How My 3-Week Culinary Residency Saved Me from the Instagramization of Food

Before you dive into this, I must apologize for my radio silence since October. I created this Substack with the intention of regularly sharing updates on my cooking adventures and experiences. When I say "regularly”, I mean two or three times a month, not once a quarter. But between October and today, I guess I didn’t have much to say. I try to stay off my soapbox unless there is something I feel the need to share, and well, that has changed.

I hope you enjoy my unceremonious return to Substack. I can’t, and won’t, promise regular updates but when I do pop up in your inbox, it’ll be worth it.

Over the last few years, I’ve become increasingly annoyed and frustrated by the parade of giant croissants and piles of grapes placed seductively in the middle of a table that pop up on my Instagram feed. When I’d see those pictures, and many others like them, I’d first pause and ask myself: why does this trigger me? I’d try to dig into my feelings before spiraling into a destructive rant. Merci, therapy 🙏🏾.

I’d ask myself, am I just being a hater? Or was it envy creeping in, reminding me that no matter how much therapy I do, I’m still vulnerable to the emotions I try to avoid?

The answer is no. I wasn’t a hater, and I wasn’t envious. My frustration stemmed from the realization that, in some ways, food was becoming an aesthetic and solely about art, but the art wasn’t performing its main function: the ability to eat it.

Let’s back up for a second.

If you’ve ever been through a major life upheaval you know it can make you search for something, anything, to put the pieces back together. For me, that something was cooking. It started as a way to heal my broken heart, to reconnect with myself, and to find meaning in something that wasn’t falling apart. The dinners I cooked for myself led to a podcast that turned into a memoir and today I host pop-ups and a monthly supper club gathering where I serve meals I’d never imagine I’d create.

As I moved forward in this culinary world, I noticed that the line between culinary art and social media artifice was becoming a little blurry. I won’t deny that social media has been crucial to my journey. It’s how I share my work, connect with people, and, honestly, build a platform for myself. It’s how I get exposure and how I’ve come to be known. I’m not biting the hand that feeds me. I’m simply questioning is this what food is really supposed to be?

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Fast forward to my three-week culinary residency at Aux Vins Vivants, a wine bar in Paris’s Montmartre neighborhood—one of the last holdouts of true multiculturalism in the city (but that’s another article for another day). While there, I realized something that flipped my entire perspective. The issue wasn’t that food had become an aesthetic, it was that the aesthetic had hijacked the soul of food altogether and was distracting us from what matters just as much: the experience.

It’s not lost on me that food needs to look good. It needs to smell good. It should be appealing to the person eating it and pique their interest. I take pride in the way my dishes are presented, there’s no denying the importance of aesthetics. But is that it? Is that all that matters today?

I spent three weeks not just cooking, but reminding myself what food should be about: care, generosity, and real human connection. Yes, my food was delicious and ticked the box of Instagram-worthy plating here and there (I’m not humble about that), but there was also magic in the ambiance and energy of the space. While the food I cooked had its share of visual appeal, what really made the experience stand out was the deeper feeling it inspired.

I saw people walk into the pop-up, their faces tired from the outside world, leaving lighter, nourished, and more connected to those around them, not only because they enjoyed their meal, but because they felt seen and cared for. It wasn’t solely about how the food looked or whether it was a viral recipe; it was about the experience, the warmth, and the humanity that flowed through what they were served.

This is where I saw the distinction and had my a-ha moment. What I was making at Aux Vins Vivants wasn’t just for show. It was a vehicle for connection. There were no gimmicks. No chickpea salad shaped like an Eiffel Tower. No Instagram filter. Just food. Just people. Just moments of genuine togetherness.

Contrast that with the often hollow novelty of a lot of food shared on social media, where the thrill is in the “wow” factor, chasing likes and engagements. There's a different kind of feeling there, one that's fleeting and disconnected. Sure, a sausage sculpture or a towering stack of pancakes can be fun and even bring joy, but how does that joy actually feel? Is it the kind of fulfillment that lingers and is discussed, or does it fade as soon as a picture is captured and the post shared? Is it something that one tries to recreate at home? Does it leave an imprint on one’s palate and in their mind? I’m in no way suggesting that the food I made at Aux Vins Vivants was that good and elicited those feelings; my feet are still very firmly on the ground.

But having those thoughts front and center is, ultimately, what made my time at Aux Vins Vivants different. It wasn’t about creating viral moments, but about creating real moments that enhance what’s on the plate. The novelty of some types of food art might make people feel something, but it’s the authenticity, the care, and the intention behind a heartfelt meal that has the power to make people feel truly satiated—body and soul.

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I don’t roll my eyes at the food shared on social media platforms because it's beautiful and fun, I roll my eyes at what food has become: a trend, a show, a performance for the eyes.

It feels like food has become a status symbol. We’re expected to be more concerned with impressing followers than we are with creating something that brings satisfaction and joy to the people sitting at our table. And where does that food end up? In the trash.

There’s something deeply Marie Antoinette-ish about this inevitable outcome, like when she said, “Let them eat cake!” while French peasants starved to death. People are arranging food for likes and discarding perfectly good dishes. Piles of premium ingredients laid over tables just to be thrown away, bread shaped into an object no one will ever actually sit on, food that was never meant to be consumed. If you can’t eat it or share it, what’s the point?

This isn’t a call to abandon food photography or remove the arts from the culinary experience. It’s a desperate plea to reclaim food’s true purpose in a world that’s become obsessed with surface-level validation. At the end of the day, it’s about being able to actually eat the food and how what you’re eating makes you feel, how it connects you to the people around you, and whether or not you’re truly satisfied when the meal is over.

So, maybe let’s all stop buying giant croissants, take a step back from making towers out of any food products, and get back to enjoying food for what it truly is.