West Philly Meets Foodtok
Noah Tanen eats, sleeps, and breathes food. But, it hasn’t always been this way. It wasn’t until his twenties that Noah realized his greatest passion lives in his kitchen.
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Noah Tanen eats, sleeps, and breathes food. But, it hasn’t always been this way. It wasn’t until his twenties that Noah realized his greatest passion lives in his kitchen.
“I started as a bus girl and, you know, I just fell in love with it,” Ellen Yin (W ‘87, WG ‘93) says when I ask her what inspired her career in the restaurant industry. “People always say ‘Oh, I’ve got the bug, the restaurant bug.’ It’s one of those things that’s very satisfying, because you’re taking care of customers; you see people celebrating important occasions whether it be birthdays or anniversaries. It’s very satisfying to be a part of those celebrations,” she concludes.
Nothing can dominate pop culture forever. No matter how good the plot, how passionate the fandom, or how high the box office, eventually, all stories run their course. Westerns were once considered a permanent moneymaker. Then it was musicals. Star Wars was thought to be invulnerable to the public: now over six films and television shows have been sent back to development.
Editor's Note: This article contains spoilers for Season 3 of 'Ted Lasso'
America's obsession with the true crime genre is no secret. The never–ending re–enactments are everywhere, from documentaries to television shows and podcasts. But as the genre reaches peak saturation, the question emerges: are these traumatic true stories really binge–worthy?
With skies darkened by wildfire soot, melting glaciers, and oceans littered with plastic, it’s easy to feel like the world is burning. Nature documentaries are an escape from this reality where it feels like all we do is threaten the outdoors. Last week, Netflix premiered Our Planet II, the sequel to the award–winning nature documentary series, Our Planet. The episodes showcase the stunning imagery associated with the genre, but also acknowledge the threat that humans pose to our environment. Our Planet is one of many nature documentaries on streaming services. Wild Babies, Dancing with the Birds, Life in Color, Chimp Empire, Our Great National Parks, Wonders of the Sea, Magical Andes … the list goes on. So why do streaming services keep churning out nature documentaries, and what does Our Planet II have to say about this growing genre?
Picture this: It’s 2021, and you’re seventeen years old. Your family is watching Friday Night Lights together as a COVID–19–era bonding activity, with your parents, who love the show, showing it to you and your little brother for the first time. You adore Jesse Plemmons’ nice–nerdy guy Landry and his relationship with not–bad–just–troubled girl Tyra (Adrianne Palicki). He kills a guy who is attempting to assault her. The season abruptly ends while halfway done, and the next one does nothing to resolve this plotline. You are very, very confused. The writing, prior to this, was very good. This … this is bad.
Lorenzo di Bonaventura (W ‘86) was in crisis.
Writing about HBO’s new show The Idol is a trap. It wants desperately to be written about, packed to the brim with references to modern cultural debates and full of gratuitous sex and nudity. But for a show trying to satirize our modern landscape, The Idol is curiously stuck in the past.
*This article contains spoilers for Season 4 of Succession*
Sitting in the audience of Beautiful: The Carole King Musical, a ten–year–old Grace Gramins (W ‘26) listened, transfixed, as the lead actress sang and played on the piano, each chord melting into the next. Afterwards, Grace went home and experimented with chords on the piano until they sounded right, determined to recreate that captivating music for herself.
“Dearest Gentle Reader, this is the story of Queen Charlotte from Bridgerton. It is not a history lesson. It is fiction inspired by fact. All liberties taken by the author are quite intentional. Enjoy.”
From North and South Korean star–crossed lovers to blind dating CEOs, K–Dramas have covered every single possible love/drama/murder/mystery scenario one could ever think up. They demand addictive engagement— an hour of entertainment packed within each episode. They contain multiple storylines, introducing a variety of couples and family nuances while retaining the trademark Korean humor—that careful balance between dry comebacks and over–the–top reactions. They invoke second lead syndrome (warning: don’t watch Reply 1988 unless you want a severe case of this), where the main character doesn’t end up with the person you were rooting for. In other words, they’re incredibly entertaining.
Fifty years ago, people had to remember the different local seven–digit phone numbers to reach their police, fire, or medical services. Accidental (and preventable) deaths and injuries had become an epidemic. Enter 911, the standardized national number for emergency services. Fast forward fifty years, and 988 hopes to be the 911 of mental health emergencies: the number to call for the suicide hotline as well as during behavioral crises which don’t require police intervention.
Wherever we see it—from our favorite movies, TV shows, or news stories—Western media flaunts and glamorizes the “American Dream.” The story of rags to riches. The story of accumulating wealth through honest hard work. The story of owning your own house, driving a nice car, living in the suburbs, raising a couple of kids, and reaching a day when your descendants may also carry on this same lifestyle and legacy. This is also the story that tells communities of color to be grateful for the superficial representation that simplifies our stories into expendable, disposable moments for profit and exploitation. The elusive "American Dream" is the ultimate goal of many immigrants, coming to this country in hopes of a better life. Yet this ideology employs the Model Minority Myth to weaponize Asian Americans and other communities of color into uplifting systems of oppression and white supremacy.
In another universe, Emily White (C ‘23) and I are mortal enemies. Once upon a time, we ran against each other to be editor–in–chief of the magazine you’re reading right now. Back then, they were put off by my skinny white twink demeanor, and I almost threw away any remaining good will over a petty grudge (I lost that first election, if you couldn’t tell). But we’ve both had our time at the helm of Street now, and somewhere along the way they became one of my best friends.
Surprise! It’s you. Yes, you. Congratulations on making it; we know these past four years haven’t been easy, but now here you are, having achieved so much along the way.
Rebecca Hennessy (C ‘23) begins every day the same way: with tea. Her mother was a religious tea drinker, and ever since middle school she’s made it a habit to start her mornings the same way. Breakfast is crucial too, a rarity among college students. “I like to pick up every morning with breakfast. I can't really get through a day without it,” she says.
What matters most to Elena Miller (C ‘23), in no particular order, are friends, family, and music.
Jane Lozada Foster doesn’t want to burn any bridges. She emphasizes this as we finish our conversation, which is chock full of the kindest and most generous evaluations of the times that Penn failed her or that she failed at Penn. When Jane’s roommates found out that Street wanted to profile stories of failure and successes this year, they both told her she was the ideal candidate. Most Penn students would be horrified to hear that their social circle sees failure as characteristic to them, but Jane just laughs when she tells this story. “I have failed a lot,” she says. “It doesn’t impact how I see myself.”
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