• McDonald's brought back the McRib for a national farewell tour in the fall of 2022. 
• The McRib has had at least three other farewell tours and has been on and off menus since 1981.
• It's returned to menus every year since 2023 and is back in select cities on October 27.

When bidding fans a final goodbye, the McRib appears to be taking cues from rock bands like The Who and KISS. The bands are known for farewell tours that didn't stick. The iconic McDonald's sandwich is also pulling a fast one with fans. 

In 2022, McDonald's said the barbecue-slathered boneless pork hoagie would say goodbye to fans in an event billed as the McRib's farewell tour. But the McRib returned to select McDonald's locations in November 2023, and has made similar returns every year since. In fact, the chain announced it will release the McRib again in October in select cities.

For 45 years, the McRib sandwich has been popping up randomly on the McDonald's menu. 

Here's a look at the history of the sandwich. 

Mary Meisenzahl and Nancy Luna contributed to an earlier version of this story.

The origin story of the McRib is tied to the success of another iconic McDonald's menu item: McNuggets.

After McNuggets were introduced in 1979, franchisees couldn't get enough of them and demanded another hot product to sell.

A nationwide chicken shortage left some franchises without McNuggets, so McDonald's chef René Arend created a fast, affordable alternative.

Arend was inspired to create the McRib after a trip to South Carolina, where he ate local barbecue.

The design for the McRib used new technology to create a "restructured meat product" developed by Richard Mandigo at the University of Nebraska, NPR reported.

Arend designed the McRib's shape to "look like a slab of ribs," and while the product is made with pork, it doesn't include any actual rib bones.

The McRib officially debuted in test markets in 1981.

Made with boneless pork, barbecue sauce, onions, and pickles, the menu item sparked early interest from customers nationwide.

However, while customers showed up to try the McRib for the first time, not many returned for repeat visits, and it disappeared from menus in 1985.

"The Simpsons" gave the McRib a permanent place in pop culture with a 2003 episode parodying the sandwich, titled "Ribwich."

That same year, McDonald's introduced a mini version of the sandwich, the McRib Jr.

McDonald's took the McRib on three farewell tours in 2005, 2006, and 2007.

The McRib found success as a limited-time offer. In 2007, McDonald's sold 30 million sandwiches, Maxim reported.

In 2008, devoted McRib fan Aaron Klein started the McRib Location website that used crowdsourced tips to help people find the sandwich at select locations nationwide.

In 2020, the McRib returned to menus nationwide for the first time in eight years.

"The McRib has been a beloved menu item at McDonald's since its inception nearly 40 years ago," Linda VanGosen, McDonald's vice president of menu innovation, said in a statement at the time.

"There's nothing quite like the taste of the McRib. To our customers, it's become more than a delicious, saucy moment … it's a season, and it's taking the internet by storm. That's why this year we're proud to serve the McRib nationwide for everyone to enjoy."

The launch proved successful and boosted sales that were declining amid the COVID-19 pandemic, Restaurant Business reported.

We tried the McRib for ourselves and didn't quite get the hype.

During the pandemic, chains including Burger King and KFC turned to nostalgia, offering customers familiar comforts during an uncertain time.

However, despite the hype, we were a bit underwhelmed.

The rectangular pork patty reminded us of the sausage McDonald's uses on its breakfast sandwiches, while the pickles and onions tasted crisp and fresh.

We enjoyed the toppings, but the sandwich was missing the barbecue flavor we expected — likely because it arrived with barely any sauce, unlike the much saucier McRibs seen online. This could've been a restaurant-specific error at the time, but we haven't been back to reorder it since.

In 2022, McDonald's announced that the McRib was heading out on yet another "Farewell Tour," suggesting the cult-favorite sandwich might be gone for good.

But yet again, the sendoff didn't stick.

The McRib returned to menus in 2023, 2024, and 2025, continuing the long-running cycle of limited-time disappearances and comebacks.

However, unlike previous years, the McRib was only available in select cities in 2025.

Despite its many supposed farewell tours, McDonald's is relaunching the McRib once more in 2026.

After years of dramatic goodbyes and limited-time returns, McDonald's brought the polarizing pork sandwich back once again in 2026.

Starting on October 27 at select locations in cities including Los Angeles, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, Philadelphia, and Dallas, fans can purchase a McRib for a limited time, the company told USA Today. Customers in other cities are encouraged to check their McDonald's app for availability.

Its latest comeback proves the McRib's strange staying power.

Every time it disappears, fans wonder whether this will finally be the last time — and head to their nearest location to try it for (possibly) the final time.

• Sweetgreen just rolled out a new incentive and compensation plan for restaurant managers.
• A higher base salary and new revenue-share bonus could push top performers above $200,000.
• "As we approach 300 restaurants, we're betting big on our Head Coaches," CEO Jonathan Neman said.

Sweetgreen restaurant managers are about to see some more sweet green.

The salad bowl chain said Tuesday it is rolling out a new compensation and incentive plan for the new year that would raise annual pay for managers of high-performing locations to more than $200,000.

"This sets Sweetgreen up to be in the top tier of restaurants for total compensation for general managers," chief operating officer Jason Cochran told Business Insider. "Our ability to be able to attract, retain, and also inspire many of our internal team members to want to be head coaches — I think it's going to be meaningful for many years to come."

Managers need to have at least three years on the job to be eligible for the highest pay bands, and a new revenue-share bonus will directly reward leaders when their location beats it sales goals, the company said. Managers may also receive shares of Sweetgreen stock based on their performance.

Cochran said the typical tenure of restaurant managers ranges from three months to 10 years, and that store teams consist of about 25 to 50 employees.

"One of the shift leads was telling me they heard the news and how excited they were for their career at Sweetgreen," he said. "She's been with us six years."

The company also said the changes at the top are part of a larger push to improve talent retention and training within the chain.

"Great leaders build great teams, and great teams build a great business. As we approach 300 restaurants, we're betting big on our Head Coaches," co-founder and CEO Jonathan Nemen said in a statement. "The restaurant industry has always been one of the great engines of opportunity, and we want to make that real for thousands of people."

• As a sommelier, I love trying new wines at restaurants, but they're not all winners.
• Many miss out on Italian whites, which are some of the most underappreciated wines in the world.
• Skip bottles from popular wine regions and order from their neighbors instead.

It can be overwhelming to be handed an extensive wine list at a restaurant. Multiple pages with small print can be an overload of information — anxiety ensues, and you're not sure what to order.

But as a sommelier, I've trained to understand all those little details, so you don't have to.

Here are the mistakes I see people make when ordering wine — plus advice for what to do instead next time you're dining out.

Ordering something they can readily buy at their local grocer

Sommeliers work hard to curate thoughtful and interesting wine lists at restaurants. If you can get the wine at your grocery store or any retailer you frequent, skip it while you're out.

Dining out is a time to explore and discover something new. This can be a grape you've never had, a producer you've never heard of, or a wine from a new-to-you region.

Sure, you've had a Tuscan red wine, but have you had a red wine from Oltrepò Pavese made from pinot-noir grapes? At Italian restaurants, I always look out for bottles of La Genisia pinot.

Exclusively sticking with overpriced bottles from major wine regions

Bordeaux is widely considered one of the finest wine regions in France, and Napa Valley reigns supreme in the US. So, it's no surprise that their wines often have price tags to match their elite status.

Instead, I always look for areas near these benchmark regions to expand my horizons and save a few bucks.

Just outside Bordeaux is a region called Cahors, which is known for making wines from the malbec grape. Crocus Wines is a reputable brand to try.

In terms of Napa alternatives, I tend to reach for bottles from the Anderson Valley in Mendocino. Classic producers include Goldeneye Winery and Husch Vineyards.

Only ever ordering white wines within their comfort zone

Ubiquitous, "comfort zone" white wines like chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, and pinot grigio tend to have cultlike followings.

If you're open to branching out and are in a white-wine rut, I say start by taking a closer look at the menu. For example, Italy has a treasure trove of "under the radar" varieties.

The country is home to over 1,000 native grape varieties, but my favorite Italian regions to look for on menus include Sicily, Collio, and Lugana.

Planeta and Monteleone are two of my favorite brands in Sicily. Primosic and Terre del Faet are top producers in the Collio region. And in Lugana (an all-white wine region), Ottella and Selva Capuzza reign supreme.

There are so many great varieties worth trying if you know a few keywords to look for.

Going for the full-bodied, high-alcohol reds

Over the years, I've observed that American wine drinkers really like big, assertive reds.

The problem with ordering such wines at many restaurants is that the bottles are often too young. They'd benefit from some aging, but restaurants need to sell their wines, so it's a bit of a conundrum.

My solution is to dapple with light-bodied reds that are ready to drink when bottled. The best examples include gamay, Cinsault, and valdiguié wines.

Some of my favorites include Camins 2 Dreams' gamay, Two Shepherds' Cinsault, and J. Lohr's valdiguié.

If it's hot out, consider enjoying these reds lightly chilled. Have the sommelier put the wine on ice while you peruse the menu and order your food.

By the time your appetizers are served, the wine will be ready to enjoy.

This story was originally published on September 15, 2024, and most recently updated on October 26, 2026.

• Restaurants are buying fewer paper cups and takeout containers.
• Companies making the goods say their North American sales declined in results released this year.
• It's the latest sign that diners are eating out less.

Even the humble disposable coffee cup suggests that diners are eating out less at restaurants.

Companies that sell paper cups, plates, delivery containers, and similar packaging to restaurants say that they're seeing less demand from US businesses.

Essity, a Swedish company that sells paper towels and cleaning supplies to businesses, including restaurants, said on Thursday that the dining pullback in the US was affecting sales. The company's sales volumes and prices in the US fell during its third quarter, it said.

"Consumers are not going out to restaurants as much as they do in Europe," CEO Ulrika Kolsrud told Reuters on Thursday.

Finland-based Huhtamaki Oyj, which makes disposable cups and takeout containers for fast-food restaurants, said that second-quarter sales in North America decreased.

Analysts at Jefferies wrote that results in the region, which accounts for about one-third of Huhtamaki Oyj's sales, will likely be hurt by lower consumer spending at fast-food chains in the US.

Higher prices at some chains, and many consumers still working from home, "have impacted sales volumes, and ultimately packaging demand," the analysts wrote earlier this month.

With wages stagnant and the lingering effects of inflation, many diners are eating out less. Those who are still spending tend to look for good deals — a trend that has tested value menus at fast-food chains like McDonald's and benefited others, such as Chili's, which offered deals that got consumers ordering.

That doesn't necessarily mean Americans have stopped spending on restaurant food altogether. Many diners are still willing to pay for food delivery, a trend that has bolstered results at DoorDash and Uber.

Do you have a story idea? Contact this reporter at abitter@businessinsider.com or via encrypted messaging app Signal at 808-854-4501. Use a personal email address, a nonwork WiFi network, and a nonwork device; here's our guide to sharing information securely.

In recent years, one of the predominant policy initiatives of the progressive left has been raising the minimum wage in locales around the country. At the same time, left-leaning politicians have sought the elimination of what's known as the tip credit, which allows employers to pay restaurant servers and other tipped employees a lower hourly base wage that they then bolster with gratuities.

Just a few years into this experiment, however, policymakers are showing signs of an about-face on the tip credit's abolition as they grapple with the unfortunate, and predictable, economic results.

In 2022, Washington, D.C., made news headlines when voters passed Initiative 82. As originally designed, it would have repealed the tip credit and required servers to be paid the District's full statutory minimum wage by 2027. (D.C.'s minimum wage was $16.10 per hour in 2022, but has since risen to $18.40 due to inflation indexation.) Prior to Initiative 82, D.C. servers could be paid a $5.35 tipped wage, so long as they earned enough tips to make up the difference between the lower tipped wage and the higher traditional minimum wage.

D.C.'s Initiative 82 was just the beginning. One Fair Wage, a progressive group that lobbies against subminimum wages, quarterbacked an all-out push to eliminate the tip credit in jurisdictions across America. Chicago became the second prominent city to follow suit. States like New York, Connecticut, and Illinois also quickly saw legislation introduced to eliminate the tip credit at a statewide level. (Apart from this recent wave, a small handful of American states—including California, Oregon, and Alaska—have long operated without a tip credit).

But just when it seemed like momentum against the tip credit had reached its apex, progressive politicians started to see the writing on the wall. In the aftermath of the tip credit's repeal, D.C. saw a close to 5 percent decline in full-service restaurant jobs. Tipped worker earnings also dropped by just under $12 million—likely a result, at least in part, of restaurants reducing hours for staff in the face of higher labor costs. At the same time, many D.C. restaurants began implementing service fees or so-called auto-gratuity policies that added mandatory 10-20 percent charges onto customers' bills.

Mugged by this economic reality, D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser called for the full repeal of Initiative 82. Ultimately, the D.C. Council settled for a partial repeal in 2025, maintaining at least some semblance of a tipped wage that sits below the traditional minimum wage into the years ahead (although the tipped wage eventually rises to 75 percent of the traditional wage by 2034). This was a familiar story: The council had previously repealed Initiative 77, a near-identical attempt to abolish the tipped wage that voters passed in 2018.

After Chicago moved to eliminate the tip credit, the Illinois Restaurant Association found that 89 percent of Windy City restaurants raised menu prices; another 79 percent responded by reducing worker hours. Again bowing to economic reality, the progressive Chicago City Council voted to freeze the tip credit's planned elimination, only to see the effort vetoed by Mayor Brandon Johnson. Eventually, a compromise was brokered to at least pause the tip credit at its current level for two years—which punts the issue until after Johnson stands for election again, allowing a potential successor to endorse a more lasting reversal.

In Michigan, a 2024 state supreme court ruling set the tip credit on the path toward elimination by 2030. But state lawmakers intervened last year, deciding to maintain a 50 percent tip credit in perpetuity after 2031. Notably, Michigan is currently governed by a Democratic trifecta in the governorship and both houses of the Legislature. The tip credit's revival garnered key support from Republican lawmakers to pass in a bipartisan fashion, before being signed into law by Democratic Gov. Gretchen Whitmer.

While progressive efforts to eliminate the tip credit may be motivated by an earnest desire to ensure waiters are paid more, the math isn't that simple. Requiring a server to be paid a $16 traditional minimum wage—up from a $5 tipped wage—might appear to raise their pay on paper. But this fails to consider several important factors.

Under our "No Taxes on Tips" new normal, raising the minimum wage for servers could lead to a partial reduction in tips, which under certain scenarios can result in less take-home pay for waiters once the taxman takes his cut. If more server earnings come in the form of "auto-gratuity" policies—which are treated as taxed wages under the law—then the tax repercussions may grow even grimmer.

But more broadly, these laws attempt to subvert basic economics. As of 2025, Bureau of Labor Statistics data show that D.C. restaurants shed over 1,600 jobs in aftermath of Initiative 82; meanwhile, between 2022 and 2025, restaurant job growth in the District declined by more than 8 percent. This is just one example. The fallout is the inevitable result of restaurants responding to labor costs that suddenly skyrocket, forcing establishments to cut worker hours and sometimes transition to quick-service models that require less hourly staff. And that's to say nothing of the diners who bear the cost with higher prices and new service fees.

"We're watching a beloved bar back, a beloved busser, a dishwasher have their jobs taken away," D.C. restaurant worker Valerie Graham told Reason in 2024. "Not because our owner-operator is an evil billionaire but because they're an independent business owner who had to make some business decisions and there's a callousness with which our industry is talked about."

To be sure, the tip credit has only survived in modified and reduced form in D.C., Chicago, and Michigan—and in the case of Chicago, the about-face is only temporary. But the partial reversals show the tip credit's elimination is not a foregone conclusion. Economic reality continues to rear its head.

The post Some Progressives Tried To Abolish the Tipped Minimum Wage. Now They're Backtracking. appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Ahead of National Curry Week in the UK (5-11 October) MPs are being urged to revive the Parliamentary Tiffin Cup. 

The Tiffin Cup was an annual competition where MPs (advised by their constituents) nominated the Best South Asian Restaurant in their area.

One restaurant from every region was then shortlisted and invited to participate in the Grand Final cook-off event held in the House of Commons in London, and judged by MPs and guest celebrities, with the proceeds going to charity.

The Tiffin Cup was last won in 2019 by Kuti’s Restaurant in Southampton, where former Prime Minister Rishi Sunak says he worked shifts “just for fun” as a student.

The competition was created by a group of MPs with Keith Vaz as its chairman to celebrate quality South Asian food. The trophy was usually presented by the Speaker of the House of Commons.

Demands for its return are led by George Shaw, editor of the respected Good Curry Guide.

He told this site “These are challenging times for the hospitality sector, with both restaurants and customers being hard hit by rising costs.  The Tiffin Cup will help to promote what is a vital part of our economy. 

“Most curry houses are small independent businesses – not a ubiquitous chain which sucks cash away from the local area, funnelling profits to a corporate headquarters many miles away, or to an offshore bank account.

“Curry is a firmly established part of British history and culture. 

“Queen Elizabeth I granted the first charter in 1600 allowing London merchants to trade with the “East Indies”, hoping to break the Dutch monopoly on the spice trade.”

The earliest surviving curry recipe in English was published in 1747.

The first Indian restaurant in London, the Hindoostane Coffee House, was opened in 1810 by Sake Dean Mahomed, a former captain in the British East India Company.

He went on to become ‘personal shampooing surgeon’ to George IV and William IV.

British appetites for spice became entrenched during the British colonial era in India, from 1600 to 1947.

Queen Victoria, ‘Empress of India’ was introduced to Indian cuisine by her ‘Munshi’, Abdul Karim. 

Thereafter she ate curry every day, with great relish and in considerable quantities, until the end of her life, 25 years later.

The ritual of enjoying a refreshing lager with Indian food was introduced by Prince Axel of Denmark. 

The Prince attended the British Empire Exhibition in 1924. 

During his visit he discovered the cuisine of Veeraswamy (London’s first high end Indian restaurant and still in existence), which ran a “pop-up” at the Exhibition.  

The Prince brought a barrel of Carlsberg with him and continued to send one each Christmas.

Shaw is urging restaurant curry fans to write to their MPs asking them to reestablish the Tiffin Cup competition as an annual fixture in Parliament, with their own nominations.

Spice lovers can find the email address of their MP via https://www.mysociety.org/wehelpyou/who-is-your-mp

Gabe Bullard | Longreads | September 15, 2026 | 3,401 words (12 minutes)

Watching The Jetsons as a kid in the ’80s, I was obsessed with the food machine, and how it dispensed a full meal at the touch of a button. The show was set in 2062, exactly a hundred years on from its original broadcast. We’ve made it to 2026, but life today resembles nothing like that slick space-age future. We have gadgets, but they’ve arrived as phones, apps, and smart home devices—and I’m not sure they’ve made my life better.

“Accepting modern conveniences too often means accepting lower standards,” writes Gabe Bullard in Against Convenience: Embracing Friction in an Age of Endless Ease. Lower standards for material goods, for labor conditions, for socializing, for art and entertainment. “Experiences become transactions.” Bullard isn’t anti-technology. His argument, he writes, “is an argument against how we use and are pushed to use technology.” In his new book, he examines the conveniences that have crept into his life—and likely yours—and offers ideas for living with them more sustainably and equitably.

In this excerpt from chapter seven, Bullard sets this scene: a physical world, the one we’ve moved through for centuries, slowly reshaped by the virtual one we increasingly live in. Cars drive from one dot on a map to another, ferrying takeout to people at home on sofas. Food deliverers make some extra money. Businesses take orders both online and off. It appears easier, efficient. But Bullard examines the costs—to the customer, to the driver, and to the restaurant owner, who still has to make sure the fries are crispy once they reach your door.

—Cheri Lucas Rowlands

The artist Jake Longstreth paints landscapes of America, often the West and Southwest, with their distinctive vegetation, deserts, and mountains. In the foreground of many of his paintings are features that evoke a time more than a single place—CubeSmart self-storage, Taco Bell, a sun-bleached facade with shadows where the words Toys ‘R’ Us once hung.

In one series, each painting is a different view from the parking lot of a Walmart in Scottsdale, Arizona. Ferns, trees, and desert grasses obscure the sharp edges of the boxy store. Semitrailers and loading docks peek from behind the brush. In a painting from a different series, a Home Depot abuts a Civil War battlefield. 

The work has a loneliness that’s reminiscent of Edward Hopper’s paintings. But unlike Hopper, Longstreth rarely paints people (one exception is a group of soldiers in uniform at the grand opening of a Chili’s). The only signs of humanity are occasional cars and the chains that “make up, basically, an American commons,” as Longstreth described them in an interview promoting an exhibition of his work in 2024. “Most people don’t really have a super-deliberate relationship with these places,” he added.

There’s a certain democracy to the scenes: Anyone, anywhere can eat the same value meal as anyone else. There’s also an intrusion: The chains’ architecture imposes a sameness on once-unique landscapes. The stores and restaurants are dropped into spaces that weren’t made for them. Flat, square plots are pressed into hills, ample parking provided.

The encroachment of a drive-thru on a lush California valley is a good representation of many modern conveniences. The services that claim to make something faster, easier, or cheaper are built on top of physical landscapes, legal frameworks, or social orders that were not made to accommodate them. The systems absorb the change, but they do it awkwardly and end up forever altered. Starbucks becomes a place to pick up app orders; appliances become accessories to connect to your phone; QR codes sit on restaurant tables; analysis replaces news; art becomes Content; machines replace people. 

Uncomfortable intrusions and uneven responses are everywhere.

Examples abound: Grocery delivery apps bring an old idea to a new reality. Grocers offered delivery over a century ago, but the stores were set up and staffed for this. Modern grocery stores are built for customers to come in and do their own shopping. Delivery apps now let customers pay someone to do the same physical task the user would do if they went to the store themselves. What seems like a simple process can quickly become inconvenient. Grocery stores evolved to let customers pick out their own fruit, check dates on packages, and otherwise get things for themselves based on what looked good (or what the store suggested they buy). Virtual shoppers do this picking for customers, sometimes in a hurry so they can fulfill more orders. Mistakes can happen even under the best circumstances. Better deals go ignored. There’s confusion when an item is out of stock and the customer hasn’t chosen an alternative. It can lead to a customer essentially steering a shopper through the store on their behalf.

Rentable electric scooters have become a fixture of urban sidewalks in the past decade. The scooters speed up trips that are too far to walk, too short for a car ride, and not covered by public transit. But these are more of a tacked-on convenience than a real solution. City streets aren’t often built to accommodate smaller vehicles, leaving scooter riders to either use car lanes (putting the rider at risk) or sidewalks (putting pedestrians at risk). Poorly parked scooters clutter neighborhoods. And the environmental benefits are questionable, if at times nonexistent: Broken scooters need to be replaced and vans typically pick up scooters for charging. These problems could be solved through a more active response from cities—more adequate public transit, sustainability requirements for the rental companies, limits on where scooters can be ridden and parked. Cities could build better infrastructure, too, to favor bikes, scooters, and pedestrians over cars.

The postal system and most homes were built to accommodate the delivery of mail and packages. But the scale of e-commerce deliveries has forced inconvenient adjustments to physical and social spaces. In the years I lived in a large apartment building, package drop-off was a constant frustration. Every afternoon, the lobby filled with Amazon and Chewy boxes. They sometimes sat there for days (rush delivery wasn’t essential after all). What was built as a place for neighbors to mingle became a warehouse for boxes of dog food where people occasionally waited for rideshares.

For private homes, the doorbell camera offers convenient, instant notification that a package has arrived and security footage if the package is stolen. It’s an inelegant, antisocial solution. The old-style doorbell was already a notification a package had arrived. The new gadget moved the chime and the peephole to the pocket (and gave users another reason to stay glued to their phones). Package theft is a crime of convenience created by constant online shopping and delivery, and it’s not clear the cameras are stopping it. In my old neighborhood, people often posted grainy images of package thieves to local message boards. Sometimes the person said they were giving the information to the police, as if the police would bother tracking down whoever took a box that had most likely already been replaced. Perhaps the footage will go into a database to be scanned by facial recognition software instead. Doorbell cameras might be meant to catch crimes, but more often, they create Content like the videos of accidents I scroll past online. Everyone is eager to share their personal view of the panopticon.

Is the convenience worth the cost of constant surveillance and suspicion of every person who steps on your stoop (not to mention a subscription to the software that runs the camera)? Even if the cameras prevent a package theft, it’s unlikely the increased surveillance is a deterrent for violent crimes, or that it has an effect on overall neighborhood safety. That would take a collective solution. The camera lets the homeowner feel optimized to take on (or hide from) the world’s troubles alone.

Ridesharing’s “disruption” is perhaps the most prominent example of convenience overloading existing systems, and those systems bending to accommodate it. In this case, the systems were municipal regulations, employment standards, and users’ expectations for how to get around a city. In his book Blood in the Machine, tech journalist Brian Merchant notes that the arguments against regulation echo one the mill owners made in the fight against the Luddites in the early 1800s. Existing laws regulated mills and set standards for worker training and for the quality of cloth. As businessmen automated manufacturing, they argued that “the regulations on the books are out of date, should not apply to new technologies, and are stifling innovation; they’re really not that important, and no one plans on violating them anyway,” Merchant writes.

The argument that our existing laws are inadequate in the face of progress is so pervasive in the tech industry, breaking rules is basically a strategy. OpenAI’s CEO has said it’s impossible to create their products without access to copyrighted material, and as I write this, the debate continues over how AI firms should license—or should have licensed—the material they use to train their software.

We are still adjusting to new technology—legally, morally, socially. The adjustment will go deeper than making room for a new way of shopping, computing, or getting around. How we react in these (still) early stages—how we comport ourselves and what we demand of the apps and our governments—will have ramifications for generations to come.

It’s not looking good.

The spread of generative AI is the most worrying sign at the moment, but I hear about new, supposedly convenient, yet ultimately unnecessary, technologies every day. Not long ago, it was facial recognition for buying concessions at sporting events. It’s mind-blowing computing power put to mundane use, and it raises big questions about privacy and security. I wonder if the food tastes any better.

To get a sense of the stakes of all-encompassing adaptation to new technology, go outside: massive parking garages in downtown real estate (somehow still necessary even with rideshares); four-lane streets in residential neighborhoods; houses with no stoop and a garage door as the most prominent feature on the facade; interstates along riverfronts; drive-thru-only restaurants; restaurants with double-wide drive-thrus. Cities and landscapes have been remade to accommodate privately owned personal cars. Shared cars or scooters might offer some relief, but the infrastructure has already been changed—these solutions are technology to solve the problems of technology, built not just on top of a system that wasn’t made for them, but on top of a system that wasn’t made for people at all.

This is the world I see in Longstreth’s paintings. The buildings are in places that are hostile to anyone traveling without their own car—shopping centers between batches of suburbs and man-made deserts of pavement. The paintings remind me of the long drives I’ve taken across the US—every exit has the same few fast-food restaurants and gas stations. The public commons is a place people stop at on their way somewhere else. Everyone eats the same value meal because there’s nothing else to eat.

The encroachments of high-tech convenience create a second reality—one that’s virtual and smooth. To someone using a grocery app, the store looks like a list of products on a screen, not the physical supermarket where a worker will go to pick out an order. To a person in a rideshare or driving by GPS, the world between two destinations looks like a line on a map. It’s a little like the augmented reality game Pokémon Go, which dropped monsters and training gyms onto the grids of city streets. Physical reality is a support structure for a world that exists on an individual’s screen. The virtual world imposes its demands on the physical world, often with results that aren’t better for the user or the real world.

Delivery food, for a long time and in many places, meant pizza or Chinese. This wasn’t by accident. Restaurateurs (and in the case of pizza, chains) refined the business model for delivery and developed containers that kept dishes in the best condition possible for the trip to a customer’s house. Modern food delivery promises to make any food into something you can eat at home. But not every dish, and not every restaurant, is built for this.

Traditionally, restaurant dining was a two-party affair. A customer went to a restaurant to dine in or carry out, or they ordered food over the phone that was delivered by an employee of that restaurant. Modern delivery adds two more parties: a food deliverer who is typically classified as an independent contractor and the app that mediates the relationship between everyone involved. The customer orders in the app. The app dispatches the driver. The customer tips the driver through the app. To the user, all of this is virtual—even the handoff of the food can happen through a smart doorbell.

Delivery apps offer something to each party they work with. To customers, the offer is any meal delivered to their door. To restaurants, the offer is new customers, more orders, e-commerce tools, and delivery without the staff (though some apps offer to let restaurants use their own couriers). To deliverers, the offer is the flexibility of the gig economy—be your own boss, work when you want. (I’m going to use the words “driver” and “deliverer” interchangeably, though in many cities, delivery is done on bike.) Each of these parties makes trade-offs if they accept the offer. Drivers take on the usual hazards of gig work. Claude Bahati lives in the UK and signed up to drive for Deliveroo because he liked the autonomy. But the money has been inconsistent. He sometimes works eighteen hours a day, five to seven days a week. Early on, he cleared about a thousand British pounds per week. He earned occasional bonuses by logging on when orders were heavier, too. Now he’s not seeing as many boosts and the orders have dropped. “You’d be lucky if you hit £700 a week,” he says. In response to questions, Deliveroo said this may be related to a change in which deliverers are paid based on distance traveled. (Bahati and many of his fellow drivers have organized with the GMB labor union in the UK to push for changes to pay and to how the apps treat drivers—and these have led to agreements on minimum pay for time and transportation.)

Paying drivers more would mean either reducing profits, upping the fee on the restaurants, or raising prices for customers. “It is always the drivers who get pinched,” Bahati says. The actual cost of a service is unclear to customers in the virtual world. “As a customer, you’re thinking, ‘which one’s the cheapest?’ ” Bahati says. “I don’t think you think about a driver and how much they’re being paid. I think you’re thinking, ‘How quickly can the driver get here?’”

Restaurants can choose whether to be on the apps, but this wasn’t always the case. When DoorDash, GrubHub, Postmates (since purchased by Uber Eats), and Seamless (it’s odd they’re all compounds of short words) launched, restaurants sometimes found themselves listed on the apps without agreeing to participate. Some restaurants sued. California banned the practice. Most apps changed their policies in response.

Given the thin margins of running a restaurant, opting out isn’t an easy decision, especially as customers come to expect delivery. Liz and Jesse Huot own two hamburger restaurants and a bakery in Louisville, Kentucky. They were hesitant to offer delivery at first. “You don’t have control over your food once it leaves,” Jesse says. “Kind of like handing your kid off to a babysitter you’ve never met,” Liz adds. Besides the loss of control, trade-offs for restaurants include fees from the apps and a potential decline in dine-in customers.

The Huots signed up to have their food delivered by DoorDash in 2023. They realized customers seemed okay with a dip in quality in exchange for the ease of delivery. “It’s normal for you to know that your fries suck when you get them delivered,” Liz says. Customers also didn’t mind paying a 30% extra charge for the food—a price the Huots settled on to cover the 15% app commission, the additional packaging, and to offset the drop in tips for servers.

Delivery orders are strong, and the Huots say they feel pressure to make the menu more accommodating. “Our two sides are fries that get soggy and Brussels sprouts that, ten minutes after they’re made, they get a little funky,” Jesse says. “So I’ve considered changing the sides. But people in-house love them, and if I change that, I think it would hurt us.” The solution to soggy fries is a starchy coating that some restaurants have adopted. It keeps them crispier, but it can cause indigestion. To add these, the Huots would need a larger kitchen with room for another frier.

With orders coming in online, the Huots are essentially running additional restaurants out of the same space they had before (they took their bakery off the app due to the challenge of managing inventory between physical and virtual lines). They favor their in-house customers, who provide the bulk of business and who the Huots have a direct relationship with. Online, their restaurants are among the businesses that pop up if someone searches for burgers. In person, the restaurants are a destination and an experience. That experience is why the Huots started their business in the first place. “I’m not passionate about food that lasts a long time in a car,” Jesse says. “That’s not what I got in this for. And if that’s what it became, I would question if I still want to do this.” 

Sometimes the Huots turn off online orders to tend to a packed house, which leads to emails from customers asking why they can’t order. This isn’t the only entitled behavior the pair has encountered since the rise of delivery apps and the isolation of the pandemic. Liz has noticed an impatience and a demanding attitude from in-person patrons that wasn’t as prevalent a few years ago. Customers get angry when something is out of stock. At the bakery, they complain if they can’t get an ornately made cake without ordering ahead. “That kind of convenience, people expect it when they walk in the building, too,” Liz says.

This is the discomfort that comes from the virtual and real worlds overlapping. Most of us exist in both places. Yet the rules of the real world don’t always apply virtually, and the behavior of the virtual world, in real life, is typically weird and antisocial. Online, we shop without assistance, lurk on conversations without taking part, and pay to have whatever we want brought to us. The world is shaped around the user, with targeted ads and algorithmic feeds. Spending so much time in the virtual world shifts expectations for the physical world.

Participation in the virtual world is the cost of doing business in the physical one. Besides adopting to delivery, many restaurants have changed their lighting, decor, and menus to be visually friendlier for diners who post to Instagram or TikTok. One trend saw posters raving about dishes with melted cheese that stretched as far as possible. Like viral Starbucks drinks, the taste was secondary—what mattered was documenting the consumption.

The virtual world of platforms and apps has given rise to the ghost kitchen—a restaurant that, for the user, exists only on apps. Some ghost kitchens operate out of shared facilities with no storefront, and can give aspiring chefs a way to test out ideas. Other times, a restaurant owner sets up a second, online-only brand in their kitchen to boost sales. The concept is an outgrowth not only of delivery apps, but of the rise in commercial rents. The crisis of the pandemic made moonlighting via ghost kitchens essential for some restaurants to survive.

Not every virtual eatery is a passion project. Some are chains managed by a corporate parent and are often branded with celebrity endorsements or gimmicky names that appeal to novelty on the apps—examples include Egg the F* Out, OMG BBQ LOL, and B*tch Don’t Grill My Cheese. Virtual chains compete against the small restaurateurs who the concept of ghost kitchens was supposed to save—and sometimes restaurateurs are competing against themselves, if they add a virtual brand to their business. People pursuing their passion are made to pursue it in the same kitchen that turns out pancakes for a virtual chain called Granny Pannies (a real ghost kitchen). The customers may not know the difference between the businesses, since every restaurant looks the same on the app.

As of May 2025, a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from Egg the F* Out in New York City is $19.09, more than three times what it would be at one of the city’s many bodegas. Food delivery was never about being cheaper, though. It’s not guaranteed to be faster. It’s rarely better. Delivery via app offers users control over their participation in a once-public activity—a virtual alternative to reality. It lets diners get whatever they want and eat it alone, away from the friction of the physical world and away from reminders of what it takes to make and serve food, and the people who do this work. If diners want to be social, they can get a viral dish that looks good on camera.

A few years ago, I went to my hometown in rural Illinois for Christmas. On a walk, I saw a sign advertising MrBeast Burger sticking out of the snow-covered grass at the edge of a park. I wondered who had put it there over the holiday—out in the cold, surrounded by cornfields, hoping someone might pick up their phone and order a burger. I thought about the person who might place the order—curious, looking for novelty, unaware of what it would take to get a meal themed around their favorite YouTube star. I wondered where the food would come from and how far someone would need to drive to drop it off. But these were concerns of the physical world. More and more, that’s not where we live.

Gabe Bullard is a journalist, critic, and broadcaster. He has written for NPR, The New York Times Magazine, Nieman Reports, 99% Invisible, Bright Wall/Dark Room, The Washington Post, and Smithsonian Magazine, among other outlets. He was a Nieman journalism fellow at Harvard University and is co-founder of Together, Alone, an online magazine of television criticism. He’s from the Midwest and now lives in Switzerland.