, Leon Jefferson (N ‘24) was a huge self-described foodie. But when he arrived in Philadelphia for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to maintain his passion for enjoying and photographing the culinary arts. After all, most college dining halls don’t exactly have the best reputation. But much to Jefferson’s surprise, he found that Penn more than delivered on its promise for high-quality food on campus. He found that 1920 Commons, the flagship enterprise of Penn Dining and Bon Appétit, exceeded all expectations and is, in fact, the culmination of human culinary achievement.

“I won’t lie, I was a bit turned off when I first saw the $17 per meal price tag,” Jefferson confessed.

“I mean, I could get a nice entrée in Center City for that amount of money! How could a college dining hall stack up to that? Well, little did I know!”

When Jefferson first took a bite from his first dry, unseasoned Commons chicken breast, it was like a match made in heaven. “There were literally fireworks going off in my mouth!” recalled Jefferson. “My tastebuds were totally tingling — though whether that was because it tasted good or because it eradicated all of my tastebuds is beyond me.”

After this life-changing experience Jefferson just knew that he had to document his meal on his food blog, @thefoodiepatootie. Although Jefferson’s blog was small at the time, it started to explode when he started posting his meals at Commons.

ks o o L t s u J ! y t I m m u Y o Soo Freshman Makes It Big Food-Blogging 1920 Commons JAMES MORRISON

One of his most popular posts, depicting Commons’ crowd-favorite sushi night, has the caption, “Soo excited to put this in my tummy and see what comes out later! Raw fish and rice never looked so good!” Jefferson got thousands of likes and comments, all asking him where he found such a delicious meal. Jefferson was happy to oblige, and soon, 1920 Commons became flooded with critics and visitors alike.

These critics have described 1920 Commons as “the Mecca of American culinary excellence,” and is rapidly climbing the ranks of fine dining on the East Coast. The establishment is rapidly gaining prominence nationally and internationally, and is expecting to be awarded the third, coveted Michelin Star later this week. In the meantime, the ever-thoughtful Penn Administration noted that students were being crowded out of the dining halls by critics and other foodie pilgrims.

To rectify the issue, the administration expanded the dining plan requirement to the sophomore class. “We just know that students want to spend a little bit more time enjoying the wonderful meal options available at 1920 Commons and its sister establishments,” President Amy Gutmann explained. “With all of these visitors, we just felt that Penn students weren’t giving us enough mon — er, getting the dining experience they deserve!”

Jefferson, for his part, was ecstatic at the news.

“Wow, it’s just little gestures like this that remind me that Penn really cares about me!”

Astronautical Engineering and Ten Other Things That Are Easier Than Meal Prepping for One GRACE GINSBURG & MEGAN STRIFF-CAVE

In in the age of the coronavirus pandemic, many of our favorite restaurants and dining halls have been closed, forcing us to cook our own meals. The entire process of choosing meals, going to ACME, and then actually preparing and cooking them is spiritually and emotionally draining. It’s so difficult, in fact, that we’ve compiled a list of things that are easier than meal-prepping for one.

1. ASTRONAUTICAL ENGI NEERING. We don’t actually

know what this is, we just looked up “hardest things ” and this came up. But we know for a fact that it’s easier than figuring out your week’s worth of eats.

2. CHILDBIRTH. Now that we’re thinking about it, having twins is probably on par with meal prepping’s level of difficulty. But just one kid? Definitely easier.

3. SELFCHECKOUT AT ACME WITHOUT SETTING OFF SEV EN DIFFERENT ALARMS. God

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forbid you actually go grocery shopping with the delusion that you can buy food for one — there’s no way you’re getting out of there without an ACME employee’s assistance.

4. GLASSBLOWING. Surprisingly easy in comparison to the ordeal of nourishing yourself.

5. WATCHING "NORMAL PEO PLE" WITH YOUR PARENTS.

When you started it, you thought it would be fine. And then about 20 minutes later, it was like, “oh...

okay... so there is a lot of sex in this.”

6. BEING HAPPY AT THE UNI VERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA.

And that’s saying something. Because this is clinically impossible!

7. GRIEVING. A parent? A child?

A goldfish? All easier.

8. TRYING TO GRAB SOME THING THAT YOU DROPPED BEHIND THE FRIDGE EXCEPT YOUR HAND IS TOO FAT TO REACH UNDER THERE AND FISH IT OUT AND NONE OF THE STUFF YOU HAVE IS LONG

ENOUGH TO FISH IT OUT SO YOU KINDA JUST STARE AT IT.

Self-explanatory.

9. THE SATURDAY CROSS WORD. Also self-explanatory.

10. LICKING YOUR ELBOW.

This is actually harder than mealprepping. But I bet you tried, idiot.

On the bright side, students who meal prep for one supposedly get priority treatment at CAPS. Rightfully so.

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What the Hell?

Someone On Floor Cooking Steak au Poivre Again IAN ONG

What is that succulent scent wafting through the hallowed halls of Harnwell?

God damn it. Is that steak au poivre?

Damn it! That’s unmistakable. That guy across the hallway is making steak for the fifth time this week. Every single night, man. Every single night I go to sleep with that distinctive smell on my nostrils, and every single night I have this recurring dream: my eyes open, I find myself adjacent to a Parisian boulevard, sipping a fine apéritif, mulling it over in anticipation of my first bite into the heralded main course: a feast truly fit for a king, savory motes of bovine flesh floating over the undertones of a fine peppercorn crust, an oasis for my impoverished taste buds; I watch the sun glide past the abutments of

D

e w

the Arc de Triomphe, descending, lightly, as if pulled by string, through the glowing peephole that is my imagination. But as dawn breaks, the only solace to my deep-set carnivorous desires is the tough, economically-calculated gristle of a Big Mac. Dear Lord! How did it come to this?

Christ, how did it come to this? I’m literally sitting here, a captive in my own dorm, as that kid across the aisle is living it up with his haute cuisine and sous vide, while I have to scrounge up whatever I can from last night’s McDonald’s misadventure.

How excellent! I feel nauseous. Oh, sorry — I meant to say I feel nauseated — ah, there it is! There it is again. The smell of simmered heavy cream, delicate cognac, added salt to taste! An experience so Si-

! b e

s e l ts b n a T de dle e l u t g id a n S i M e S r c l i ve a u m o F e Tr R l o o t ho c S

sypheanously out of my reach, through barriers of drywall, across the cool expanse, aromatic particulate crossing the gap between rooms, infiltrating my olfactory factory, electrical impulses triggering, scattering electromotive forces like billiards, hardy neurotransmitters crossing the gaps between cell bodies, these signals of decadence finally achieving a perfect quincunx at my mind’s eye! Holy moly guacamole, I need that steak! I’m slobbering like mad over here: awooooooga! Somebody throw me a bone, preferably one with some damn meat on it! What will it cost? (A steep price, I’m sure of it.)

When will it end? (No time in the foreseeable future.) How can I still smell

Friendship. Laughter. College. Salad.

Memories. Booths. Almost ripe fruit. Long lines for pasta.

Penn dining facilities used to be a lively hub of student life, the entire university revolving around what the special entree would be that day. When students entered dining facilities, they were immediately filled with the most euphoric of feelings. During meals, students would jump and skip between the tables after being overcome with glee. One student even petitioned the university to make the left-back booth in Hill his official dorm room. However, when the pandemic hit, students went home, and the harmonic sounds of bright minds conversing, jesting, and bantering disappeared from the dining halls.

Hill, McClellan, Commons, Kings Court grew dim without us. The dining halls are now empty, cold deserts.

that damn steak days after it’s already been devoured, savored, enjoyed, relished, and fancied? (The window is broken; it can’t be opened.) Why does it persist into my dreams, and why does it persist into my nightmares?

(The A/C is broken; air can’t be circulated.) Why has it come to define my life? (The lights in the dorm are broken; nothing can be seen.) Yes, yes, an infernal dance for the culinarily snubbed seems fitting. Doesn’t it? (It does.) It’s settled then. I’ll do it while my limbs still wield the potential for movement! I’ll do it as the days turn to years! I’ll do it so long as my tongue still hungers for the taste of life! I will dance! Dance, you tragic clown, dance!

The Penn administration believed that indoor dining would bring us together, rebuild normalcy. However, all it has accomplished is conjuring up long-suppressed memories of the middle school war zone of the cafeteria. As soon as they sit down at their single table, students partaking in Penn’s indoor dining option are overwhelmed with flashbacks of the horrors of adolescence. During meals, students sitting alone scream out in agony: “I’m getting my braces off next week, I promise!” One student even broke down crying, muttering to himself: “But, my mother tells me I’m beautiful.”

Keep your head down, eat your food quickly, avoid eye contact. These are the new rules.

Isolation. Loneliness. Discovering you hate yourself. Listening to Meghan Trainor to drown out the demons. Shorter lines for pasta.

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DINING GUIDE

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