Too Fast Too Fieri
The famous food guy’s new Flavortown “ghost kitchens” are a nightmare
What’s the opposite of cancel culture? Greenlight culture? I’m talking about the collective acceptance of a formerly odious, maligned figure. I guess redemption is sort of close, but that insinuates a fall from greatness. What about those who’ve built an empire around awfulness, but suddenly or gradually prove their worth?
Whatever the case, I can’t think of an entity who embodies greenlight culture quite like Guy Fieri. (Insane Clown Posse might be a close second).
If you haven’t heard, it’s no longer cool to shit on the perpetually sunburned and bleach-tipped restaurateur who gained fame through a number of Food Network Shows—most notably Food Network’s Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives—and who popularized hedonistic eating habits built on the theory that you can turn your body into a trash disposal. His palate is basically a fuck you to dietary health.
Over the past few years, Fieri has revealed himself to be a very decent human being, often using his fame and platform to help those in need. He’s made a habit of showing up at wildfires to feed firefighters and evacuees (including 2018’s Camp Fire—California’s deadliest wildfire), and he started the Restaurant Emergency Relief Fund to help food industry workers during the pandemic. And these are only a few of his charitable endeavors.
So, no, I should not make fun of Guy Fieri! Even for the wrath than he’s inflicted upon the American digestive system. Even for a fashion sense that screams “bacon is my daddy and NASCAR is my mommy!” Even for the fact that he’s normalized “flavortown” — a term that should only be uttered in darkened rooms by dudes with soul patches and bouncy eyebrows — and used it for his new signature restaurants.
And that’s why I decided to try out Fieri’s Flavortown “ghost kitchen,” which recently opened in Downtown, San Diego. The idea of a ghost kitchen is when another business—in this case Guy Fieri’s delivery-only restaurant—operates out of a brick-and-mortar establishment. I mean, it sounds more like an infection than anything to do with ghosts, but I’ll roll.
In this case, Fieri’s Flavortown operates out of every high schooler’s idea of a fancy restaurant, Buca di Beppo. Seriously, the awkward vibes in that place alone would make an electro-magnetic field reader go cuckoo.
I scan Flavortown’s menu. The problem, however, is that every item just looks...awful. Flavortown does not appear to be a safe space for people with, uh, taste, but more specifically for a person who doesn’t like condiments. I’ve written about my hatred for most condiments elsewhere, so I won’t spend too much time on it, but basically I think the big three (ketchup, mayo, and mustard) are for toddlers and ruin most food.
To my dismay, every burger on the Flavortown menu comes with Donkey Sauce, an unholy concoction of mayo, mustard, Worcestershire sauce and spices. Fieri has stated that his signature condiment is meant to be mocked, but why would I willingly subject my stomach to a culinary practical joke?
I order the Bacon Mac N’ Cheese Burger, which seems quintessentially Fierian. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it right. Jump straight into the deep end of Flavortown, right? Under special instructions, I type out “Donkey Sauce on the side, please?” It’s one of the all-time least favorite requests I’ve had to make. I also get fries. The total, with delivery, comes to nearly thirty fucking dollars. This is why you should never trust me with money.
Even though I order it through the Flavortown website, it’s DoorDash who handles the delivery, and even one year into the pandemic, I’m still not used to the constant updates about my food’s journey. And the texts about an encroaching Flavortown food are unsettling. To be honest, it’s almost threatening. “Salvatore is approaching with your order from Guy Fieri’s Flavortown Kitchen. Enjoy your meal!” The only thing missing is a voice text of maniacal Vincent Price laughter.
The food arrives shockingly fast, less than 30 minutes. There’s a knock and by the time I open the door, Salvatore is already driving away. I pick up the white paper bag left on my porch and inspect it. It’s labeled “Ryan Ph” and there’s a MrBeast sticker on it. Hmm, I think. Maybe MrBeast is a character in Flavortown? Like a Grimace type?
I open the bag, and there are three foil-wrapped burgers, none of which are from Flavortown. A quick google for “MrBeast” reveals that it too is a ghost kitchen run out of the same cursed Buca di Beppo, and currently holds a 1.5 star rating on Yelp. What is this country coming to? I think, acquiring the petulant attitude of a person who is minorly inconvenienced.
DoorDash has the gall to send me a follow-up text asking me about my experience and, Dear Readers, there is no way to sound dignified when discussing a botched Flavortown order.
“Everything’s wrong”—a consumer grievance, yes, but also an accurate existential epiphany that comes when ordering from Flavortown.
Wizelle, DoorDash’s chat bot, is no help, so I call Flavortown directly, and they resend the order. If it weren’t for the $30 I paid, I’d likely forget about it, but it’s the principle of the thing. And yes, I’m talking about “principle” in regards to Flavortown, so I understand if you hate me because I hate me too.
While I wait for my new food, I eat one of the MrBeast burgers. It’s fucking gross.
Again, my DoorDasher arrives super fast, and this time they bring the correct food.
The paper bag feels grotesquely heavy, almost obscene. This is what I’m going to put in my body. I open the bag and stare at the two brightly-colored boxes. The packaging looks like it was designed by Mr. Brainwash.
They didn’t hold the Donkey Sauce. My burger is slathered with it. I can’t say I’m surprised, but that doesn’t keep me from feeling profound disappointment. I remove the buns and eat the remaining detritus with a knife and fork, perhaps the first time anyone’s ever done so with a Fieri product.
The first thing I notice is the burger’s cold. I eat a fry. Also cold. Given how quickly they were delivered, these fuckers must’ve been premade and living under a heat lamp next to their MrBeast brethren.
As for the taste... I mean, have you ever had all the flavors at once? The mash-up of burger, mac n’ cheese and bacon—mixed with whatever spices are native to Flavortown—creates an assault that’s simultaneously overpowering and bland. Remember the volume wars of the mid ‘00s, when all popular music was so compressed and loud that it sounded fuzzy? Flavortown is like food compression. It’s so aggressive that it ends up not really tasting like anything, but still manages to leave a carny aftertaste. The fries straight-up taste like corn dog bread.
I get through half my burger and I can do no more. The pieces that litter my plate look picked-apart by vultures. I toss it all away, and with it, my sense of self-worth.
Before I shut the garbage lid, I look at the remnants of Flavortown sitting among the other trash. Is my hate justified, or am I just another privileged white dude complaining about a consumerist experience that didn’t go my way? What really separates me from the legions of shitheads that flood Yelp every day? And the answer is: not much. But that’s fine. We don’t have to like everything a person does. Even if Guy Fieri is a saint, that doesn’t mean his food isn’t shitty.
So, I’m gonna continue to be a hater.
WEEKLY GOODS
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In my opinion, D.WREX is one of the most exciting musicians to emerge in the San Diego music scene in the past few years. Their music veers between pretty and pummelling, and it’s transgressive in both form and function. It’s a little difficult to classify, but think prog + soul + metal (maybe fans of Mike Patton will have an idea what I’m talking about). Recently, D.WREX released their debut EP on Volar Records and it’s a goddamn journey. A testament to emotion, queerness, and musical complexity, D.WREX shatters a lot of molds over the EP’s four tracks, but it’s all held together by their powerful and unique voice. Go buy the album on Bandcamp.
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It’s been difficult to look forward to anything after an entire year of doing the same shit every day, but watching the music video for “Southeast Summers” makes me all sorts of giddy that we *might* actually have a summer to celebrate this year. The song—featuring San Diego rappers Ryan Anthony and Mitchy Slick, as well as singer Andra Day (who was just nominated for an Oscar for her portrayal of Billie Holiday in The United States vs. BIllie Holiday)—is a celebration of Southeast San Diego, a richly diverse and area that’s often maligned by local media’s focus on the crime rates there. “Southeast Summers” is a laid-back earworm that’s hard to shake, and the video showcasing Southeast’s landmarks and neighborhoods is equally infectious. I dare you to watch it and not smile. (Also, read my former colleague Andrea Lopez Villafaña’s excellent U-T article about it).
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Last week, I wrote about dealing with my cat’s diabetes. This week, I decided to make a little video about how I give him insulin. Really just an excuse for me to show off how cute he is.
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Happy St. Paddy’s day, the most mediocre holiday for anyone who’s not a college student! To celebrate, here’s an article I wrote last year about watching all the Leprechaun movies. It’s hard to believe I started out the pandemic watching this shit. Kinda set the bar for my lockdown media consumption, and sadly, it really hasn’t gotten better than that.
Got a tip or wanna say hi? Email me at ryancraigbradford@gmail.com, or follow me on Twitter @theryanbradford. And if you like what you’ve just read, please hit that little heart icon at the end of the post.
Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.
Southeast Summers just made my week. Thanks for sharing it with us.
The cat video is great. But where's the other cat?