November 2025: Dining Guide

Taste the World

From savory spices to decadent delights, discover a world of flavor in the Shop Penn Retail District. Whether you’re in the mood for something bold, comforting, or exotic, each dish offers a delicious journey across cultures. Let your taste buds travel and visit Shop Penn today!

Shop Local. Shop Penn.

#SHOPPENN

@SHOPSATPENN

Souvlaki Salsa + Sushi

18 The Magic of Majdal Bakery

This Philly sweet spot combines innovation and tradition to create delectable pastries with a story.

28 Marsha's Makes America Gay

Whether you love the women or love the sports, Marsha’s has space for everyone!

Home Comes in a Rubbermaid Container From Mom, sent and sealed with love

Ego of the Month: Avia Weber

40 In Case You Were ’Wonder’ing Wonder is all over Philly all of a sudden. It’s got big plans, and they seem pretty grim.

Embracing the adoptee identity through language, culture, and identity 5 7 44 47 My Quarter–Life Bible

At Sam’s Morning Glory Diner, the coffee’s hot, the eggs are runny, and the politics are loud.

Min Jin Lee found the cure to the burden of competence. Is It Time To Face the Music?

What background music says about us when we’re not listening.

ON THE COVER A martini and a chicken bowl: what more can a Penn student ask for.

By Jackson Ford

I am only what I eat.

Nearly a year ago, Natalia Castillo invited Norah Rami, Hannah Sung, and me to her two–person apartment on Sansom and 40th streets. Natalia had been tasked to lead a poetry discussion, record it, and show it to Al Filreas’ ModPo class. She had chosen the poem “Just Walking Around” by John Ashbury—it’s beautiful, simple, and so bittersweet.

She was nearing the end of her time as Street editor–in–chief just as the three of us were about to take the reins. Our four lives had become deeply intertwined throughout that semester, and seemingly just as quickly, the four of us are now spread across the globe. When I think of my best memories of my life here at Penn, I cannot help but think of the meals I have shared with friends—the time we racked up quite the bill ordering nearly every dish at Nom Wah, a Valentine’s Day dinner with friends at Malooga, the day I arrived 40 minutes late to a Strexec meeting because I was getting Cleo’s Bagels, the two days spent cooking and baking an elaborate dinner only to have to eat on our living room floor because we didn’t have enough chairs.

I traveled ten days through Europe with Hannah, and our biggest expense came from trying as many restaurants, bakeries, and coffee shops as we could. When I visited Norah’s home in Texas, we spent hours wandering around the fanciest grocery store I have ever seen, and I gorged myself on her family’s home–cooking.

As Natalia recited aloud Ashbury’s words, I couldn’t help but cry. On more than one occasion, I’ve been recognized as that girl in the ModPo video with tears glistening in her eyes. “You always seem to be traveling in a circle,” she read. “And now that the end is near, the segments of the trip swing open like an orange. / There is light in there, and mystery and food.”

Food, I believe, is a love language all of its own. What is more loving than my mom cooking me chicken–less noodle soup when I’m feeling down, than a friend swiping me into a dining hall knowing I’ve been too busy and stressed to properly

feed myself, than bonding with my fellow Kelly Writers House co–workers joking that we’re on the “Writer’s House dining plan”?

Across the city, there is a deep care for food that is found in every corner. Every year, Street works our hardest to find the people who love to eat just as much as we do, who put such care into their craft that we can’t help but write illustrious reviews of their work. The Dining Guide, in many ways, is our love letter to the culinary scene in Philly, and I encourage each and every one of you to explore the abundance of fantastic food that this place has to offer. Perhaps, along the way, we will bump into each other.

Ashbury’s poem ends as such: “Come see it. Come not for me but it. / But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other.”

Now, let’s eat.

EXECUTIVE BOARD

Norah Rami, editor–in–chief rami@34st.com

Jules Lingenfelter, print managing editor lingenfelter@34st.com

Nishanth Bhargava, digital managing editor bhargava@34st.com

Fiona Herzog, assignments editor herzog@34st.com

Insia Haque, Design editor haque@34st.com

EDITORS

Asha Chawla and Garv Mehdiratta, Copy

Samantha Hsiung, deputy assignments

Bobby McCann and Chloe Norman, Features

Sarah Leonard, Focus

Kate Cho, Style

Anissa T. Ly, Ego

Sophia Mirabal, Music

Logan Yuhas, Arts

Liana Seale, Film & TV

Jackson Ford, Street Multimedia

Arina Axinia, Street Social Media

Makayla Wu, Design

Cassidy Whaley, Social Media

THIS ISSUE

Deputy Design Editors

Kate Ahn, Dana Bahng

Design Associates

Alex Nagler, Andy Mei, Arti Jain, Chenyao Liu, Kiki Choi

STAFF

Features Writers

Diemmy Dang, Ella Sohn, Ethan Sun, Jo Kelly

Focus Beats

Betsy Barnard, Maddy Brunson, Anthony Danh, Sadie Daniel, Kayley Kang, Richard Paget, Vasanna Persaud

Style Beats

Mariam Ali, Alex Gomez, Sofia Latrille, Jordan Millar, Alex Nagler, Addison Saji

Music Beats

Mira Agarwal, Ananya Karthik, Kyunghwan

Lim, Amber Urena, Srikar Venkatesan, Emily Whitehead, Jason Zhao

Arts Beats

Maya Grunschlag, Beatrice Han, Kayla Karmanos, Suhani Mittal, Aaron Tokay, Lynn Yi

Film & TV Beats

Julia Girgenti, Susannah Hughes, Matthew Jeong, Sophia Leong, Demi Xihluke Marhule, Chenyao Liu, Henry Metz, Jackson Zuercher

Ego Beats

Dedeepya Guthikonda, Eva Lititskaia, Sophie Barkan, Talia Shapiro, Aenaviah Amna

Staff Writers

Melody Cao, Joy Chu, Sofia Galperin, Laura Gao, Constantine Gay–Afendulis, Leo Huang, Sierra Huang, Anjali Kalanidhi, Emma Katz, Digit Kim, Sayan Naik, Kayla Owusu, Cassidy Robles, Ariadna Rodriguez, Jessica Tobes, Megan Tu, Joshua Wangia, Damya Woodall

LAND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The land on which the office of The Daily Pennsylvanian stands is a part of the homeland and territory of the Lenni-Lenape people. We affirm Indigenous sovereignty and will work to hold the DP and the University of Pennsylvania more accountable to the needs of Indigenous people.

CONTACTING 34 th STREET

MAGAZINE

If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Norah Rami, Editor–in–Chief, at rami@34st.com You can also call us at (215) 422–4640.

www.34st.com © 2025 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. All rights reserved.

Home Comes in a Rubbermaid Container

From Mom, sent and sealed with love

BY VASANNA PERSAUD

by Insia Haque

My hands numb to the extreme, I pry the frozen Rubbermaid container from the back of my freezer. There’s an imprint on the icy wall, but like all things, it will fade and evolve. Exhaustion seeps through my bones as I barely see through my fluttered eyes to press the digits of the microwave panel. I don’t have the time or patience to defrost the magical cooking of my mom, so I’ll rely on artificial radiation.

It’s Saturday night and my suitemates’ doors are either dark because they’re out entering the social scene or because they’re catching up on well–deserved sleep after midterms. It’s often I feel I’m in my own world—like I’m the only one

who is homesick with every step into the colder season, or when I eat the bland dining hall food, or when I am surrounded by this alien culture.

Beep, beep.

The sound awakens me, but my eyes don’t show it. They’re red with fatigue and a cold, yet I force them open to take out the still chilled container. I remember then that I only put it in for two minutes, as I don’t wish to be the first one in my building to cause a fire. After breaking up the curry with my spoon, I jail it back in the microwave, letting another interval run.

If only I could take college in parts rather than being thrown in the micro -

Illustration

wave at extreme temperatures. I feel as though I’m melting so quickly, and no one will stop me until I’m nothing but soup waiting at customs to be sent home.

I’d welcome soup—a food I detest—with a salivating mouth if my mom made it. I know she’d make it spicy to the point of sweet pain and dice up vegetables she thinks I won’t notice. It’s moments like this that make me regret not always jumping at the chance to devour every meal she made.

The rows of umami pepper sauce bottles on top of the microwave mock me. They’re the only flavor I brought from home. On their own, sure, they’re great, but I miss their inclusion in broader creations like chow mein, cook–up rice, and chicken curry. If I close my eyes tight enough—my nose is already blocked up due to the cold—my senses can almost replicate the smell of the fresh chicken curry that my mom has to open the back door for or else the scent will get trapped on everything.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t fully open the door, willing the scent of the dhal or curry to stick to my clothes so that in that moment, it’s preserved. Nostalgia is a weird feeling that fuels even weirder ideas.

Beep, beep.

The icy layer on top of the curry has melted, and the first chunks of succulent chicken surface. It took immense heat, but the chicken is slowly returning to its former glory. It might not be as tasty as when my mom made it weeks ago, but it’s comfortably close—and that’s progress. I wonder if I’ve made any progress while at Penn.

Sure, the Taylor series in my MATH 1400 class and gen chem are giving me more trouble than I’d like, but I’m referring to adjusting. It’s officially been a month, and I miss home more than ever. Every walk to class is a reminder of the stony capitalist America I live in, and that day by day more hate grows toward people who look like me, people who have the same proud immigrant blood that flows through my veins. The walls of my

suite, as isolating as they may be, protect me from the harsh reality outside and the fact that I’m facing it alone.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t fully open the door, willing for the scent of the dhal or curry to stick to my clothes so that in that moment it’s preserved.

Nostalgia is a weird feeling that fuels even weirder ideas.

The bowl is doing its exhaustive spinning routine, lapping to meet my intense eyes and reminding me to have patience. In these last few days, I’ll admit I’ve been rather impatient, from calling my mom while she was at work and being frustrated she didn’t answer to dumping all my clothes out and becoming so overwhelmed I couldn’t sort them all. The bowl continues its disciplined routine, already mocking both my failure in adapting to college and my coping mechanisms.

As the timer tricks me, stretching the seconds, I reflect on the very reason I’m bracing against my dorm wall at 11 p.m. My mom means well, but she’s paranoid, always worrying I’ll say the wrong things to the wrong people. From birth, I’ve had a rather loose tongue that she tells me will get me in trouble. I never grew out of it, just redirected it to opinionated conversation. But in college, I mind my words, opinions, and thoughts to save face—her face. Being a college student in a place where people don’t share my views is one thing, but an environment that in -

stills fear into you: That’s oppressive. If I warm the bowl up for five minutes longer, it won’t withstand the pressure. We all have our limits; it’s about learning to balance before we hit them. So I’ve been good. I let the microaggressions slide and stay quiet in certain conversations because the only reason I have food to eat on a cold Saturday night is because of my mom.

Two thousand and five hundred miles away, and she’s managed to not let me leave her side—so if her one wish is for me to play it safe, I’ll temporarily retire my sharp words.

Beep, beep.

The final two minutes begin as I push the Rubbermaid bowl back into the “electronic oven.” A few seconds pass, and that’s when the first scent meets my senses. I can almost taste the creamy gravy that will trap spices galore on my tongue. When the final timer goes off, I want to yank the handle off, but I gently open the door, too scared that anything could mess with my mom’s Caribbean take on tikka masala. My mind acts quicker than my tongue, dopamine overloading my system as I feel a warmth inside of me that doesn’t quite match the chill of my dorm’s AC. I’m excited … over food … no, over what it’s defrosting.

The scent takes me back to the me that is helping my easily overwhelmed mother in the kitchen. The warmth reminds me of the humidity back home that causes my curly hair to stick to my forehead in an overstimulating craze. Finally, my mind stops as I spoon a steaming hot chunk of curry into my mouth and let it burn my tongue. The pain is light, though, almost insignificant, as the taste reminds me of my pride—my pride to be Guyanese, the child of immigrants and my mother’s daughter.

Each bite is a return. Each burn is a reminder of the sacrifices that placed me here and of the hands that helped me—and are still holding me, just at a distance. Ignoring the incoming winter, I guess I just need to defrost, too. I’m reclaiming what I’ve put on pause. k

Hometown

Hellertown, Pa.

Field of Study

Major in psychology and international relations; minors in French and Francophone studies, East Asian language and civilizations (Chinese concentration), and consumer psychology

Activities

Penn Taekwondo, Impactful Mentorship at Penn for Adopted Children Club, Penn Traditions, International Relations Undergraduate Association, Penn Undergraduate Psychology Society, Chinese Language and Culture Club, Adalat Society, Zeta Tau Alpha, Theatre Arts Council

For Avia Weber (C ’26), yellow is more than just her favorite color—it’s a lifestyle. She arrives for our conversation dressed in a yellow hoodie that perfectly complements the chunky yellow beads of her bracelet. “It gives me a lot of energy,” she explains, cracking a smile nearly as bright as the color. “It’s positive optimism to start out the day.”

Originally adopted from China, Avia has had to find her own light while learning to navigate her Asian American identity. At Penn, she’s become heavily involved in both the adoptee and Chinese communities, which she leads with the same warmth she’s strived for her whole life.

What inspired you to join so many organizations?

My biggest fear in life is regret. In senior year, my math teacher, who is my biggest mentor of all time, gave me a bracelet that says inside, “I hope you dance.” The complete quote is from a song that goes, “When you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.” So that’s been my motto throughout Penn and moving forward. I

EOTM

Embracing the adoptee identity through language, culture, and identity

BY SIERRA HUANG

Photos by Karina Gupta

this interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Avia Weber

want to do as much as I can, expand my story, expand my narrative, expand the people that I meet. Every time you say yes, there’s so much that you can learn, do, and experience.

Which of your involvements at Penn has been the most fulfilling?

Penn Taekwondo. Although I did taekwondo throughout my childhood, I never competed in a tournament until I got to Penn. One way our team differs is we offer the opportunity to go to different tournaments at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Brown University, and Princeton University. The best part about competing is the confidence that you gain, because going onto the mat takes so much confidence and reassurance in your preparation. Understanding this my freshman and sophomore years helped me realize I was capable, and in my junior and senior years, I’ve worked to instill that confidence in others. Also, taekwondo has helped me see the power of community. We have this amazing phrase that goes, “A family that kicks together sticks together.” Because taekwondo is Korean and I’m Chinese, it is a place where I feel represented. It’s really surprised me that taekwondo has become one of my biggest commitments, but I’m really glad, because I can give myself and others the opportunity to find inner confidence.

How has your background as an adoptee shaped your experience at Penn?

Adoption never became a prevalent part of my identity until a lot later. I grew up in a predominantly Caucasian society, so I struggled to resonate with many Asian American experiences because I didn’t know much about the culture. For example, during the COVID–19 pandemic, there was a lot of anti–Asian hate. Although I had experienced some of this, I could not fully connect because I didn’t know the culture, the language, or the food. I felt completely lost. But since coming to Penn, I’ve started to identify more as Chinese American, and I understand the cultural nuances that adoption forces you to confront. In sopho-

more year, I started studying Mandarin. There are so many days where I sit in my Mandarin class and get frustrated because I can’t memorize or pronounce a character. I always think about how if adoption didn’t happen—if I was kept by my family—I would never have to go through this journey. But by meeting fellow adoptees at Penn, I got the reassurance that I wasn’t alone.

During your study abroad in Shanghai last year, you got to connect with fellow adoptees. What did this opportunity mean to you?

While I was building an incredible network of adoptees at Penn, I learned about some who were going back to their birth country. I knew that this was something I definitely wanted to do, so I spent a semester at Fudan University in Shanghai. I went in without any expectations, because I didn’t really want to be disappointed. Obviously, there’s the inkling that sits in the back of your head that goes, “Will I find my birth parents?” I did not, and that’s okay, but what I did find were a lot of opportunities to meet people, learn about United States–Chinese relations, and figure out where I stand as a Chinese American adoptee. It was so lovely. There is a great cohort of Chinese adoptees who go back there every year for work or study abroad. They gave me the support I needed, because even though I was back in my birthplace, it somehow felt so foreign. Especially if you’re in another country, there are so many ways to meet new people who inform your approach and perspectives on the world.

In addition to Mandarin, you speak several other languages. What are these languages, and what’s something people might not know about multilingualism?

I’ve been taking French since seventh grade. Then, during my freshman year at Penn, I audited accelerated elementary Spanish. It was really interesting to see the overlaps between Spanish and French. That same year, I also took part in the German House program. I felt so bamboozled because I was the only beginner, and they spoke nothing but German. Still, I learned

so much about the culture, and it was wonderful. This past year, I took Russian for two weeks. I had to drop it because I was at a credit limit, and they wouldn’t increase it. But it’s fine; I’m going to try running it back in the spring.

All that’s to say, I just love learning from people and their stories—everything that builds who they are. So being able to say “thank you” in their language is so important. It’s community communication. And there’s a personal side of this too. Learning a language is so humbling. I think everyone at Penn needs to be humbled—I know it happens to us all 1,000 times a day, but the level at which you get humbled in a language class teaches you so much grit and perseverance. Being able to drag myself to Chinese class every single day, even on days when I don’t know anything on the vocab list, has helped me become comfortable with being wrong and not knowing anything.

Your interest in international relations is clear. But why psychology?

I’m really fascinated with using my international relations background to go into something regarding U.S.—Chinese relations. So regarding psychology, I think it’s important in building an understanding from a personal level about how our global system marginalizes a lot of people. Diplomatic spaces really need individual human recognition. That often gets overlooked because everything is done at such a global level. In a sense, a lot of citizens feel a lack of agency in what goes on in their own country. Having informed, personalized approaches to policymaking can help people gain back their sense of agency. They can feel that what they do has an effect on society at large.

At the same time, psychology helps me understand how our opinions on government and international relations are shaped. We’re a very social species. We learn from others. So when you talk to someone about what you think of a certain topic at an international level, you now influence their behavior, and it creates a huge, widespread effect. With everything that’s going on in the world, we’re constantly inundated with en-

dless breaking news notifications from outlets like The New York Times. It feels really defeating when we have so much hope that is squandered by the amount of conflict that exists in the world. At this point, how do I, as an individual, move forward? By studying international relations and psychology, I’m hopeful for both the system and the individual.

Given your wide range of involvements, where do you see yourself post–grad?

Honestly, I have no idea, which is really daunting and overwhelming at times. But that’s the beauty of having so many interests—you’re always going to have a spontaneous lifestyle. I love traveling, and I think having an international impact on the individual level is really important. So whether that’s through going into global diplomacy or working with an international humanitarian organization, I know whatever I end up doing is going to be impact–based. Hopefully, I can explore the world and meet more people who will continue to expand my perspectives. k

Favorite yellow object: My yellow Crocs, Jibbitz included

Favorite class you’ve taken at Penn: Penn Global Seminar in Paris

Best first date in Philly: A long frolic from 40th Street to Old City

Guilty pleasure: Binging Netflix, but more specifically Modern Family

Favorite book: The Little Prince (Le Petit Prince)—wherever I go, I like to collect the book in that specific native language.

There are two types of people at Penn… People who stop and see the squirrels and people who speed walk to get to their next destination.

And you are?

The person that stops and says, “A squirrel!”

The Gossip Girl of Philly Restaurant Bathrooms

This

anonymous Instagram account tells all from

the toilets of Philly’s most iconic restaurants.

Imagine meeting someone and they say this is their side hobby,” the Instagram bio of @bathroomsinphilly reads. The name truly sums it all up. Since the summer of 2023, it’s been serving chaos, critique, and humor from behind the stall door of some of the most known restaurants and bars in Philly.

Like all great origin stories, this one begins with a bang—accompanying a close friend to

BY MAREN COHEN

Illustration by Emmi Wu

get an IUD at the gynecologist’s office. The idea for the account sprouts in the sterile bathroom of the doctor’s office. “It’d be so funny to just take a picture of a bathroom and be like, ‘This is the story why I’m here,’” the account owner, who’s chosen to keep her identity anonymous, says. Later that year, she crafts her pilot post: a review of Old City restaurant Fork’s bathroom. The formula is simple: a single photo, an ad-

dress, and a rating out of ten.

Over two and a half years, the account evolves into frontline bathroom journalism for an audience of over 3,400 people. With every post, followers are taken through the account owner’s eclectic experience in each bathroom. Descriptions include an in–depth dissection of every aspect of the lavatory, not limited to the ambiance, the decorations, the cleanliness,

HAPPY HOUR

4PM TO 6PM

TUESDAY- FRIDAY

Kitchen open until 12:30am, Thursday-Saturday

3408 Sansom Street

www.newdecktavern.com

Follow @NewDeckTavern on Instagram

NEW MENU

and even her fellow patrons.

Over the years, her criteria for what makes a good bathroom have remained consistent. Her favorite bathrooms don’t have to be clean—they just have to have character and a good story. Take McGlinchey’s Bar, one of her personal favorites despite only scoring a 3/10. Her review is like a drunken dream written on a bar napkin of a well–lived night.

“Yeah yeah yeahhhhhh this place is fucking gross I get it. My hair smells like cigs and im in my blanket burrito, let’s get into it. I hate even admitting I used this filthy lil bowl. I did hover but I probably should still go to the gyno,” she writes in the caption. “This bathroom lowkey kind of cool tho but also horrifying and fever dream fuel. I def wouldn’t recover mentally if I had the spins here. Like i need to call my fuckin therapist. This also looks like somewhere frank Gallagher would take a nap.”

Similar chaos for Tattooed Mom, another one of her favorites. “My inner grunge emo side feels at #home. Just peeing here made me 7.5x cooler than i already am,” she writes, accom-

panied by a photo of dripping graffiti tags and punk–rock stickers layered on every available wall surface of the bathroom.

On the other side of the spectrum are the high–glam toilet classics of Philly, such as LMNO’s infamous red–tiled, red–lit, red–toileted bathroom. “The red bathroom, gave the sexiest vibes I’ve ever felt in a fecal room. In a room used as a last resort, it’s my top priority.”

Similar to a food critic, a bathroom critic must also have their non–negotiables: Dial soap and bathrooms without full–length mirrors.

“It’s just so tasteless,” she passionately says. “Especially when it’s a nicer bathroom, like a Starr restaurant. … Like, a fucking Stephen Starr has this nasty ass Dial soap in the corner. I was like, ‘What the fuck is this?’ This is supposed to be one of the nicest speakeasies in the city, and it has fucking Dial soap—and in the container.”

She doubles down: “You guys couldn’t afford a fucking Target soap dispenser to empty this in?”

With years of bathroom critiquing under her belt, she has a clear picture of her dream

bathroom. “It would be like … my salon. Just like this girly, girly pink bathroom. But I’d also have a couch there. I want a freaking couch,” she says, referencing the Sassafras Bar bathroom. “I’ve never been to it, but many, many, many people have shown me pictures of it, and there’s a huge–ass fucking couch in there, which is kind of foul.”

She insists on a girls–only restroom— “absolutely no men are allowed in there.” She further believes that a working lock is a necessity, particularly after accidentally walking in on three separate men in the span of one night. “Every time I tried to go in the bathroom, I saw a fucking penis and two of them were like old men.”

Here is one of the main appeals of the bathroom for this owner: the friendship that forms with fellow random women in the bathroom. “I can’t believe men don’t pee together. They really are missing out on a deep level of friendship right there.” For her, the bathroom serves as a utopia for women away from bad dates, shitty food, and boring conversation—a safe haven. k

Building Community Across Generations

In Old City, FRIEDA reimagines cafés as spaces of international connection, social activism, and cultural exchange.

BY CHLOE NORMAN

Illustration by Dana Bahng

Hungry for something new?

From chef demos to global bites, Penn Dining events bring food, flavor, and community to campus.

Join foodie events all semester long:

• Quaker Kitchen Culinary Sessions

• Penn Cooks – Culture, Community and Cuisine

• Chef’s Signature Series

• Culinary Labs

• Dine Well, Eat Smart – Nutrition and Wellness Series

Don’t miss what’s cooking—check out the calendar at bit.ly/PennDiningEvents.

FRIEDA hums with a quiet familiarity. The scent of fresh pastries wafts through the air, mingling with the low murmur of conversation and the soft clatter of coffee cups. Paintings line the white walls, their colors luminous under the morning light. Each table seems to tell a story—an artist sketching in his journal, a student furiously scribbling notes, or a pair of old friends reconnecting over breakfast.

To call FRIEDA a café feels reductive. Although its savory pastries and piping–hot espresso undoubtedly contribute to its distinctive charm, its deeper appeal lies in its interpersonal connections. FRIEDA is a social movement that uses food as the axis for its broader mission to craft an inclusive space free from intergenerational division. Founded almost ten years ago by David Wong and Thomas Steinborn, the space was never intended to operate as a restaurant in the traditional sense. It instead began as a question: How can older adults remain connected, creative, and fulfilled af-

ter retirement? Steinborn has watched his mother struggle with the sudden quiet that follows decades of work. The loss of routine, coworkers, and the daily invigoration that comes from being a part of a broader community is emotionally devastating. Together, he and Wong began imagining a space that can fill the void left by retirement and create a dynamic community hub that operates beyond the bounds of restrictive, age—segregated senior centers.

Shortly after settling in Philly, Wong and Steinborn became aware of the city’s long history of generational activism, particularly the Gray Panther movement. In the 1970s, activist Maggie Kuhn was forced into retirement at 65 but refused to accept that her professional life should end because of her age. As a result, she and her similarly situated peers founded the Gray Panthers, a social justice organization that challenges the notion of aging as withdrawal. Modeled after the Black Panthers, her organization was created to fight against age discrimi-

nation, challenging mainstream conceptions of older adults as societal dependents. Conversely, she empowered them to enact meaningful change within their communities. The Gray Panthers has grown into a nationwide movement, at one point recording more than 75,000 members and 122 networks in 43 states across the country.

Shortly after the Gray Panthers’ creation, Temple University launched its Intergenerational Center, a space that focuses on exploring civic engagement and career training through intergenerational connection. Across the city, from community centers to local tutoring programs, a network of local organizers has built programs where children and elders can learn from one another through sharing stories, skills, and perspectives.

Drawing inspiration from past initiatives, the founders envision a space rooted around three pillars: art, culture, and food—each functioning as a vehicle for human connection.

Together, he and Wong began imagining a space that can fill the void left by retirement and create a dynamic community hub that operates beyond the bounds of restrictive, age–segregated senior centers.

“You have communities built around sets of values, dogmas, or beliefs,” Wong says. “What we wanted to do is build a community around a set of values that were nurtured by art, culture, and food—the idea of curiosity, the idea of creativity, the idea of openmindedness, and the idea of inclusivity.”

The name FRIEDA itself embodies the café’s central mission. Named after Steinborn’s grandmother, FRIEDA serves as a tribute to older adults whose influence has shaped the next generation in enduring ways. The café’s sense of heritage extends to its menu, filled with elegant European dishes—buttery croissants, open–face toasts, and tarragon Niçoise salads—that are carefully crafted by FRIEDA’s kitchen team. The meals mirror the space’s atmosphere: warm, communal, and artful.

Wong and Steinborn’s entrepreneurial journey began in a rented commissary kitchen at the Enterprise Center, pairing older adults from local parishes and community centers with students from Walnut Hill College. The goal wasn’t to train professional chefs but to experiment with culinary collaboration across generations. The process was months of trial and error: Recipe cards were printed in larger fonts, shifts were shortened to three hours, and pastries were redesigned. For example, FRIEDA’s rugelach is a rolled, sliced cookie,

a signature twist on the pastry’s traditional purse shape. Wong explains that the cookie’s original form was modified since many elderly employees lacked the dexterity required for the dough’s complex configuration. Although a seemingly insignificant alteration, the dessert became an emblem of their mission to reform systems that uphold ageism in the service industry.

When they eventually found the space at 320 Walnut St., it had been boarded up for more than 15 years. Realtors warned them against it, citing its poor foot traffic and prolonged abandonment. However, for Wong and Steinborn, the space fit their logistical needs—low rent and a central location. After they purchased the building, the once abandoned storefront was filled with raucous laughter, clinking dishes, and local art.

At FRIEDA, older adults initially worked alongside younger volunteers, forging relationships between employees from diverse backgrounds. However, this close–knit community soon faced heartbreak as members of the original team began passing away. For Wong, the death of Oliver, an elderly employee, was particularly devastating, leading him to end the café’s practice of employing older adults in the kitchen. The loss of employees who had helped build FRIEDA from its earliest days reshaped the space’s identity.

“It never entered your mind that people in your community are all ten years older and some of them will get sick and some of them will die,” Wong says. “That was never a factor in our thought process. And it really hit us hard at the very beginning when we started losing people. All of those relationships that you build over time, over ten years, you still cherish them because it’s like a family.”

After this, the café shifted its focus: While younger volunteers remained in the kitchen, older adults who once worked there were now involved in smaller tasks such as labeling jars or packaging goods. As FRIEDA's founders turned their attention to expanding its cultural and educational reach, elderly employees assumed new roles such as running community art workshops and

teaching creative writing to third–seventh graders in under–resourced neighborhoods.

When the COVID–19 pandemic hit, the café was faced with a new set of challenges. With restrictions tightening and social isolation mounting, FRIEDA's founders worried about how to maintain both their business and the sense of community that defined it. Yet, rather than shutting down, it adapted—offering a $15 daily meal that provided freshly cooked dishes for pickup or delivery to vulnerable community members. To preserve the café’s social mission amid lockdowns, Wong and Steinborn moved FRIEDA’s programming online, hosting daily Zoom sessions that ranged from cooking demonstrations to film and book discussions. Devoted café regulars pushed Wong and Steinborn to create FRIEDAcommunity, a non–profit created to carry the café’s mission of intergenerational connection and social engagement into the future.

During its transition to a nonprofit during the pandemic, FRIEDA launched two projects that furthered its core mission. The first, #BlueAsAButterfly, invited

The goal wasn’t to train professional chefs but to experiment with culinary collaboration across generations. The process was months of trial and error: Recipe cards were printed in larger fonts, shifts were shortened to three hours, and pastries were redesigned.

community members to pick up envelopes of blue paper butterflies from the café, cut them out at home, and return them to be laminated and displayed in FRIEDA’s windows. Slowly, the installation grew to dozens of blue shapes, creating an art exhibit visible from the street.

Their second project, the FRIEDAcommunity Food Book, was a yearslong project that not only collected individuals’ favorite recipes but also the personal stories behind them. Contributors shared the dishes that reflected a meaningful aspect of their life—family meals, cultural traditions, first dates—and paired them with artwork and photography. Each page is a fusion of personal narrative and cultural pride, a reminder of food’s power to render memory tangible.

“What I like about the book is, yes, some dishes are very ethnic and very culture–specific, but the story is universal,” Wong says. “You know, when you talk about your mother, your grandmother, or when you talk about your first date—trying to seduce a person of interest by cooking—it all demonstrates our human emotion. That’s what I love about that book. It’s not specific to the FRIEDA community.”

After the pandemic, FRIEDA’s work expanded further into the city. Through partnerships with local schools and nonprofits such as Mighty Writers, Wong and Steinborn bring art and storytelling workshops to children in low–income neighborhoods. Volunteers—many of whom are retired educators—travel to schools in West Philly and Camden, N.J., leading creative projects inspired by FRIEDA’s community art exhibits. One series, Stuffed Reading, used imaginary characters named after global dishes, such as shakshuka, moqueca, and wasabi, to encourage students to invent stories that connect cultures through writing.

Preparing to celebrate its tenth anniversary, FRIEDA remains a place of social activism in the service industry. Its mission continues to evolve alongside its community. For Philly’s residents, FRIEDA is more than a café; it’s a community stitched together through art, activism, and belonging. k

DINING GUIDE

The Magic of

Majdal Bakery

This Philly sweet spot combines innovation and tradition to create delectable pastries with a story.

BY SARAH LEONARD

When Kenan Rabah opened Majdal Bakery in 2024, his father, living in Majdal Shams, Syria, began to plant only za’atar in his garden. After it’s harvested, Rabah's mother and grandmother dry it and mix it with sumac, sesame, and olive oil. Every time Rabah visits home, he makes sure

to bring a little back with him to use at his bakery in Philly.

“We put za’atar on everything back home. Every region has their own take on za’atar. Ours is very simple, very clean,” he says. “I use it in most of my recipes. It’s a special touch.”

Special touches seem to be the forte at Maj-

dal, a cozy space just steps off of South Street. Walking in, you’re first greeted with the bakery’s signature sage green, the vocals of Fairuz, and a luscious medley of spicy, sweet, and grainy smells. Sourdough loaves and baguettes line the shelves above the coffee maker. In the central glass display case, each available pastry

Photos courtesy of Majdal Bakery

is lined up in an immaculate and drool–worthy array. You’re left to ponder which of your taste buds you’ll follow: Will you go savory with the mini nigella garlic baguette or the chicken sumac fatayer? Or satisfy your sweet tooth with the baklava or pistachio tiramisu?

Though much of the menu consists of traditional recipes straight from his childhood in Majdal Shams, Rabah also incorporates his expertise from culinary school and his experience as head baker at Lost Bread Co.

“During my years at culinary school, I fell in love with bread baking. Like sourdough, it kind of merged those two worlds together— the savory cooking and the magic of baking,” he says. This is especially evident in his safeha, which is traditionally a flatbread. However, he uses the sourdough method, which involves fermenting dough with special yeast and local heirloom grains to create a hearty, aerated base for his toppings.

I choose the malfouf, which arrives warm from the oven on a cheery, green–and–white–checkered tissue paper. It’s a blend of spiced beef and tender roasted cabbage, finished with a swirl of tangy yogurt sauce and a scattering of pine nuts that melts in your mouth. And the flatbread is far from being in the background; it provides the perfect chewy texture to complement the rich flavors on top. The malfouf is inspired by a recipe Rabah grew up eating: cabbage rolls stuffed with beef and rice and served with yogurt.

“All the products, if they’re not a traditional pastry, they’re inspired by a traditional pastry or a memory I have,” he explains. “I also don’t want to limit myself. There’s a part of me that’s like, ‘I moved here for a reason.’ … So I introduce things as well into my baking.”

Working with local vendors and supporting local agriculture is central to Rabah’s recipes. Lost Bread Co. mills its own flour, and he continues to source local grains and flour for his baking. The menu also changes seasonally, mixing local produce with classic flavors.

Some items, however, are continuous residents. The potato fatayer, a flatbread with a spicy potato–and–onion filling, is one of the bakery’s most well–loved pieces. It oozes carby comfort and is perfectly brightened by the accompanying sour cream–and–herb sauce. Another favorite is the cinnamon–cardamom

bun with pistachio cream cheese frosting. It’s dainty but absolutely decadent, and its sweetness is balanced by spice and nuttiness.

A cup of hot, gingery–sweet tea sits next to all of this. Majdal’s drink menu offers a myriad of flavors, from coffee to seasonal lemonade and iced rose sharab, but the hot spice tea is the perfect autumnal drink. Flavored with cinnamon, nutmeg, and other spices, it warms you from the inside out. The tea is usually served during or directly after a woman’s pregnancy, and Rabah remembers it being served on family visits.

“We have harsh winters where I’m from, so we always have a pot of spice tea on the stove,” he says. “When I came here, I started doing that regularly, and when I opened the bakery, my partner was like, ‘You should serve the spice tea!’ I was like, ‘No one’s gonna buy the spice tea!’ And it became literally our bestseller.” Customers now have the option to have it hot or iced.

Out of everything he makes, though, his favorite is the talami: a sweet flatbread of enriched dough, turmeric, ginger, anise, and lots of olive oil.

“The fun part is that we let it ferment, and we press the little dough rolls in these wood molds, and then we bake them. So it’s a nice, flat, decorative flatbread,” Rabah explains. “It’s sort of labor–intensive, so when we do it back home, the whole family would gather and we would make thousands of them, and then we each would take a few and freeze them.”

They’re eaten at breakfast with coffee, served plain or filled with butter and seasonal jam. This week, it’s a delicately sweet preserve of muscadine grapes, anise, and lemon, and it might be my favorite thing I try. The flavors are subtle yet full, and you can taste the care that went into selecting each ingredient.

Majdal Bakery’s mission goes beyond just serving good food and drink, though; it’s a way to communicate history and culture. Rabah’s hometown, Majdal Shams, has been occupied by Israel since 1967.

“I lived in a place where I didn’t have a nationality. I didn’t have an Israeli nationality, I didn’t have a Syrian nationality. It was always undefined,” he says. On his passport, it simply says “undefined.” When he came to Philly in

2015, he was confronted with the expectation to explain himself and his origins in a way he hadn’t needed to before.

“When I tell people where I’m from and I tell them the story, a lot of the reaction is they’ll feel bad for me, like ‘Are you good? Are you safe?’” Rabah says. “I felt like I needed to change that narrative, to show the other side of it, the beautiful, the amazing food, the hospitality, this really good culture of generosity.”

His chosen method? Food, of course. “For everyone, I feel like they have their language that they speak. For me, I feel like I shine more with baking and with cooking, so I feel like that’s where my role is,” he says. “I hope I’m doing something.”

He certainly is—with ingredients from across the Atlantic and from nearby farms, Majdal Bakery is tantalizing taste buds and connecting cultures at the same time. k

Majdal Bakery serves up traditional Syrian pastries to satisfy every craving.

LOCATION

618 S. Fifth St.

PRICE

HOURS

Monday–Tuesday ............................ Closed Wednesday–Sunday ......... 8 a.m.–4 p.m.

DESIGN BY ARTI JAIN DINING GUIDE 2025

Fitz on 4th Brings Home the Vegan Bacon!

This plant–based restaurant specializes in comfort.

ANJALI KALANIDHI

Photos by Archanna Ponnada

As someone nearly 400 miles away from home, I find that it’s not often I can experience the joy of a home— cooked meal full of comfort foods. Dining at Fitz on 4th, however, comes pretty close. “With all the craziness going on in the world, I feel like this is like a nice piece of heaven, honestly, in the heart of Philadelphia and Queens Village,” chef Alison Fitzpatrick, the owner of the cozy vegan restaurant, says.

Fitz on 4th was founded by Fitzpatrick and her son Alex Soto with the goal of taking a new approach to comfort vegan food—no frills, no fuss, just classic dishes with a vegan twist. “I just want people to have a good time and understand that vegan is just not bean sprouts and salad,” Fitzpatrick tells me. After two decades of working a corporate job in healthcare, Fitzpatrick decided to pursue her lifelong dream of opening a restaurant in 2018. The catalyst for this sudden change? Fitzpatrick received a second cancer diagnosis, having first battled the disease in 2009. “I decided that I was going to become a vegan, and I wanted more of a holistic approach to healing my body,” she says.

The restaurant’s menu is deeply personal to Fitzpatrick and Soto; its dishes are equally rooted in family tradition and community inspiration. “I've taken a lot of my family recipes and made them vegan,” Fitzpatrick says. She mentions the restaurant’s iconic vegan crab cakes, which trace back to her grandmother’s original recipe. The edamame wontons have an equally nostalgic origin, inspired by a college classmate who would steam them at get–togethers. “I kind of just took that,” she says. “And I fry them. They’re a little crispier,” she adds with a smile.

As a vegetarian who can’t eat eggs, I’ll admit I’ve become critical of vegan cuisine. Too many times, I encounter dishes where plant–based ingredients seem to compromise flavor. As a result, I approach Fitz on 4th with apprehension, but any preconceived notions I have are (very gladly) proven wrong with the first bite. The perfectly crisp crab cakes, topped with a tangy za’atar, are utterly delicious—that seems to be the common consensus, as one staff member tells me that during his first few weeks working at the restaurant, the crab cakes were all he ate. For those craving something on the sweeter side, I recommend the delicata squash as a must–try. The slightest sharpness

from the sauce elevates the whole dish. The true test, though, is the mac and cheese—notoriously, a dish hard to imitate without dairy. To my most pleasant surprise though, I can’t even tell the dish is vegan! The mac and cheese has an amazing texture—a theme I find in common with all of the sampled food—and is my second–favorite dish I eat that evening, after the crab cakes, of course.

Since its opening in 2022, Fitz on 4th has worked to foster community through its food. The restaurant is filled with pieces from local Philly artists. They add to the modern rustic aesthetic Fitzpatrick credits her son Soto with curating. Beyond supporting local creatives and helping run fundraisers, Fitzpatrick has also found inspiration in that same community. Often, her staff and patrons have proffered ideas when she is developing new recipes, such as the rice paper dumplings she has been working to perfect. “I love how collaborative this process is,” she says. “I think that I’ve never been—and I pride myself on it—like ‘the chef knows everything.’”

Fitzpatrick sees her work as part of a larger mission. “With everything going on lately in the world, I do feel that we’re making a positive influence, not only on the environment, but the community that we’re in,” she reflects. She doesn’t view other vegan restaurants as competition either. “I feel like it’s a partnership, because we’re all saving the world and making people be better at their food choices.”

Though Fitzpatrick is an accomplished chef and restaurateur, when I asked what she was most proud of with the restaurant, her answer wasn’t about the food or accolades. “I think opening the business with my son, creating a legacy for my family,” she says. “I worked for a big corporation. They’re not going to put anything [about that] on my headstone. But I think that I really want to be remembered for putting a positive impact on my family and the community that I reside.”

The restaurant has already become a multigenerational family affair. Her two–year–old granddaughter Lily comes in often, even writing her own “prep list” in the back. “Lily has helped me roll pasta over the years and I could really see my grandkids coming here and helping prep and stuff like that,” Fitzpatrick says, her voice full of pride. In walking away from

corporate stability to build something with her son, Fitzpatrick has created something so much bigger than a restaurant.

“We just want somebody to come here, try our vegan food with an open mind, and go from there,” she says simply. Fitz on 4th is far from just a vegan restaurant. It’s a collaborative space, a piece of home when far from the real thing, and a place to get a great vegan meal. k

TL;DR

Fitz on 4th offers a touch of comfort with a vegan twist.

LOCATION

743 S. Fourth St.

PRICE HOURS

Dancerobot Serves Japanese Street Food on Philly’s Dining Table

The restaurant’s dynamic spunk leaves its mark near Rittenhouse Square.

BY JESSICA TOBES

Photos by Arina Axinia

Dancerobot isn’t a restaurant—at least, it doesn’t appear to be from the outside. Turn the corner of South 17th Street onto Sansom Street and you’ll understand. The location’s white exterior and smooth wooden doors contrast the brick buildings on both sides. Its neon–pink “dancerobot” sign offers the impression of a ’90s nightclub or an undercover cocktail bar. A little kid passing by echoes my curiosity, riding his scooter and stopping to point at Dancerobot with a look of awe. Both of us think of it as an anomaly.

The waiting area behind its wooden doors reveal a bit of its mystery. Guests become shrouded in a sharp purple light, and I’m welcomed with prints from Japanese cinema reminiscent of my childhood, from Studio Ghibli–like animations to live–action films like Godzilla. The poster wall echoes the retro theme of the restaurant’s sign, with each handpicked straight from Japan by the head chef himself, as a hostess conveys to me.

But once our server pulls back the curtain dividing the waiting and dining areas, my nostalgia becomes replaced by further surprise. The dining area stands as a stark contrast to the entrance of the restaurant. Its classical, modern feel—aided by golden–framed mirrors and ornamental lighting—echoes the environment of a business–formal Wharton dinner, while the front offers vibes of a retro speakeasy. Both are chic and lively.

Despite the sophisticated atmosphere, I’m practically yelling at my server. On a Wednesday night, every seat is filled with family dinners, first dates, and casual get–togethers. I hold onto the few words I can hear from our server as I scan over the menu. Given the family–style Japanese comfort cuisine, a recommendation of two plates per person is standard.

I start with their coffee–yuzu tonic. The bitterness from the caffeine mixed with the sour kick of the tonic leaves a refreshing taste; the perfect pick–me–up for the inevitable late–night study sessions that come with midterm season. If there’s cause for celebration, though, don’t be discouraged—their drink options outnumber their food. A mix of classic American pale ales and authentic Japanese sakes reflect the Japanese American cuisine.

This theme grows as our appetizers roll out. The nasu dengaku—one of our server’s top picks—offers an unexpected sweet and soft taste.

Slices of fried eggplant are drizzled with sesame seeds in a sweet miso glaze, and the bite–sized dish leaves an earthy flavor on my tongue.

Next comes a gift from the chef: their signature kare pan. Its seasoned, crunchy look is reminiscent of an oversized fried mozzarella ball. Though its colossal appearance suggests that the bun is stuffed with meat, slicing into it reveals only a creamy, thin layer of beef coating its interior, a pleasing contrast to the crunch of its shell.

Still, the last appetizer becomes the mutual highlight of Street photographer Arina Axinia’s and my meals, both for its unique flavor and its aesthetic appearance on camera. The age takoyaki holds up to its reputation as a staple of Japanese street food. The fried octopus balls are complemented well with the chef’s signature shallot sauce, and the simultaneous fishlike and meaty flavor balances the airy crunch of its confetti–thin shallot flakes. I’m taken back to the time I visited Osaka, Japan with my family, eating authentic takoyaki at the dinner table now like I did sitting on a Japanese side street two summers ago.

I don’t have much time to digest before the main courses came out. However, by the time Arina and I finish snapping pictures of every angle of each dish, I am ready to eat.

The first entree, the Hamburg steak, is a bit underwhelming following the age takoyaki. Though the Wagyu patty is tender and juicy, it lacks the unique kick of the previous dishes provided.

However, the menchi katsu sando offers a comeback with its Japanese spin on your average American burger. If the combo of a breaded pork–and–beef cutlet doesn’t entice you enough, the red cabbage adds a welcome crunch to the soft texture of the patty, and everything is united by a savory tartar sauce.

Taking a break midway through the sando, I take in the environment. A couple holds hands on the table in front of me. Their hands are right underneath a framed vintage Japanese album, one of many lined on the restaurant’s walls. To my left, an old couple checking their bill catch my wandering eyes and strike up a conversation with me.

They are natives to the Philly food scene, and it is also their first visit after hearing that Jesse Ito, the chef and owner of their favorite neigh borhood diner Royal Sushi & Ikazaya, opened a

new restaurant near Rittenhouse Square with co–owner Justin Bacharach. Lovers of Japanese culture themselves—having visited Japan many times—they explore any opportunity to find bits of Japan in Philly. To them, Dancerobot hits the mark.

“It’s different—it’s energetic,” they relay to me while leaving their table.

I let that sentiment sit with me until I sign my check and stand to leave. That last word— energetic—encapsulates Dancerobot’s restaurant status. Bridging the gap between Japanese and American cooking, the balance of nostalgia and novelty in both its atmosphere and cuisine leaves me feeling revitalized. I exit Dancerobot with the energy I felt before entering—an excitement for the diverse dynamics this restaurant now offers to Philly’s food scene. k

Dancerobot smashes together chic and retro vibes with its Japanese American comfort cuisine.

LOCATION

1710 Sansom St.

Woke Brunch (and Other Comfort Foods)

At Sam’s Morning Glory Diner, the coffee’s hot, the eggs are runny, and the politics are loud.

BY SOPHIA MIRABAL

Photos by Jackson Ford

Can I get the ‘Impeach Bondi Then Eat Eggs Benedict Florentine,’ please?” I ask our waiter, who nods, expression unchanged. My fellow brunchgoer across the table follows suit: “And I’ll do the ‘Good Work Krasner! Berry Good French Toast.’” A wise choice, nestled just between the equally spirited “Impeach Noem” pumpkin pancakes and the “Shapiro 2028” sausage gravy and eggs.

Morning Glory’s unapologetically political specials are just one slice of its charm. The rest lies in its warmth manifested in antique flo-

ral wallpaper and the aroma of brewed coffee. We’re seated in the diner’s narrow front corridor within full view of the grill—its line cooks frying up something delicious, flipping, whisking, and chuckling between long sips of joe. Sun pours through the windows, catching the metal of the counter and the backs of chairs.

The rattle of plates and idle conversation floats in the air as I stir cream into my own cup and glance toward the patio. Sitting there, in a faded lawn chair, is a life–sized Donald Trump doll—dressed in an orange jumpsuit, wrapped

in chains, a straw sombrero sitting on his equally orange head. He’s joined by a small chorus of other relics: a hand–drawn image of “Donny Pooper Head,” the crude outline of a hanger crossed out with “Never Again” scrawled above it, a lineup of weather–bleached protest posters, and Josh Shapiro campaign signs leaning against the wall like sentinels.

Sam’s Morning Glory Diner, a local institution in its own right, was founded in 1998 by Sam Mickey and ran under her direction until her death in 2012. Her mom, Carol Mickey, has kept

the place alive ever since. “She was one of those people that did everything,” Carol Mickey says, laughing at the memory of suggesting Sam attend restaurant school. “She said, ‘If they called it anything but school I’d go!’” She recounts the diner’s early days, when her daughter painted the walls herself and tested every recipe by hand. Sam Mickey, who was severely dyslexic, taught herself to cook by writing out each recipe by hand until she understood them.

According to Carol Mickey, South Philly didn’t look a whole lot different in ’98 than it does now—a little more grey, but still stitched together by corner bars, awful parking, the soft hiss of a grill, and the sweet smell of onions and bread. Mickey laughs, “When she said she was going to open and what her menu was going to be, they said, ‘No french fries, no cheesesteaks. You’ll never make it.’” And so Morning Glory was born, a sunny breakfast spot serving banana bread french toast and original sausage gravy, preceding other local brunch fixtures like Sabrina’s and Honey’s—the first of its kind in the area.

Decades later, the place has hardly changed: the same cooks in the kitchen, the same regulars. There’s an easy permanence here, and from Mickey’s wry, unstartled disposition, it’s clear this place is a kind of chosen family. She tells me about a kid who started working at 12 and still comes in every Sunday with his wife, about the three brothers who’ve held down the back line for years, and about her own grandchildren who now pick up shifts behind the counter. “We just keep it in family, keeping [Sam’s] memory alive.”

Food is served—a heaping plate of french toast and two picturesque poached eggs with spinach and yellow hollandaise. It smells warm, like salt and butter and something slightly lemoned. The benedict is accompanied by a side of herby, golden home fries, and I’m quick to slather my plate in the house hot sauce. I drag my fork through the yolk and watch as it runs down its bed of grilled ham and buttered toast. The first bite is bright, then heavy, and insists on a second.

I’m nearly halfway through my breakfast before I eye the towering plate of french toast before me. It could pass for cake—a generous helping of whipped berry cream cheese, thick as frosting, between two thick slices of grilled challah. The compote on top is a deep, sticky blue, oozing down the crust in ribbons. It tastes exactly how it looks: dense, warm, sweet. The cream

cheese catches on the roof of my mouth, subtly sour, cutting the sugar just enough to convince me it’s breakfast. I reach for the salty side of bacon before resigning to my food coma. The diner’s chatter lowers to a contented hum.

Despite its loud personality, Morning Glory wasn’t always the firebrand it is today. When asked if the diner’s stance was deliberate from the start, Mickey replies, “It started in 2016.” Her answer needs no further explanation. Despite the semi–recent turn, it wasn’t long before the diner’s bravado caught the attention of the state.

“We just got louder and louder,” Mickey says. “And then we got a phone call: It was the attorney general’s office. At the time, we had a big cartoon of [Jeff] Sessions, who was the federal attorney general. And I said, ‘I’m not taking my cartoon down.’” Shortly after, Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro caught wind of Morning Glory’s reputation and decided to visit the diner to oppose a proposal by the Trump administration jeopardizing employee tips. “After the press conference, I said to him, ‘Why us, out of every place in Pennsylvania?’ He said, ‘You have the biggest mouth.’” Mickey chuckles. She knows it’s true and shows no signs of stopping—despite how much flak the diner takes from the neighbors.

“We had a big giant area sign [saying] ‘Vote the Fuckers Out!’ on Tenth Street. Some guys came over and said, ‘Did you have to use that word?’ I said, ‘I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t fit “motherfuckers,”’” she laughs. “I thought he was gonna have a stroke.”

She goes on to describe several other skirmishes, from the friendly fellow who patrols the diner’s street early each morning to scream obscenities at its window to the anonymous crusaders who hacked the diner’s website and tanked its social media accounts. In the hum of that backlash (and the rather colorful décor that surrounds us) I can’t help but wonder if that’s the reaction she counts on. “When you get to a certain age, you don't worry what others say,” Mickey says. “I am who I am. We make a lot of money. People are coming, they don’t come— we’re doing fine.”

Morning Glory’s fortified longevity lets it take such a strong stance; the hate just fans the fire. If diners once symbolized a neutral, apolitical Americana—chrome counters, black coffee, and an unprovocative quiet—Morning Glory reshapes that mythology. There’s no mission state-

ment, according to Mickey, but a public space adopted for conviction is just another version of activism. “You have expectations of what that diner is going to be,” she says.

It’s a philosophy that sits somewhere between inclusivity and defiance—the diner is its own self–defined entity. After a while, the slogans and dangling effigies, even the menu’s callouts, begin to feel more like scenery.

“When people visit Morning Glory, what message do you want them to walk away with?” I ask, finally. Mickey’s answer is simple, a sly smile pulling at the corner of her mouth: “That they found a new place to have breakfast.” k

Politically charged classic brunch food—what more can we say?

LOCATION

735 S. Tenth St.

PRICE

HOURS

Monday–Friday .................. 8 a.m.–2 p.m. Saturday–Sunday ............ 8 a.m.–3 p.m.

DESIGN BY ALEX NAGLER DINING GUIDE 2025

The Lodge Come Stay a While at

Philadelphia staple Two Robbers Spirits Co. tries its hand at a new location.

BY KAYLA OWUSU

Photos by Grace Chen

Two months ago, The Lodge by Two Robbers opened its doors in the Bella Vista neighborhood.

Though the location is new, the reputation of Two Robbers isn’t. Since 2019, Two Robbers Spirits Co. has been serving the Philadelphia community with its iconic hard seltzers featur-

ing unique flavors like Cara Cara Orange and Sweet Gold Pineapple. In 2022, the company opened its first restaurant location in Fishtown, a classic cocktail–and–burger joint, and has seen great success. Now, it has a new mission: Bring its food—and a new home—to a wider Philadelphia crowd.

Upon entering, the dark wooden interior and warm lighting are immediately noticeable, simulating the feeling of being in an actual lodge in the countryside. For a moment, one can escape the stress that comes with living in the city. Instead, patrons are immersed in the welcoming aroma of different seasonings, the joyful but

indistinct conversations, and the faint melodies of ’80s rock music. If you arrive at a particularly auspicious hour as I did, you may even be greeted with “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” by Talking Heads—a clear signifier that The Lodge is the place to be.

While The Lodge expands on the legacy of Two Robbers by introducing different staples of American dishes (and one Canadian dish!), its driving attraction has always been the drinks. The beverage catalog ranges from classics like the espresso martini to canned vodka sodas, beer on tap, and specialty cocktails and mocktails. Lovers of sweets may gravitate toward the ube–and–coconut cocktail: a mixed drink of lemongrass, coconut water, ube, and premium in–house vodka made from French winter wheat. Or, if you’re like me, you may be partial to the ginger highball, which packs a heavy punch on the first sip, then soothes with the lingering taste of lime. The best thing about the drink? It only gets better as the ice melts. The worst thing? You’ll finish it too quickly and are left wanting more.

From the appetizers, I’d recommend ordering the fried pickles. Perfectly crispy and sweet, the fried pickles are the best snack to stimulate our palates without filling us up too much. The Caesar salad, while good on its own accord, has no distinctive feel or taste from any other Caesar salad. So, if you like sticking with what you know, it’s the appetizer for you.

From the main dishes, the smash burger is my personal favorite. The burger melds salty and savory flavors, and every bite is tender. I am less of a fan of the smash burger’s just–as–famous counterpart, the pub burger. As opposed to the smash burger’s thin and crispy patty complemented by American cheese, the pub burger features a rich, thick cut of beef and a slice of gruyère. While the pub burger is tender and juicy, I find it too salty, especially where the grease concentrates at the bottom. For Canada enthusiasts, the menu offers poutine as well. I find it to be a little salty, though not overwhelmingly so. The gravy is nicely distributed across the fries, and the cheese pull is extremely satisfying.

The most interesting thing about The Lodge, though, is the people that make up its community. I have the pleasure of speaking with the general manager, Lexi Stahl, who has been with Two Robbers since 2022, working as a bartender

at its Fishtown location before being promoted. She expresses excitement about what’s to come for The Lodge, particularly because of its distinct vibe from other bars in Philadelphia and its growing community involvement. During my visit to The Lodge, the bar has been hosting a group of high school students from the nearby Palumbo High School for an after–game dinner. The restaurant plans on hosting more events for community groups as well. Lexi also expresses that, overall, she values good service. “I’ll always give a place another chance if my service was really great,” she says. “But I won’t go back to a place if the food was five stars when my service was horrible.”

Her doctrine is accurately reflected in the workers of The Lodge, who express great care for what they do during our conversations. Dan Keefer, for example, is a 36–year–old bartender from Bucks County, Pa. and has been in the service industry for nearly two decades. At work, Keefer explains that he has to read people’s energy and analyze social interactions to be able to do his job effectively. It’s not a job everyone can do and requires a lot of emotional labor, and sometimes leaves him feeling like a performer. To deal, Dan says he treats every drink “like a meditation,” being intentional about every beverage he makes.

Executive chef Scott Moore reveals to me his adoration for cooking after growing up in a large family with cooks. Scott finds importance in taking what he has learned and giving back to others. The Lodge has allowed him to do just that—finding joy in cooking for patrons and experimenting with their upcoming expansion of the menu. When he gets stressed, Scott puts into practice “mise en place,” a culinary term that means “everything in place,” and involves getting all the ingredients and utensils together before cooking. He says that he finds himself growing—even possibly retiring with—The Lodge and looks forward to learning from his mistakes and improving his craft.

Last, I spoke to Chanel Bond, a server at The Lodge, who has been in the service industry for 15 years and owns a catering business. Being a people person, she knows how to read a room. Naturally, she’s bubbly and talkative, but if she notices a customer wants to be left alone, she has no problem doing so. She describes The Lodge as a “hidden gem,” but acknowledges the lack of

people of color who visit the restaurant, which she attributes to its location. With more marketing and adding more items to the menu, Chanel believes The Lodge could attract a more diverse crowd in the future.

If you’re looking for a new, homey dining spot in Philadelphia, The Lodge may be the place for you. Enjoy the classic comfort food, the low hum of music, the creative drinks, and the guaranteed good service. Strike a conversation with your server, learn about their culinary background, and maybe find a new way to manage your stress. Whatever you come for, just know you’ll leave far more fulfilled than when you arrived. k

TL;DR

Two Robbers has expanded to Bella Vista with this comfortably classic bar.

LOCATION

738 S. 11th St.

PRICE

HOURS

Sunday .............................. 12 p.m.–8 p.m. Monday .................................................. Closed Tuesday–Wednesday .... 4 p.m.–10 p.m. Thursday–Friday ............ 4 p.m. –12 a.m. Saturday ......................... 12 p.m. –12 a.m.

DESIGN BY INSIA HAQUE DINING GUIDE 2025

Marsha’s Makes America Gay Again

Whether you love the women or the sports, Marsha’s has space for everyone.

BY NORAH RAMI

Photos by Areebah Ahmed

At 3 p.m. on a Saturday, the bar at Marsha’s is completely full. Killing Eve plays on one screen, Auburn University football on another, and the rest of the TVs broadcast the Philadelphia Flyers beating the New York Islanders 4–3. At the center of all the screaming and chatter is a portrait of Marsha P. Johnson beneath a gay American flag, watching over Philly’s newest

sports bar like a patron saint.

Marsha’s markets itself as both a women’s sports bar and a queer safe space. Having recently opened on Sept. 19, the bar replaced the classic Philly sports bar The Wooly Mammoth. Marsha’s reimagines the essence of the testosterone–filled sports bar, taking women and queer folks off the sidelines and creating a space of comfort and inclusion. Last week, it hosted

a lesbian bingo night, which is simply “normal bingo but for us,” according to general manager Rylann Murphy. This afternoon, a middle–aged man and a lesbian couple discuss the weaknesses of Auburn’s current roster; meanwhile, a straight couple watches the Flyers next to two gay men presumably on a first date.

“It’s like a little bit of everything for everybody,” founder Chivonn Anderson says. “It’s

more of a safe space for people to go and just feel comfortable being their authentic selves.”

Murphy says that they’re willing to hand people the remote and put on whatever people might be interested in watching—one time, someone came in looking to watch women’s pickleball. But because women’s sports have historically received less attention from mainstream sports networks, Marsha’s is still in the process of collecting various obscure channels and streaming subscriptions, guaranteeing that it can stream any game at any time.

“We welcome anyone as long as they’re nice,” Murphy says. There’s a certain political message in using classically American aesthetics for a bar catering specifically to women and queer folks. At its core, Marsha’s, as the name signals, creates a space that draws from the United States’ history of queer resistance. Not long after Marsha’s opened, Jay Toole, a Stonewall survivor and an old friend of Johnson, flew up from Florida to visit the bar. “You have to pay respect to your elders,” Murphy says, who went upstairs to cry after meeting Toole.

Right above where we sit is a poster from the recent No Kings protests. Murphy doesn’t know where it came from—it just kind of showed up. They decided to integrate it into the decor, directly in the sightline of Johnson’s central portrait.

“Being able to open this space was very important because of the climate that we’re in,” Anderson says. Women’s sports, long a touchstone of the right’s new culture war, have been placed under heavy scrutiny by the Trump administration. “Trans women are women. Trans women deserve to participate in sports just like any other athletes—same thing with trans men,” Anderson adds.

Anderson came out when she was 15 years old in the mid ’90s. She and her friends would frequent the Tower Records and Blockbuster on South Street. “I can see my 17–year–old self wandering down South Street going into a store to buy my prom outfit, and then almost 30 years later to be someone who owns a building on that street, and for it to be kind of like a historic space for the city, is just kind of unreal and overwhelming,” Anderson says. “Like a dream come true that I didn’t know was actually possible.”

Owning the building and a liquor license is a special point of pride for Anderson, especially at a time when many lesbian and queer bars are disappearing across the country. “Usually, the reason why these bars close is because they can’t

afford to pay their bills, and that’s not necessarily because they don’t have the customers coming. There’s just things that are happening on the back end that you don’t have control over,” Anderson says. “And for us, owning the building, owning the liquor license and everything, means we have more control over our building.”

Marsha’s sets itself apart in the Philly bar scene through the community it creates. Its menu only extends its central goal of queering Americana. The bulk of the menu consists of elevated stadium classics, prepared by head chef Veronica Badillo. Almost everything Marsha’s serves can be eaten with your hands and ordered for the table. Messy sports food is a tried and true staple (and my favorite part of the Super Bowl), so Marsha’s adopts the classic menu items you might expect at any sports gathering.

We share a plate of “Touchdown Totchos,” a surprisingly spicy upgrade from your classic loaded taters. Already topped with spring onions, tomatoes, and sour cream, Badillo also decided to add an addictive jalapeño nacho cheese to the tots. The cauliflower bites are another great order for the table. Crispy on the outside and soft inside, the bites themselves are flavored with ranch seasoning—and while I’m personally a buffalo sauce addict, they’re flavorful enough in their own right. We also tried out Marsha’s house–made potato chips with french onion dip, as well as its Pickle Dog topped with house–made pickled onions. Unlike at your classic stadium, however, print managing editor Jules Lingenfelter would have a chance to eat plenty at Marsha’s—that’s another way of saying most dishes can be made vegan.

The cocktails on bar are the brainchildren of head barista Whitney Zimmerman. I am handed the Toxic Femme martini, consisting of tequila, lemon, melon liquor, and fresh mint. Neon green and sporting a fun name, the drink has a sour–sweet taste, just like that femme who broke your heart. Alongside Bloodpact, a gin–based cocktail, the Toxic Femme Martini is part of the bar’s current Halloween–themed of ferings. It plans to rotate the cocktails and beers on offer throughout the year, though the Toxic Femme might stay around if enough people like her (doesn’t she always).

The process of running a restaurant is a lot like being part of a sports team, Anderson says as a veteran of the restaurant industry. Anderson met her business partner, Trish Eichelberger, 20 years ago while working at Alamo Drafthouse. In the past, however, Anderson notes that all the

restaurants she’s been part of have been owned and operated by white, cisgender, straight men.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. But I was like, we need to kind of start our own kind of queer restaurant group,” Anderson, who imagines Marsha’s expanding and potentially becoming a franchise, says.

“I love my job. I’ve been in hospitality since I was 14,” Murphy, who studied journalism in school, says. “We love what we do and we love making people happy—and I’m not just saying that for a good sweet quote.” k

Marsha's reimagines the classic American sports bar, but with women and queerness on center court.

LOCATION

430 South St.

Casa BorinqueñaServes Up Sunshine!

This family–owned restaurant is putting a plant–based twist on classic Puerto Rican cuisine.

BY JULES LINGENFELTER

Photos by Jackson Ford

Tucked on the corner of Amber Street and Frankford Avenue in East Kensington sits Casa Borinqueña. Starting her career on the West Coast in San Francisco, Lourdes Marquez Nau—aka Chef Lulu—has since brought her skills to the streets of Philadelphia, opening the second location of her vegan restaurant back in June. Specializing in traditional Puerto Rican cuisine, the restaurant has a certain warmth that even a dreary East Coast day can’t take away.

Inside, the walls are painted orange, lime green, tender yellow, and aqua. Traditional Puerto Rican flags and one recolored rainbow hang from the restaurant’s large front windows, with sunlight streaming through and filling the space with a multicolored glow. The space itself is small, featuring a few two–person tables and a wooden bar that acts as a more casual lunch counter.

When we step into the restaurant, most chairs are already filled. Marquez Nau leans against the wall, talking with her customers. At the counter, her son Wendell introduces himself to us and points us to an empty spot at the bar we can set up at. Soft, rhythmic music plays in the background. Bright paintings from local artists decorate any empty vertical space, while plants fill up the horizontal space with name tags attached to each of their pots.

“They’re named after each of our employees,” Marquez Nau explains. Her own namesake is a healthy aloe vera. “Everyone takes care of their own plant,” she laughs. Casa Borinqueña is a family business with a homey atmosphere permeating every corner.

Growing up in Brooklyn, N.Y. surrounded by Puerto Rican culture, Marquez Nau sought to bring light to the traditional dishes that were integral to her childhood. After adopting a vegan diet during the COVID–19 pandemic, she began to develop innovative plant–based techniques for making the dishes she grew up with. “I needed to be able to still enjoy the food that was culturally important to me,” she says. Thus came about Casa Borinqueña—a restaurant with a vegan twist on Puerto Rican cuisine.

The menu is relatively small, offering seven appetizers, one main sampler plate with a choice of protein, and a few side options. The food is served in brown cardboard boxes, aid-

ing the casual feeling of the restaurant.

We begin with the sampler plate, opting for the BBQ Chkn pinchos—marinated meat skewers—as our protein. The plate also comes with arroz con gandules, a side salad, and maduros. The rice works as a good, well–seasoned base, the side salad offers a light splash of spring mix dressed with a vinaigrette, and the plantains are perfectly caramelized, with a sweet crunch on the outside that gives way to a tender inside. The pinchos, however, are the clear star of the ensemble—thin–cut Chkn pieces spiraled around two wooden skewers and glazed with a generous helping of tangy barbecue sauce that melded spice and sweetness.

The appetizers, Marquez Nau explains, are her takes on popular Puerto Rican street foods. The pastelillos are fried turnovers filled with a healthy portion of spiced Impossible beef wrapped in a thin pastry shell. The alcapurria is reminiscent of a beef and vegetable fritter, deep fried to a dark golden color with a particular crisp to it. Perhaps the only disappointment of the meal is the pasteles. Sharing some similarities with tamales, pasteles are made by wrapping root vegetables and meat (in this case, Beyond steak) in banana leaves and boiling them. Flavor–wise, however, the appetizer leaves much to be desired, not quite packing the punch everything else achieved.

By far our favorite dish was the relleno de papa. The potato croquette features an Impossible beef, onion, and chickpea filling marinated with olives, all of which gives the dish a distinct, toasted–tomato flavor. The thick potato layer is delicately crispy on the outside yet retains its pillowy softness right beneath the surface.

Working within the realm of veganism is no easy feat—and it is an even harder challenge to sell it to non–vegans. For Marquez Nau, this is precisely the goal. She hopes to inspire an “Oh, wow! I can’t believe this is vegan” reaction from patrons. While I am more than willing to give the restaurant a gold star as a vegan myself, Street photographer Kenny Chen can’t help but exclaim, “I didn’t know vegan food could be this good!” as we polish off the remaining crumbs of our meal. Street Multimedia Editor Jackson Ford similarly voices a disbelief that this food really was completely plant–based.

While located a bit off the beaten path from campus, Casa Borinqueña is a real bright spot for vegans and non–vegans alike. The restaurant offers not just delicious food, but friendly faces and an immediate sense of community. Stop inside for a quick to–go bite or sit down and spend a bit of time in this created paradise. Either way, Marquez Nau is excited that “people are getting to know us.” k

TL;DR

Plant–based Puerto Rican street food that you will make you say, “Wow, I can't believe this is vegan!”

(15% student discount with ID) PRICE

HOURS

Monday .................................................. Closed Tuesday–Thursday .......... 10 a.m.–8 p.m. Friday–Saturday ................. 10 a.m.–9 p.m. Sunday ....................................10 a.m.–6 p.m.

DESIGN BY INSIA HAQUE DINING GUIDE 2025

Finding a New Home with

the Mayflower

With no relation to the ship, this Cantonese bakery offers a sweet slice of comfort in the heart of Philly’s bustling Chinatown.

BY JASON ZHAO

Photos by Matthew Quitoriano

The ringing of twin copper bells held together by a thin length of red string announces our arrival to Mayflower Bakery. On this sunny Friday morning, the back of the restaurant has been converted (to the grudging acceptance of the owners) into a makeshift mahjong parlor. While the bakery doesn’t serve dim sum in the traditional sense, Cantonese folks around the world know that dim sum is more about the lifestyle—sustained by free–flowing tea, snacks, and gossip. A proudly local establishment at the heart of Philly’s Chinatown, this cash–only bakery doesn’t advertise or deliver—choosing instead to sit comfortably atop its impeccable buns.

A warm, lightly sweet aroma wafts from the kitchen. Strong enough to knock you over, its arrival is announced on enormous iron trays of fresh–baked pastries of every color and taste—from savory meat floss rolls to milky sweet custard buns. A dazzling array of colored cakes and other sweets also decorate the display case. These treats distinguish themselves more by texture than taste—some fluffy and airy, others dense and indulgent. To wash it all down, the shop pours a fantastic Hong Kong–style milk tea, which is aerated by “pulling” the tea—back and forth, cup to cup, from up high.

I order the pineapple bun—named for its sweet, cracked, pineapple–looking shell but containing no actual pineapple. The bun is still hot out of the oven as I bite into the golden–yellow cookie layer on top with a satisfying crunch

and am pleasantly surprised to find it to be richly sweet without being greasy. My only disappointment is that the buns are not served with a slice of butter inside, the way I remember enjoying them in Hong Kong. The curry chicken turnover (another Hong Kong staple) has cooled somewhat by the time I eat it, but the filling is generous, flavorful, and protected by a wonderfully flaky shell. The highlight, however, is the egg tart, which is filled with a smooth and surprisingly light custard. I could have eaten at least a thousand!

Finished with my afternoon tea, I chat with the staff about the origin of the bakery’s name. Mayflower … perhaps some connection to the ship that famously transported the Pilgrims to America? The kindly Cantonese aunties I speak with are not exactly WASPs, but maybe they feel some commonality in the immigrant experience? “Not at all,” they reply. It is a pretty flower with an English name that rolls off the tongue. Simple enough. This is not a high–concept establishment with a lengthy origin story behind each and every dish. Instead of a leather–bound folio, the menu is slapped on the wall with big red block letters in a font last used for ’90s TVB serials. That said, it probably won’t win any James Beard Awards or attract influencers looking to see and be seen with their favorite Labubu.

In the end, that’s what makes Mayflower Bakery special: People light up when they walk in, fresh off a smoke break at the restaurant next door. One holds the door open for a partner of 30

years with a smile; another shares their excitement about a new job with the rest of the bakery.

In the half hour we’re there, we see people from all walks of life. The pastries may be uniquely Cantonese, but sitting there in the morning sun, we find it’s hard not to feel at home—regardless of how your reflection looks in the wall–length mirror that’s just there to make the small space feel larger. k

LOCATION

1008 Race St.

Entirely unassuming, the Mayflower Bakery is serving up sweet and savory Cantonese pastries to all. $ PRICE

Struggle Meals

It is 9 p.m. I have not slept in more than 24 hours. The sterile, yellow light of Huntsman Hall follows me as I walk to my dorm after a particularly brutal accounting exam that was nothing like the practice tests we were given. Each step I take is equal parts defeat and caffeine, my body still shaking from the too many cans of Peach Vibe Celsius I downed to get through the day.

At home, I pull out my leftover chicken bowl from lunch. It’s cold and congealed, the lettuce wilted, the rice hard. I grab the vodka. A few shots, a splash of olive juice, and whatever ice is left in my freezer. I give it a nice shake, making sure to get my frustration out. I sit at my desk in silence, eating my sad chicken bowl and sipping my martini, reflecting on the poor decisions that led me here. The meal feels analogous to my experience at Penn—classy with just the right amount of desperation.

We all have struggle meals. They are the culinary equivalent of survival instincts—sometimes a taste of home, other times a simple numbing ritual. Either way, they are small, salty reminders that we are still holding it all together, even in the thick of never–ending midterms, when sleep is more of a luxury than a guarantee.

We asked Street writers to bring in their struggle meals, either as inspiration for when you next crash out over whether consulting is the right path or just as a sign that you’re not alone in eating cold leftovers and calling it self–care.

— Jackson Ford, Street multimedia editor

Expensive locally roasted coffee beans (preferably ground at home and only right before brewing a cup), bummed pack of Marlboro Reds, stolen collectible edition Bic lighter: What can I say? They don’t pay writers well these days.

— Jules Lingenfelter, print managing editor

Photos by Jackson Ford and Areebah Ahmed, design by Alex Nagler

Power on the old rice cooker (1 cup rice to 1.5 cup water!) and stir in some soy sauce, enough to make the rice brown. Fry two eggs in olive oil, slide on top, and drizzle some chili oil. (A little bit goes a long way. Don’t be like my friend who put a spoonful of chili oil and paid the price for it). Mix.

— Laura Gao, staff writer

My struggle meal is Celsius from the Grommons fridge aisle, a Wawa pretzel, cheap(ish) cigarettes, and a lighter that most definitely isn’t mine.

— Sophia Mirabal, Music editor

My struggle meal is açai blueberry pomegranate Vitaminwater from our lovely office vending machines; a brown sugar cinnamon pop tart from Grommons that gets me through the day; and lastly, my Eastern European special: pita bread cut into slices with smoked black peppered salami on top, almost like a pizza sandwich.

— Arina Axinia, Social Media editor

For this bougie bovine Buldak, you’ll need Buldak carbonara, Grommons shredded cheese, thinly sliced baby bella mushrooms, even more thinly sliced green onions, as many eggs as humanly possible, and Kewpie mayo (bonus egg within). Using a roommate’s pot, boil what looks like enough water to cook your noodles, mushrooms, and eggs. In a bowl, mix the sauce package—all of it, embrace the spice—the carbonara powder, Kewpie mayo (eyeballed), and one raw egg. Whisk it (with a fork, because who owns a whisk?) until homogenous. Add some boiling noodle water from the pot to cook that raw egg a bit.

Once the seven minutes have elapsed, strain most of the water out and add the pot’s contents to a bowl. Peel the soft boiled eggs, force them into the bowl, and sprinkle cheese and green onions on top. Enjoy.

— Insia Haque, Design editor

Recipe: Contains three eggs drunkenly whipped with a pair of chopsticks, salt and pepper (some), light soy sauce, dark soy sauce (evil), hoisin sauce, and takeout rice forgotten in the back of your refrigerator.

—

Jason Zhao, staff writer

Take It to the Streets

What To Do in Philly This Month

This month: holiday spirit,

art workshops, and clubbing

Going to college in Philly, we’re so often bombarded—on social media and in real life—with seemingly endless options of how to spend our free time. So I’m delighted to announce that Street has done the hard part for you: We’ve rounded up what we think are the can’t–miss events for the month in one convenient place. If I’ve done my job right, there’ll be something in here for every one of our readers, no matter what you like to do with your free time.

Jules Lingenfelter, print managing editor

Nov. 20: When We Breathe: from Taixi to Chester @ Public Trust

Work alongside soundscape artist Hong–Kai Wang at this free workshop. A part of a larger exhibition planned for 2026, Wang is searching to understand the harm of environmental toxicity through the lens of impacted communities.

Free, 6:30 p.m., 4017 Walnut St.

Nov. 21: Emo Nite @ Underground Arts

Were you heavy handed with the black eyeliner in middle school? Do you have a visceral, sleeper–agent–level reaction to the G note on a piano? Did you feel any type of way about the Phan reveal? If so, you belong at Emo Nite. Join the killjoys and car crash hearts and return to your roots.

Tickets start at $23.40, 9 p.m., 1200 Callowhill St.

Nov. 21: Lockpick Night @ Wooden Shoe Books

Whether you’re a novice or stole the jewels from the Louvre, freshen up on your lock picking skills at this free workshop hosted by the anarchist bookstore Wooden Shoe Books. You never know when these skills will come in handy.

21+, Free, 6 p.m., 704 South St.

Nov. 22: Twilight in Concert @ The Met Philadelphia

Nov. 14: Sexual Purity @ Johnny Brenda’s

A night spent at Johnny Brenda’s is always a night well spent. Don’t miss Sexual Purity’s one–night residency at this Fishtown staple. A sonically hypnotic force, this electronic music duo will rock your world with their exploration of darker themes while keeping things light enough to party. 21+, $22.90–$28.65, 8 p.m., 1201 Frankford Ave.

Nov. 18: Heathers (1988) @ PhilaMOCA

If you feel like you were born in the wrong generation, this showing of Heathers is for you. Nowhere is as fitting a venue for such a film as a former mausoleum showroom, and while the film won’t be shown on its original 35mm, this is the closest to the original viewing experience as you may get.

Tickets start at $18.15, 7:30 p.m., 531 N. 12th St.

Is there anything more invoking of rainy grey days, sparkly skin, and metaphors of lions and lambs in love than the opening nights of “Bella’s Lullaby”? Twilight in Concert brings to life the nostalgic soundtrack of the vampiric saga, with a live band playing the music while the film plays on a cinema screen. For all of our fellow Twi–hards, indulge in your deepest middle school dreams.

Tickets start at $54, 7:30 p.m., 858 N. Broad St.

Nov. 22–Dec. 24: Christmas Village @ LOVE Park and City Hall

Once a year, Philly’s City Hall transforms into a winter wonderland. Set up as a traditional, German–style open–air market, passersby are able to shop from local vendors and indulge in the likes of strudels and hot cider. There’s no better way to attempt to destress from finals or get into the holiday spirit than a romp through this Christmas Village.

Free, Sundays–Thursdays from 12–8 p.m., Fridays–Saturdays from 12–9 p.m., 1500 Arch St.

Nov. 27: Thanksgiving Day Parade @ Center City

Since 1920, Philly’s Thanksgiving Day Parade has been a staple in the city’s holiday season. The parade begins at the intersection of 20th Street and John F. Kennedy Boulevard and marches on for nearly one–and–a–half miles. With an incredible collection of bands and inflatable floats, this parade is sure to get you ready for turkey day. Watch it live, or, if you’re heading home for the excuse of a break Penn gives us, stream it online at 6abc Action News. Free, 8:15 a.m., John F. Kennedy Boulevard and N. 16th St.

Dec. 1: Young Culture and Wakelee @ Ukie Club

Do you want to spend a night watching bands that everyone else is too uncool to have heard of? Well, get your musical superiority complex ready and head down to the Ukie Club for Young Culture and Wakelee’s performance. And someday soon, you can say you knew them before they were popular.

$21.63, 7:30 p.m., 847 N. Franklin St.

Dec. 3: Open Studio @ The Common Press

Located right here on campus, in the basement of Fisher Fine Arts Library, are ye olde printing presses. Better yet, they’re open to student use. You won’t want to miss this demonstration on printing broadsides, and you’ll walk away with your own poster discussing the history of lighting in America. Free, 2 p.m., 220 S. 34th St.

WIn Case You Were ‘Wonder’ -ing

Wonder is all over Philly all of a sudden. It’s got big plans, and they seem pretty grim.

BY ETHAN SUN

Photo by Chenyao Liu

hile we were away from Penn for the summer, a Wonder food hall was setting up shop across the street. It opened this past September on Walnut Street, nestled between a Sweetgreen and a Bank of America. The storefront features eight meager white tables, clustered to the left–hand side. The remaining area is effectively a waiting room, featuring a long, lonely expanse of vinyl wood planks. This view is interrupted only by a pair of five–tier shelves for delivery and pickup orders and two counters, where you can order your food from a tablet while discussing your options with a green–aproned staff member. The kitchen is out of sight, out of mind. Wonder arrived on the Philly scene this past spring, given some extra oomph by a $600 million fundraising round in May. Its value proposition is clear: By acquiring various restaurants and recipes, Wonder functions as an all–in–one food hall, preparing dozens of cuisines in a single

kitchen. In all, Wonder has raised over $2 billion and recently established five “food halls” in Philly—joining its existing fleet of 73 nationwide. It promises convenience, and it literally delivers. The negative reception Wonder has received, however, feels less about its food and more about its values.

This fall, Wonder has become nearly inescapable. Its carefully curated advertisements have appeared on SEPTA stations, bike stands, and every major social media platform, thanks to its acquisition of the food media company Tastemade. If you live in the Philly area and own a phone, you’ve no doubt seen its ads, with one especially prolific flyer boasting about its “0 Delivery Fees.” (The big fat zero is made of food, with versions including Mediterranean salad, pepperoni pizza, salmon poke, hard–shell taco, and hummus dip.)

In addition to its fairly prolific Instagram page, Wonder has enlisted a legion of food and lifestyle influencers to make

SERVING UP THE LARGEST FLOOR PLANS IN UNIVERSITY CITY

content about their dining experiences. They go like this: “You know when you’re hungry for literally everything, but you can’t decide what to get?” or “[my sister] and I can never agree on what to eat.” With the familiar mealtime indecisiveness established, the creator brings a Wonder meal on screen, praising the food hall for satisfying even the toughest customers with its quality, range of cuisines, and of course, zero delivery fees.

Its biggest selling point, however, has to be the promotional deals. While Wonder’s prices match standard restaurant fare (entrees ranging from just over $10 to almost $40) the company is willing to offer some pretty generous promos. These include $15 or 50% off your first two orders and an additional $15 of credit each time you refer a friend.

“A lot of people had the incentive to go because [of] that discount for the first two orders,” Angelie Rodriguez (C ’27) says. “People were getting every meal, like, $10

or down.” She’s a frequent customer and tried the food when Wonder opened its first brick–and–mortar locations in her home state of New York. Since then, she’s become somewhat of a Wonder loyalist, getting its food about three times a week.

In many ways, Angelie is Wonder’s ideal customer—the exact type of college student the company hopes to entice. “I’m lazy, so I don’t cook,” she says with a self–deprecating chuckle. “In previous years, I would get dining hall food … so [Wonder] came at a good time when I was getting tired from not only Penn food, but also the off–campus dining options that I was eating on rotate.”

It’s not hard to imagine this story repeating itself across much of the student body. A stroll around campus at 8–or–9 p.m. (Wonder stays open until 11 p.m.) generally confirms as much. People–watch in the high rise fields or peer through Wonder’s glass facade, and you’re sure to see students or delivery motorcy -

clists toting those ubiquitous white–and–green bags.

“Oh my god, no, not Wonder!” Angelie’s friends exclaim when she went to pick up her order one Saturday night. “That damn AI kitchen!”

It’s okay, though—Angelie understands. “I think what weirds people out, to be honest, is the way [the storefront] looks. You go in, and it’s just like a bunch of white open space, two kiosks, and then a couple of chairs and tables to the left side, and it’s like, ‘what the hell is happening right now?’”

Wonder doesn’t use artificial intelligence in its kitchens, but there’s something to that “AI kitchen” sentiment. Like a poorly made chatbot, its marketing sometimes wanders into the uncanny valley. Wonder almost seems like a living, breathing multi–restaurant, delivery, media conglomerate, but always a bit too hard, shiny, and opaque. An A–frame stationed outside its University City location

entices passersby with food–porn graphics, which Wonder has mastered by now, but the text above simply reads “WE’RE OPEN / COME INSIDE / IF YOU’RE HUNGRY.”

“I think [Wonder] is taking away the art of cooking,” Maggie Miller (E ’26), photo editor of Penn Appétit, says. In her experience as a line cook and a cake–maker, she has found the labor itself to be vital for the cooking process. “Most restaurants put a lot of work into their food … a lot of effort from the chef, from the cooks, and from the servers.”

Wonder, on the other hand, is in no rush to show you how the sausage gets made. The facilities are kept tidy, with countertops clean enough to eat off of— but if there are no sit–down customers at the moment (as is often the case) you’d be hard–pressed to find any food in sight. “If there were no signs, or if there were no words,” Maggie says, “I would have no idea that [Wonder] is a place to get food.” Peer around the counter at its Penn location, and you can only see a small, empty corner of the kitchen. There are no ingredients or appliances in sight; workers emerge with your meal bagged and ready to go.

Indeed, there’s no cooking process quite like Wonder’s—it wants to be the whole enchilada, the spring roll, and the cannoli too. Despite handling so many cuisines, the business manages to be “vertically integrated,” meaning Wonder sources its own ingredients, prepares food in its own facilities, and, especially after its acquisition of GrubHub and Blue Apron, makes all of its own deliveries.

In fact, Wonder has invested “millions of dollars” into research and development to make a one kitchen, 27–restaurant system that pumps out food to scale and speed, while trying to maintain quality. Its steaks, for example, are all sous vide (vacuum–sealed and cooked in a hot water bath) during the preparation process, a method which is supposed to maintain the meat’s quality throughout storage while keeping the final cook brief. The company’s CEO, Marc Lore, brags that

Wonder “can cook that Bobby Flay steak in six minutes … pizza in 90 seconds, pasta without water, stir–fry without a wok.” There are no flames in a Wonder kitchen; the company cooks 560 unique meals with two pieces of “proprietary electric cooking technology.”

The aforementioned Flay heads up a vanguard of celebrity chefs that have licensed their recipes and brand images to Wonder, hoping to bring their food to locations they could otherwise not reach.

Joining Flay are José Andrés, Marc Murphy, and many more.

Wonder doesn’t use artificial intelligence in its kitchens, but there’s something to that ”AI kitchen” sentiment. Like a poorly made chatbot, its marketing sometimes wanders into the uncanny valley.

that it was 20 bucks [this] makes sense. … I would say in that case, the quality does match up with the price.”

On the other hand, when Maggie first received the voucher for Wonder and went to try it out, she was “quite disappointed” with her meal. “I ordered the chicken wings, and I think they were glorified chicken nuggets” she says. Moreover, she believes that “if a restaurant wants to expand, it should expand within the realm of the people nearby that they can feed. I don’t think they should be mass producing food to freeze and ship—I think it should be for their own community.”

If Lore has heard any of these negative reviews, he remains undeterred. “I started Wonder because I saw a massive opportunity to completely reimagine mealtime,” Lore says in a written interview. “For most people, delivery is a compromise. The food’s cold, it’s late, and it simply just doesn’t taste the way it would in a restaurant. I thought, what if we could bring the best of the restaurant experience right to people’s doors, hot and perfectly cooked, every time?” And thus began Lore’s over–$7–billion idea.

In reality, Lore was already a billionaire by the time Wonder opened in 2021. Lore founded diapers.com in the mid–aughts and grew it into a nationwide service. After its sale to Amazon in 2010, Lore went on to found jet.com and lead Walmart’s e–commerce branch.

The chefs seem eager and excited about this partnership. Andrés has joined Wonder’s board of directors, and Bobby Flay’s website includes a glowing endorsement of the company. “Having Bobby Flay steak available ‘just around the corner’ has always been my dream,” Flay's website reads. He’s convinced that “Wonder guarantees top–notch quality every time.”

Reception on the ground has been more mixed; predictably, Angelie and Maggie belong to opposing camps. “The pasta I ate yesterday was definitely something I would probably get at a restaurant,” Angelie says. “I guess if you consider the fact

Since leaving Walmart in 2021, the electronic merchant extraordinaire has sought to build the future. Lore assumed leadership of Wonder Group only after backing a streak of highly ambitious ventures, including a nuclear fusion startup, a flying taxi service, and a utopian city in the American West.

If these other New Age enterprises make Wonder’s multi–restaurant food halls seem more run–of–the–mill by comparison, don’t fear—Lore’s ambitions are expansive and, unsurprisingly, AI–driven.

“About 90% of my meals are all AI–derived,” says Lore. “So AI tells me what to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

(That morning, he’d been told to eat oatmeal.)

This is Wonder’s next frontier of vertical integration: consumers themselves. Lore hopes to launch an “AI–based platform wrapper” to deliver restaurant dishes, meal kits, and groceries directly to your home, or even make a restaurant reservation on your behalf. The model will keep your health goals, meal preferences, and budget in mind to administer you three meals a day.

Wonder is trying to spearhead this new age of eating because, as Lore puts it, “The world is changing too fast to stand still.” In fact, he came to Penn’s Venture Lab this past September to tell students as much.

“I talked about the importance of having a big vision, surrounding yourself with great people, and being willing to take smart risks, even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed,” Lore says. The last point is especially important to him, and Wonder represents the latest step he thinks

society must take. “[Wonder] felt ambitious, even risky, on paper,” Lore admits. “But to me, the bigger risk was letting the current food delivery model persist.”

From this vantage point, Wonder’s future seems as dazzling as it is inevitable. On campus, however, the issue remains whether it will earn a place in the Penn bubble and, indeed, whether they should.

Importantly, criticism of Wonder doesn’t seem to come from the food alone.

The average Penn palate isn’t exactly discerning, and from Commons to McDonald’s to Chipotle Mexican Grill, our current food halls are far from hallowed. The Walnut Street eateries that share a block with Wonder often don’t prepare their food fresh, are arguably disconnected from the cuisines they serve, and appeal to the same grab–and–go customers that Wonder tries to capture.

These restaurants, however, fail to stir up the same drama. “Going to Chipotle, they have various things on the menu, but

they’re still focused on one type of food. I think because Wonder does so many different types of food, it feels disconnected, and it feels like you’re walking into a mall’s food court but minus all the people” says Maggie.

Indeed, Wonder is far from the spunky setting of a food court like Franklin’s Table. One cannot hear shouted commands, smell clashing aromas, or see the cooks hustling in the back. Without this motley charm, Wonder’s wide variety comes across as purely utilitarian, and its advertisements feel smothering.

This impersonal, business–first ethos seems to be the sticking point for potential customers—Wonder is making a bet that we will prioritize convenience over culture. As Maggie puts it, food in its most fundamental form is “something that someone who loves you is preparing for you.” From its pared–down cooking process to its AI breakfast oatmeal, Wonder is willing to innovate that love away. k

My Quarter–Life Bible

Min Jin Lee has found the cure to the burden of competence.

BY ETHAN SUN

Illustration by Eunice Choi

Min Jin Lee’s debut novel Free Food for Millionaires paints a portrait of a Korean American community in New York from 1993 to 1997, centering on a recent Princeton University graduate named Casey Han and beginning with the line “Competence can be a curse.”

What a likable statement!

The following 560 pages, however, rescue this precocious thesis from the superficiality of similar sayings. (See: “My biggest weakness is being a perfectionist.”) Instead, Lee man-

ages to plant the same universal truths from her biggest literary inspirations—Middlemarch seems chief among them—onto Korean–born, Queens–grown, and modern–mored soil.

If you know Lee, it’s likely through her second novel, Pachinko. Published in 2017, the book is also quite long (490 pages), features a third–person omniscient narrator, and centers a similar community—though this time spanning four generations of Zainichi Koreans living under Japanese occupation. The book was a smash hit, becoming a 2017 finalist

for the National Book Award and ranking No. 15 on the New York Times’ 100 Best Books of the 21st Century.

If Pachinko is like Tina, the rather perfect and beloved younger sister of the Han family, Free Food for Millionaires is, I am happy to report, like its protagonist—a little older, a little rougher around the edges, craving “glamour and insight” over “respectability and success.” Indeed, Casey mirrors the author herself: Both are Korean women, are raised by war–scarred parents in the working–class neighborhood of

Elmhurst, N.Y., and are determined to harness the power of an Ivy League education to rise beyond their means and make it in the United States. (Penn audiences, this may hit close to home).

Free Food for Millionaires opens with a poignant dinner scene, during which Casey is violently exiled from the Han household. She has just returned home from her last year at Princeton, accustomed to an expensive lifestyle—the food, clothes, and tasteful décor— but now lacks the fancy school or cushy job to support it. It’s clear to our protagonist that, by accident of birth, she just wasn’t born into this social stratum—a fact that makes Casey resent her own family, ever so slightly.

Before the family has even lifted their chopsticks, Casey and her father, Joseph, get into a heated argument. It’s a tale as old as time: Joseph wants to give his upstart daughter some harsh perspective, and Casey wants Joseph to take her problems seriously. The fight escalates with breathtaking speed, and soon Joseph has beaten Casey silly. He disowns his el-

dest daughter, and she leaves the same night.

I swipe my first copy of Free Food for Millionaires (though I prefer the term “borrowed indefinitely”) from my high school’s multicultural center after being absolutely enraptured by Pachinko. Upon reading that first line, “Competence is a curse,” I don’t bother continuing.

To be sure, Casey embodies much of the unlikability of that line. It’s not so much that she has no flaws—she is headstrong, self–destructive, and morally objectionable—but that she is just so unbelievably competent. She dresses like she is “out of a magazine cover,” donning thousand–dollar outfits on any given weekday. At least five separate characters comment on how perfect her posture is. Her internal monologue emphasizes that, as a result of her financial insecurity, she is just so damn skinny! To top off her killer golf handicap and glamorous addictions (cigarettes and expensive clothes), she only graduated without a job because she cracked a Ronald Reagan joke during her investment banking

interview and didn’t want to accept her Columbia Law School offer. One can only think of Casey as the product of a clumsy self insert. No, I think, I’m not reading a whole book about this.

I pick up Free Food for Millionaires again in my freshman fall, under very different circumstances. I’m questioning my pre–med trajectory and have just submitted an application—or two … or three—to consulting clubs. I question every day what I ought to do with my oh–so–esteemed Ivy League education, and lo and behold, here is the story of a scrappy, urbanite, down–and–out girlboss who has all the competence I dreamed of and yet feels the same unfocused ambition that haunts me at every moment.

I was initially worried that Free Food for Millionaires would be another hot diasporic text without anything new to offer the conversation. The two–dimensionality of her non–Korean characters suggests this. Doorman George Ortiz, for example, is one of the only non–Korean minority characters whose

mind we inhabit, and he only exists to make sweeping observations about the Koreans of New York while helping his “hombre,” Unu Shim, talk through his financial and romantic issues. The white characters are more developed but function similarly: as satellites to the main cast of Korean characters. This makes sense: Lee’s writing and public advocacy centers on Korean people and culture, as this is what she knows.

Still, Free Food for Millionaires is wide enough in scope and rich enough in writing to compel Korean and non-Korean readers alike. Like George Eliot’s Middlemarch, whom she cites as her biggest literary inspiration, Lee writes with authority from the third–person omniscient perspective, giving readers the backstory and internal monologue behind dozens of characters, from war–orphaned Joseph to self–made Sabine; from the jaded gambler Unu to the deceptively complex Ella Shim. As daughter, mentee, lover, and friend, Casey has lived under all four of these characters’ roofs, and in the meantime Lee shows us their lives and psyches, which prove every bit as complex as her protagonist’s.

Like Middlemarch, this is done in the spirit of answering universal questions that define our early adulthood. In the aftermath of a breakup, we question for the first time if we will ever find love. In the midst of a soul–destroying job, we ask ourselves what makes life worth living. To hear Lee tell it, we spend the bulk of our effort chasing the answer we want, rather than the one we know is right. We see the familiar trappings of quarter–life (golden handcuffs, unhappy newlyweds) play out as a result. Finally, though, we make the choices that upend our ingenuine lives and let us be truer to ourselves.

This philosophy is, perhaps, why infidelity touches every relationship in the novel. In the third chapter, Casey finds that Jay is cheating on her, his ever–present desire to please others translating into a spectacular ménage à trois with two college girls. “Must keep the boat afloat,” he thinks to himself. The last we hear from Jay, he is engaged to a beautiful (and rich, very rich) Japanese MBA student who gives him the love, approval, and upward mobility that he truly, deeply craves.

Ted and Ella Kim, with whom Casey stays after being disowned, are more or less con-

tent with their marriage and the sheer attractiveness of their coming together. Ted is an investment banker, caught in the trappings of a good life: top–dollar banking job, a spacious new crib, and a lovely Korean wife with a baby on the way. He is also, as Casey describes, “a triple–A, self–made jerk.” He is distrustful, inconsiderate, and driven by the terror that he will never escape the indignity and poverty that his factory–worker parents have always been cursed with. Ella is the kind–hearted daughter of a widowed doctor who turns her admiration for Ted’s driven nature and her sympathy for his tortured inner self into a workable kind of love.

When Ted supplements the dullness of his marriage with Casey’s friend Delia, he does not expect to fall in love with her gritty personality, which is the perfect twin to Ted’s hawkish spirit. He leaves Ella, who eventually realizes her love for her gentle and wise coworker, David Greene. After a mutual confession, David leaves his fiancée for Ella, the woman he has always loved.

In the open-ended final chapter of Free Food for Millionaires, Casey must finally break that pesky curse. As the novel closes with a scene that is almost entirely dialogue, Casey is urged to question her idea of success and make a quietly radical decision.

I finished the book this past May, after a total reading period of two years. In that time, I have added majors and dropped clubs in a desperate effort to discover my “life’s calling,” and, in the process, experienced shame and pride to extents I’d previously thought impossible. I read Free Food for Millionaires much like Casey reads the Bible, as slow as a line a day and with deep meditation. I know I’ll keep asking myself these quarter–life questions; I only hope I answer them with the same courage and honesty I have seen in this book.

I read Free Food for Millionaires much like Casey reads the Bible—as slow as a line a day, and with deep meditation. After dropping pre–med, Sabine’s tumultuous professional journey read to me like gospel, and after a particularly harrowing situationship, Casey’s own breakup musings became Bible study. I know I’ll keep asking myself these quarter–life questions; I only hope I answer them with the same courage and honesty I have seen in this book. k

Is It Time To Face the Music?

Three people walk into a bar. They order drinks, talking about nothing in particular. Above them, an acoustic guitar version of “Birds of a Feather” by Billie Eilish plays. No one says anything about it—why would they? They already heard it at breakfast, at the coffee shop, at lunch. Maybe not Eilish this time—maybe Taylor Swift, maybe Phoebe Bridgers. Doesn’t matter. It’s the same oh–so–familiar song, dressed down with a guitar or piano track that fades into the next, equally ordinary tune. Come

BY ANANYA KARTHIK Graphic by Insia Haque

to think of it, that same soundtrack probably playing right now as I write this at Stommons.

Yes, dear reader, this is a joke as old as time: three people walking into a bar, setup, punchline, no laugh—which, fittingly, is my point. The music never lands, either. In restaurants, cafes, bars, whatever corner of public life you pick, the sound just hums along. Today, what we call “ambience” is etiquette disguised as sound. It tells you how loud to laugh, how long to linger, and how much space to take up.

When you hear the background music at these spaces, you’re not hearing playlists made by the staff themselves. The spaces can’t—streaming music off someone’s Spotify account in public places is illegal. So they subscribe to companies like Mood Media and Soundtrack, which sell licensed playlists made to “match the music to the brand’s identity, encourage customers to stay longer and buy more, and make employees happier and more productive.” Ah, capitalism with a bassline.

Rather than shuffling Today’s Top Hits, these companies design what they call an acoustic scenography: a playlist designed to shape your behavior without you even realizing it. Restaurants today treat sound the same way they treat lighting or furniture. It’s part of the blueprint. Songs are tagged by mood, tempo, and energy level. After all, it makes sense—you wouldn’t want to eat pancakes over Metallica or sip your 8 a.m. latte to Travis Scott, right? (If you do, well, that’s between you and your barista.)

That blueprint has the science to back it up. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, researchers figured out that people really do move to the music. Faster songs made diners eat and leave quicker; slower ones made them stay. French music led to more French wine sales, and classical music made the same meal somehow seem more expensive. Companies like Muzak (now Mood Media) turned those findings into business models—and the rest of us have been eating to a rhythm ever since. It works for everyone, which is exactly why no one notices it happening.

When you think about it, it’s kind of symbiotic. The companies get what they want: longer visits, higher tabs, even better reviews. You’re … well, you’re fine. You get decent coffee and

listen to ever–so–hummable songs for the fifth time this week. You don’t necessarily complain about it, and everyone walks away satisfied. But in a broader sense, music dictates the politics of civility.

It tells you—without saying anything—to keep your voice down and your energy level in check. You don’t raise your voice while smooth jazz plays at dinner, and you definitely don’t pick an argument with your date while Vance Joy croons about being scared of dentists and the dark. Without a server having to come over to tell you how to behave, the sound instead reminds you to match its tone. It’s what civility looks like when it’s set to a beat, keeping people pleasant enough to spend and calm enough to stay.

Civility is a slippery word. It implies respect, but here, it screams silence. The music decides what kind of person you’ll be for the next hour— nice, reasonable, and, hopefully, quiet enough to keep the Google review ratings high. That’s what this version of civility does. You’re not quiet because you’ve suddenly become polite. You’re quiet because no one wants to be the guy that’s obnoxiously loud over the soft music. The sound pulls everyone into line, doing what a “please be respectful” sign could never do.

Our problem is that we don’t know how to exist without music publicly. Sit in a cafe that forgets to turn the speakers on, and you’ll see what I mean. People start fidgeting with their phones. Someone types too loudly, and the keyboard clicks sound jarring. A blender goes off in the back, and suddenly it’s the only sound in the world. The silence makes everyone weird. For some reason, we need the playlist to tell us how to act.

We could try getting a little worse at this whole performance. Leave the air unfilled, the silence hanging, even if it feels off. Let the room sound like people again instead of something picture–perfect. It’ll turn out that public life just needs us to stop being so scared of the noise. The world won’t fall apart if the cafe rings with awkward laughter instead of “Yellow” by Coldplay.

Now, back at the bar, the music’s still playing. Maybe Eilish still, maybe Lorde—no one notices. Someone laughs politely, and someone just stares into their drink. Everything feels fine, which is sort of the problem. The sound keeps everyone comfortable enough not to think about why they’re there in the first place. And if the music ever stopped—God forbid—we might actually have to listen to each other. k

Eat With Your Eyes

These films don’t hesitate to put food on the table.

BY 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

Illustration by Chenyao Liu

Comfort. Fuel. Practicality. Decadence. We all eat, but how we conceptualize food is a different question altogether. Whether it’s perfectly framed shots of sizzling meat or the nauseating reality of the United States’ fast–food scene, food on the big screen never fails to invoke a visceral reaction. Here are some of Street’s favorite depictions—from the appealing to the appalling.

The Menu (Mark Mylod, 2022)

Have you ever found the courses at fine–dining restaurants a little uncanny? If so, Menu is a must watch. A dark comedy that satirizes high–end cuisine, the film follows the sarcastic Margot (Anya Taylor Joy) and her arrogant, fine–dining–obsessed date Tyler (Nicholas Hoult). They board a boat and head to the middle of the ocean to eat experimental food dishes—one of which is a breadless bread plate. The already weird food is served by an equally weird chef (Ralph Fiennes), who de livers every line in monotone and with a stiff smile—almost as if he’s reading from a script. Each course brought out by the chef is curat ed for one of the boat’s passengers, exposing each of their hidden secrets, the chef’s own hidden agenda, and, of course, highlight ing the absurdness of fine–dining restaurant courses throughout.

Damya Woodall, staff writer

Ponyo (Hayao Miyazaki, 2008)

Few things scream “comfort” like a Stu dio Ghibli film, and Ponyo is no exception. Following a goldfish girl and her journey

from fish to human and back again, it perfectly captures homesickness and the tension of trying to figure out where you belong. After Ponyo (Noah Cyrus) undergoes a transformation that quite literally throws the world out of balance by causing a tsunami that floods her town, she’s caught between her father’s desire to get her back and her own desire to live with her new human love Sosuke (Frankie Jonas), unsure whether to ultimately prioritize her family or herself. In the midst of Ponyo’s indecision, Sosuke’s mother, Lisa (Tina Fey), makes her a bowl of ramen—a meal that warms her in every sense of the word. In one of the film’s most memorable moments, a simple bowl of soup embodies the notion of finding home in an unfamiliar place.

—Liana Seale, Film & TV editor

The Substance (Coralie Fargeat, 2024)

The Substance is a film obsessed with the body and its disintegration. Director Coralie Fargeat delivers a true spectacle of this fleshly horror: A brassy, retro–futurist aesthetic sets off the story of an aging starlet (Demi Moore) who takes a mysterious serum to restore her youth but finds that turning back the clock has grotesque consequences. The film delights in revealing the repulsive in the mundane; in one pivotal scene, the camera tracks the fatty drip off a glistening turkey wing with the same sickly, fascinated disgust as it would a pile of viscera. A word of advice: perhaps hold off on eating when viewing.

—Beatrice Han, Arts writer

Still Walking (Hirokazu Kore-eda, 2008)

Still Walking chronicles a loaded day in the Yokoyama family home as siblings, spouses, and

children gather to commemorate their family member’s death. Meals are the rituals of family life, but they are also the stage where buried family tensions play out—the shadow of the deceased son looms over the family table, and deep–rooted grief, unspoken rivalries, and tacit expectations fill every silence, instance of strained politeness, and nostalgic recollection. The quiet authority of the father (Yoshio Harada) sits at the head of the table; the precise cooking of the mother (Kirin Kiki) sustains and controls. The son (Hiroshi Abe) eats with guilt and defiance, refusing to be compared with the shadow of his brother. His wife (Yui Natsukawa), polite and conscientious, tastes the family’s scrutiny with every bite. The daughter (You) fills silence with small talk, performing cheer to bridge the distance. Eating together binds them, yet every bite reminds them of absence and of love rationed and reheated.

—Leo Huang, staff writer

Super Size Me (Morgan Spurlock, 2004)

We all know that fast food is bad for you, but what happens if it’s the only thing you eat? How long before your health noticeably changes? This is the question that Morgan Spurlock sets out to answer in Super Size Me . For 30 days, Spurlock exclusively eats from McDonald’s and documents it on film, routinely visiting doctors to track dozens of health metrics. From throwing up on day four to gaining 24 pounds in one month, this film shows his slow deterioration up close. Health research, statistics, and legal precedents are baked into the documentary throughout, analyzing the ways in which a corrupt system has infiltrated all of our lives. In the profit–driven United States, the health crisis is a systemic problem: The landscape is set up to render certain foods less accessible. Still, the balance between

narratives of corporate and personal responsibility is hard to strike. Sitting in the back row of a dimly lit classroom in eighth grade, I swore off McDonald’s, vowing to feel guilty every time I craved a burger. Now, rewatching the film, I’m struck by how the language and depiction of obesity can sometimes venture into disparaging territory. Nonetheless, the central message remains relevant today. It’s up to you to decide what to make of it.

—Laura Gao, staff writer

Eat Drink Man Woman (Ang Lee, 1994)

Growing up, my mom always told me her favorite movie was Eat Drink Man Woman . The English title is nonsensical, and my elementary–level Mandarin vocabulary meant I never really understood what could be so great about it. But finally, the year before I left for college, I sat

down and watched the film with her, and wow—it didn’t disappoint. The final film in Ang Lee’s Father Knows Best trilogy follows three adult sisters (Kuei–Mei Yang, Chien–Lien Wu, and Yu–Wen Wang) navigating love, life, and tradition along with their widowed father (Sihung Lung), an aging chef who’s losing his sense of taste. It’s both heartwrenchingly sad and achingly funny—the perfect movie for any occasion. And even if you avoid subtitles like the plague, Lee will seduce you with the most delectable opening I’ve ever seen. Expert knifework pares a fish into pieces. Meat and onions sizzle as hot oil is repeatedly poured. Fingers move smoothly to fold dumplings into fruition. The memory of the movie alone is enough to make my stomach rumble.

—Chenyao Liu, Film & TV beat

LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE

The Hidden Job Description of a Knockbox Cafe Barista

Brendan Little reflects on four years of serving the West Philadelphia neighborhood.

BY ELLA SOHN

Photo by Jackson Ford

Brendan Little, 30, takes orders at the counter as he greets regulars by name. Once the crowd subsides, he steps away to join me at a table outside. “I think Knockbox is one of the best coffee shops in the city,” he says as he takes a seat. Bias notwithstanding, of course.

It’s 9 a.m., and the morning rush at Knockbox Cafe is in full swing. The wood–paneled interior is packed with people queuing to order, enjoying their spiced coffee and muffin, or chatting at one of the five tables lined against the wall. Customers spill onto the outdoor patio overlooking 45th and Osage streets, a space that warms under the mild sun as September melts into October.

Little is Knockbox’s most seasoned barista, having started in 2021 soon after the cafe’s opening. Originally from Florida, he attended university in the state with a major in editing, writing, and media. When his wife—girlfriend

at the time—got a job at a theater in Philadelphia, they made the move together. Their apartment was just a block away from Earth Cup, the coffee shop location’s previous name. Little has seen the coffee shop undergo many transformations since then, from launching under new ownership during the COVID–19 pandemic to regaining its bustling ambience in recent years. Knockbox has been a constant through personal milestones, too. “This is where I was working when I got married, and so a lot of pivotal moments of my life have been working here,” Little says.

He is no stranger to cafes. His barista experience ranges from his first coffee–bar job at Books–A–Million in Florida to the Saxbys on Drexel University’s campus. According to him, Knockbox has something special. Many of its regulars would agree. From plants on the counter to teapots strung across the ceiling, the cafe wraps you in a warm, cozy atmosphere as

soon as you step in the door. “It’s in this residential neighborhood, so it almost feels like you’re going into somebody’s home,” Little says. “And I think that [is] the vibe we’ve tried to cultivate inside, and [the owner] Heather is trying to make it feel very welcoming and somewhere that feels like just an extension of your home.”

That sense of comfort—not to mention the excellent beans from Fonseca Coffee—draws all kinds of customers, from college students, to local residents, to artists. According to Little, many are neighborhood regulars who have lived in West Philadelphia for decades. He describes the daily rhythm of switching between his customer–service persona while serving new people in line and repartee with the familiar faces he sees every day. As an Eagles fan, he finds that sports is a common conversation topic. One of the regulars frequently makes the point of telling him his back looks strong. “I love him,” Little laughs.

Little keeps around 300 names in circulation, and although that takes up a lot of storage space in his brain, he enjoys knowing so many people. After a few years working in a small part of the neighborhood, Little often runs into people he recognizes—or, rather, people who recognize him. When walking in the neighborhood, his wife always tells him, “You’re a microcelebrity.”

Indeed, as we continue the conversation, one of Little’s neighbors emerges from the cafe and stops to chat with him about the pastry offerings that day. “My new favorite is tomatoes,” she says, holding the good in a paper bag to show him before continuing down the sidewalk.

“I feel like everyone really likes the people that make coffee for them,” Little comments.

That connection exists not only between baristas and customers, but also among the baristas themselves. Little has made some of his best friends in the city by working at Knockbox, and he observes that people who work in coffee might have “similar minds” in general. “People might be surprised to find out that we like each other behind the bar” he says. “Even if it sucks on a Saturday when there’s 30 people, you’re still having fun on some level, or trying to find ways to get through it, to at least support each other.”

What makes him so dedicated to his job is not only the care he provides to customers, but also the care he receives as a worker. Knockbox’s owner, Heather DeGrands, provides benefits that many other shops don’t offer, such as paid time off and sick leave. Another plus? The free drinks. Baristas have unlimited access to high–quality coffee, which can be key for making it through the early–morning shift. “You’re definitely addicted to it, because you just have it every day,” Little says. “Because why not?”

As avid coffee drinkers, Little and his wife have created a spreadsheet rating shops around the city. Take it from the experts: At the top of the list are Vietnamese cafe Càphê Roasters in Kensington for coffee and Cleo Bagels in Cedar Park for food.

While many of us love coffee, some people simply can’t function without it. That need for caffeine also brings all sorts of characters into the cafe. Little recounts one morning when a group called ahead asking for bulk drip coffee, then came in and ordered 17 lattes. “At first I thought they were police,” Little says, recalling

the heavy–duty vests the group was wearing. It turns out they were a film crew shooting an Apple TV show, and the vests belonged to production assistants. Just this week, a professional from New York came in every day while working on the upcoming FringeArts theatre festival in Philadelphia. “You meet a lot of interesting people because people from all kinds of industries need coffee,” Little reflects. “It’s universal.”

Then there are encounters that arise from the public nature of a coffee shop. Once, Little noticed a man unconscious on the street outside, a “guy my age who had tattoos and looks like me, basically,” he says. After closing the cafe, Little and two other passersby tried to help the man get his bearings and walked him to where he said his Airbnb was, only to find a house that clearly wasn’t the right address. “He just bolted and I never found out what happened to him, but I hope he’s okay,” Little says. “Baristas are kind of like social workers sometimes, and you end up just helping people out who you have no business helping, or you feel kind of out of your depth.”

By nature of their public–facing role, baristas are bound to do more than what’s listed in their job description. They play many roles: teammate, coffee aficionado, equipment wrangler, conversation partner. Now, Little is taking on a new one that taps into his undergraduate English degree. This month, he starts a job at the Free Library of Philadelphia, where he will shelve books, provide assistance at the circulation desk, and help people sign up for library cards. He is working part time for now, but he hopes to eventually transition to full–time work, which will mean leaving his barista job.

“I was just joking around that after four years, it’s like I’m gonna graduate from working at Knockbox,” Little says.

For college students, graduating means leaving behind fond memories, early mornings powered by caffeine, close friends, and friendly faces. The same could be said for Little. But rather than him leaving it all behind, his contributions to the people of Philadelphia will transition from satiating tastebuds to satiating intellectual thirst. While he will continue being recognized on the street by the hundreds of people he has served over the years, he knows that if he is craving his favorite coffee, Knockbox is ready to welcome him back home. k