What started in Taiwan as a simple combination of local desserts, milk tea, and fen yuan, has evolved into a global phenomenon: boba. At Penn, it’s a quick pick–me–up before class, a coffee chat accessory, and even a savvy marketing ploy down Locust Walk. Most recently, it’s been touted as trendy, sugary, its contents unknown, and definitely, decidedly, no longer "ethnical". This is the perspective of two white Canadian entrepreneurs on an episode of Dragon’s Den, when they pitched their brand Bobba, a take on Taiwanese boba, to the panel of dragons.
On the show, the pair claim to have transformed boba into a more “convenient and healthier” drink, boasting “real tea” and “fruit juice.” With a suggestive grin, one of the owners proudly announces their newest “crazy innovation”—the first alcoholic, ready–to–drink boba in the world.
As expected, their Dragon’s Den pitch blew up online. Many TikTok users responded by crafting satirical reels, big boba brands like Gong Cha leapt at the marketing opportunity, and even celebrities like actor Simu Liu gave their two cents. On the other hand, others defended the Bobba brand owners, arguing that cultures borrowing from one another is a natural occurrence—an essential aspect of human progress that induces evolution.
This latest internet craze, while seemingly comical, taps into a much larger issue in the culinary world. The Bobba incident is not an isolated one. Rather, it is part of a larger trend, where the cuisines of BIPOC communities are often sidelined, diluted to be perceived as more palatable, or “discovered” and popularized by chefs external to that culture. In other words, it’s the embodiment of food gentrification; ethnic food is presented as elevated and reinvented to suit the taste of the mainstream culture, which connotes that the original cuisine is undesirable.
Perhaps the most recent example of this is 'Cucumber Guy,' Logan Moffitt, a white TikTok creator who has garnered millions of followers by slicing cucumbers and preparing Korean dishes. Moffitt's videos offer a charming entry point for his predominantly non–Korean audience to Korean cuisine, and have sparked a new interest in staple ingredients like gochujang and fish sauce. The videos are simple—a few quick clips spliced together of slicing vegetables and adding some sauce. They’re digestible—the dishes are framed as “really good for a hangover” or “the perfect quick snack,” punctuated with his signature catchphrase, “MSG obviously," alluding to a popular flavor enhancer. The videos are also a missed opportunity.
The rise of Logan Moffitt and his interpretation of the classic 拍黃瓜 (Pai Huang Gua) dish (now dubbed “Logan’s viral cucumber salad”) highlights a longstanding paradox that sits at the heart of conversations around cuisines of color. On one hand, Moffitt's content has undoubtedly increased the visibility of Asian cuisine in mainstream spaces. Yet, it also begs the question: Does Moffitt's position as a white man showcasing Asian flavors contribute to the erasure of the very communities that created these dishes? With Tiktok being flooded with videos recreating “Logan’s viral cucumber salad” countless Asian creators, and countless Asian dishes, remain on the margins, left out of the viral moment that their own food culture has sparked.
Of course, this doesn’t mean that non–BIPOC people can’t enjoy or share food from other cultures. It's also hard to predict or control the virality of posts. But once something has been introduced to the scene, when it comes to shaping the narrative and leading the charge, it’s crucial that the voices of BIPOC chefs, food historians, and creators are amplified.
The issue goes beyond TikTok. In 2018, a Malaysian contestant on Masterchef UK presented a traditional chicken dry curry dish, Chicken Rendang, which led to her elimination due to its non–conformation to Western palatability. One of the the British judges, unfamiliar with the dish, remarked that the chicken skin was not “crispy” enough and “It [couldn’t] be eaten” as “all the sauce [was] on the skin.” After garnering backlash for this comment, the judge infamously replied in a tweet— “Maybe Rendang is Indonesian!! Love this !! Brilliant how excited you are all getting … Namaste.” capping off the non–apology with an Indian greeting, further underscoring his lack of familiarity with Southeast Asian culinary history and traditions.
A similar tale of appropriation and erasure comes from the origins of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Nathan "Nearest" Green, an enslaved Black man, taught Jack Daniel the craft of whiskey–making in the late 1850s. For decades, Green’s contributions were left unacknowledged, and it wasn’t until 2012 that the first Black man obtained his liquor–making license. All three of these stories reflect a pattern of harmful consequences when BIPOC cuisine is publicly championed by a non–BIPOC face—whether intentionally or not. When non-BIPOC creators present these dishes without acknowledging the deep roots from which they come, they risk flattening complex culinary traditions into something trendy or gimmicky, which can blur cultural distinctions and fail to fulfill the authenticity and richness of the original dishes.
While we may have little influence over how the algorithm, and the world at large, bring certain foods and creators to the spotlight, we do have a say in who gets to be the storyteller once these dishes become part of mainstream Western culture. Whether it be through trying a new restaurant in Center City or following a food creator on Instagram or TikTok, we have the ability to ensure that the narratives surrounding BIPOC cuisines are ultimately told by those who lived and breathed them. Food, after all, is more than what’s on the plate. It’s an expression of culture, identity, and history. It’s time to let BIPOC creators serve their dishes and stories on their own terms, so, when we do feast, everyone has a seat at the table.
