Gastronomic Gentrification and the Disneyfication of Cuisine
Telling stories through food feeds our deepest fantasies, helping to create fantastical worlds that sometimes turn out to be grand deceptions. A journey to the heart of the table, where the story itself has become the main course at the new restaurants reshaping our cities.
This article was originally published by Retina Tendencias Spanish magazine.
Eating brings people together. It also divides humanity. This primal act of civilization can consolidate cultures and states or destroy alliances and disband armies — like when, in 1836, the people of Oviedo defeated Carlist troops with chickpeas and pork. Food is arguably the most significant aspect of human life, the cornerstone of every compelling narrative, perhaps even more so than sex. It might sound absurd, but Mexicans, Japanese, Spaniards, Italians, and French people have built centuries-old culinary empires around their cuisine. The United States, in contrast, has forged its geopolitical strategy by shattering certainties with culinary aberrations like pineapple pizza, Alfredo tagliatelle, or burritos. They even deployed a gastronomic nuclear bomb, declaring that carbonara is an American recipe with no ties to Italy.
Cuisine is not a static tradition but a living narrative that adapts, evolves, and reflects the ever-changing identity of society.
Cuisine has always been, and remains, an act that gathers all kinds of people around a table through the cyclical stories we create. Shared narratives like the purity of Valencian paella, distinct from all other rice dishes on the Iberian Peninsula, or the supremacy of Champagne over Catalan sparkling wines, illustrate this point.
Writer and actor Héctor Urien explains how collective stories evolve over time. Tales like Cinderella have taken shape in countless forms for centuries, culminating in Disney’s omnipresent version. Gastronomy has not been immune to this global phenomenon. Much like the Cinderella story, traditional recipes evolve, adapt, and crystallize into new versions of a single dish. Despite this, we cling to the “original” paella and the “authentic” pizza, branding all else as imitations or historical distortions. Disney’s storytelling prowess has eclipsed the oral traditions surrounding Cinderella, making its sweetened version the dominant and orthodox one.
The obsession with authenticity risks freezing culinary diversity, turning vibrant traditions into sterile museum exhibits.
Whenever someone decides that a recipe epitomizes tradition, they implicitly use the same narrative device to freeze a living, free activity in place. The monolithic idea of a recipe becomes a symbol of security, standardizing processes and creating a sense of social unity. Italians, for example, consider pasta their invention and heritage, ignoring the high probability that Marco Polo “stole” one of humanity’s oldest foods from Asia. Similarly, Xixona is the cradle of nougat, though Arabs had consumed similar treats for centuries.
Tradition is a social construct designed to forge identity — a monolithic vision that disregards society’s diversity and heterogeneity. Exclusive ideas are dangerous because they strive to erase variety, leading to uniformity and identity extremism. Just as Cinderella exists in Arab, African, European, American, and Asian versions, there are countless renditions of stews, soups, rice dishes, pizzas, and pastas. This shouldn’t be scandalous; both oral narratives and gastronomy are living entities that mutate and change based on individual interventions and manipulations. True, chaos could ensue — calling different dishes “carbonara” might create a gastronomic meta-language — but freezing and Disneyfying our food could destroy the extraordinary culinary richness and diversity we have.
I oppose gastronomic stereotypes that equate Mexicans with tacos and guacamole, French people with baguettes and croissants, or Spaniards with ham and tapas. A single narrative divides us, fostering a sense of identity superiority.
In the age of gastronomic spectacle, taste often takes a backseat to visual theatrics and fleeting trends.
In private conversations, friends often ask me if I support pineapple pizza or Alfredo sauce. My answer is always the same: what matters most is whether it tastes good. If someone can make a spectacular pineapple pizza, why not embrace the opportunity? Everyone has different standards, and tolerance lies in accepting how others choose to enjoy their food. While we laugh at Iceland’s minister joking about banning pineapple on pizza, we must remember that such things are no more than memes.
What about those who cling to traditional narratives for the comfort of the past? That’s fine, too, as long as it’s neither exclusionary nor restrictive. Psychology speaks of in-groups and out-groups to describe the contrast between communities that feel united against those they perceive as “other.” Sound familiar? It should — because we do this constantly with food. Italians and Spaniards claim the British and Germans know nothing about gastronomy. If you make paella with chorizo, like Jamie Oliver, you’re branded an ignorant heretic desecrating tradition. But I’d love to survey Valencians to see if any two households make paella in exactly the same way — I suspect not.
It’s hard to take sides, yet we witness fierce debates between opposing camps. Still, I believe cooking is inherently an act of sincerity and unity. This straightforward idea can be challenged by movements like Nouvelle Cuisine, which radicalize norms, or molecular gastronomy, where spectacle often overshadows substance, sometimes feeling elitist or snobbish. But who doesn’t enjoy a fine-dining experience?
If storytelling defines humanity, we’re living in an exciting time of clashing gastronomic narratives.
Cuisine intertwines with storytelling, reaching surreal extremes that create striking experiences. From the Renaissance and Baroque still lifes symbolizing aristocratic opulence, to Miyazaki’s detailed family-centric iconography, or the mafia dining table scenes in The Godfather, food has always mirrored society.
In a world increasingly polarized between classical purism and innovative rebellion, we see a global rise in gastronomic experiences. Eating often becomes a trompe-l’oeil, more visual and auditory than flavorful. I’m not referring to restaurants that elevate banquets with meticulous attention to detail, but to franchises and eateries that gentrify city centers, turning them into theme parks. A parade of Asian, Hawaiian, Italian, American, and Mexican-inspired spaces floods urban cores, offering smash burgers, gourmet pizzas, poké bowls, ramen, keto-friendly meals, sourdoughs, gluten-free desserts, and glitzy cocktails in overly glamorous venues.
These themed areas follow fleeting trends: pseudo-Indian restaurants give way to Japanese izakayas and fusion joints where kitschy castizo-Asian dishes glorify fast food adorned with gold leaf. Suddenly, you’re seated under decorative bull heads or amidst Amalfi Coast maximalism, eating dishes that fail to impress. This ephemeral display prioritizes aesthetics over substance, reducing gastronomy to a trompe-l’oeil that strokes egos but chemically neuters the palate. Taste becomes secondary, leaving us unfulfilled.
Is this the end of gastronomy? Certainly not. Cooking remains one of the most dynamic and liberating activities we engage in daily. Gastronomy thrives on heterogeneity and creativity, where everything is possible. The spectacle isn’t in the performance, but in those who break norms, tweak dishes, and innovate processes. Cooking is an ecosystem, and those clinging to a recipe’s purity reveal their insecurity. A recipe is merely a functional tool for replicating a dish — not a weapon to enforce a singular, sacred version.
Sitting at a table or cooking are acts of love. We pour ourselves into feeding others, creating warmth. Eating is a celebration for the senses, the material realization of pleasure as we share stories. Cooking and preparing food are ancient, unique arts that evolve and embody our society’s essence — a feast, a sensory banquet, and the simplest representation of joy.
