the-dilemma-behind-the-plate

[the-dilemma-behind-the-plate]

The Dilemma Behind the Plate

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The Dilemma Behind the Plate is a series of three linked social fiction stories told through the perspective of Jun, a contestant in a culinary competition. Throughout the blog posts, he struggles with themes of authenticity and innovation—this intersection between food and identity highlights the greater global issue of cultural appropriation. The choice to use a multimedia format, such as traditional scene-driven storytelling with accompanying photos, audio, and gifs, allows readers to experience Jun’s internal conflict through a layered narrative, thus prompting further engagement by interacting with these different mediums. Ultimately, the project invites the audience to critically engage with the conflicts of Jun—presented by the panel of judges—and the greater commodification of cultural traditions.

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Day 3: Something Familiar

The finale is electric, like something that I’ve never seen before. The studio is brought to life with tension, the audience whispering in hushed tones as the countdown clock flashes on the giant screen above the stage. Each ticking second feels like an eternity.

(song credit: Europe)

I stand at my station, staring at the ingredients I’ve laid out: a bowl of flour, some dark brown sugar, a jar of honey, and cinnamon. It looks… plain. Even pitiful next to the other finalist’s counter, crowded with edible gold and exotic ingredients. 

The dough sticks to my hands, resistant as I knead it. As the first pancake hits the skillet, it begins to hiss and crackle, the scent of caramelized sugar filling the air. The sizzling sound brings me back to the small dessert cart near my grandmother’s old house, where I used to go every day.

(audio credit: DogandPonyShow)

My daydream is interrupted by the host’s piercing voice, echoing from the table next to mine. “Wow, Ren! Can you tell us what we’re looking at?”

I look over to my right, as Ren crafts his concept to life. A dome of delicate sugar encasing layers of green tea powder and yuzu curd. “I’m making a matcha mascarpone mousse cake,” he starts, “bringing together the taste of Japan and Italy.”

Cameras zoom in as he uses liquid nitrogen to create dramatic vapour trails. The judges’ faces light up with anticipation.

The host strides toward me, her smile as bright as the stage lights. “Jun, you’re going traditional, aren’t you?” she asks, her microphone nearly poking my chin. “Is that… hotteok?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that more of a street snack? What kind of twist should we expect this time?”

“Nothing,” I reply, “it’s meant to be simple.” I rest the hotteok on a plain white plate, dusting the tops lightly with cinnamon sugar.

(original image)

For a split second, I could see her smile faltering from the corner of my eye, as if asking, That’s it? Instead, she mumbles, “Bold move. Let’s see if it pays off.”

The clock hits zero, flashing red and beeping nonstop. Ren’s cake glistens under the lights, closely resembling a sculpture in a museum. To put it lightly, my dessert looks humble in comparison.

The judges begin with Ren’s dish. They marvel at its ingenuity and theatrics. Chef Gavi’s eyes open wide in shock. “This…” he exclaims. “This is art. This is a triumph of modern culinary art.”

Chef Roberts lifts his gold-plated spoon and takes a generous serving. “Magnificent. Truly magnificent, Ren. Very nice work.”

Then they move to mine. The spotlight shifts to my counter, as Chef Roberts takes yet another large bite. His face is unreadable as he takes a moment before commenting, “This is… interesting.”

The magazine editor chimes in, her tone measured. “It’s okay, but is it groundbreaking? I’m not sure it matches the occasion.”

When the winner is announced, I quietly exit off the stage. Confetti rains down on Ren with thunderous applause.

(GIF credit: realityisforgotten)

Backstage, I’m met by Iman and Giselle. Wrapped in a napkin, they each hold out one of my pancakes. “We saved these,” Giselle says. “Ren’s dessert was beautiful, but yours… yours felt true and authentic.”

“Authentic.” Her words ring in my ears. For once, I didn’t perform for someone else. I was just myself.

[the-dilemma-behind-the-plate]

Day 2: The Weight of Flavour

The pressure in the semifinal round is palpable, even more than yesterday. The kitchen feels like a coliseum. Knives flash under fluorescent lights, pots boil furiously, and the collective heat from the ovens on the set makes the air shimmer. Above it all, the cameras hover, capturing every movement, every angle, every mistake.

“I see you’re going for tacos today, Jun,” Chef Roberts says, peering at my station as he strolls to the kitchen.

“Yes, Chef,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. He says something else, but I don’t hear him. “Yes, Chef,” I repeat automatically, though my mind is elsewhere. 

As I skewer the pork, I catch a glimpse of Giselle at her station. She’s chopping onions with quick, decisive motions. Coq au vin, a savoury staple of French cuisine. The heady aroma of her red wine sauce cuts through the metallic tang of the kitchen.

(GIF credit: astridht-exe)

“Jun, you okay?” the host hisses as she passes by. “You’re too quiet. Engage with the camera.”

I nod stiffly, forcing a smile.

“Jun, talk us through your dish!” The camera follows, zooming in on my face.

“It’s my take on tacos al pastor,” I say, straightening up and wiping my hands on my apron. “The pork is marinated in ssamjang to give it a spicy and sweet twist.”

(video credit: mochi_belly)

I’ve made this dish a dozen times in the weeks leading up to the competition. It’s a guaranteed crowd-pleaser, a seamless blend of Mexican street food and Korean barbecue. But as I plate the tacos, a strange sense of detachment creeps in.

The judges take their bites, their reactions predictable. Chef Roberts nods approvingly, chewing slowly. “The flavours hit all the right notes,” he exclaims. “The intensity of the ssamjang balances the richness of the pork beautifully. You’ve elevated a classic with your own cultural twist.”

Elevated. The word sticks in my head like a splinter. The judges see this as an improvement—as if it wasn’t just a messy attempt to gain attention.

As I make my way backstage, I listen to their reactions to Giselle’s coq au vin. “Traditional,” Chef Roberts says, “but maybe too safe. I really think you missed an opportunity to innovate and reach the next level.” 

Another judge, a magazine editor, dismisses her dish entirely. “I agree, Chef. It lacks imagination.”

I cringe at their critique. “Safe. "Imagination.” What they want is a spectacle—how far did they want us to push the boundaries before the dish became unrecognizable and inauthentic?

When the scores come in from the panel, I find myself at the top again. Above Giselle. Applause erupts with the crowd on their feet. I can hear a hundred people from below the stage clapping, reverberating through the building. I should also be excited, but all I can feel is the weight of the expectations I’m feeding into.

(audio credit: aw77)

“Congratulations, Jun,” she says. “Your tacos looked amazing.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I want to return the compliment, to tell her that sticking to tradition isn’t just “safe”—it’s brave and deliberate. But the words get caught up in my throat.

I’m happy to move on to the final, but if being innovative means to just pander to trends, I wonder if my grandmother would have even clapped at all.

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Day 1: Smoke and Mirrors

The stage lights were so blinding that I could barely open my eyes—so bright it felt like they were searing my skin. They could pick out the beads of sweat on my brows, and every awkward shift of my weight as I rock back and forth, side to side. “Jun, tell us the story behind your dish,” the host chirps, breaking the silence and thrusting the microphone into my face.

(image credit: Eatery Los Angeles)

I glance at the plate in front of me: a chaotic swirl of saffron-infused rice, a garnish of scallions, and gochujang shrimp—my own spin to the dish. A Spanish-Korean paella. It looks impressive, like something you’d see on a glossy magazine cover. That’s exactly what I went for. Something to turn heads. 

(image credit: O'Food USA)

I clear my throat. “I drew inspiration from my time abroad in Spain,” I began, the words feeling rehearsed and empty as they left my lips. “I was always interested in other cultures, learning and bringing them to my own cooking. To my own childhood.”

The host nods enthusiastically, as if this prepackaged story was enough to add meaning to the senselessness on the plate. I try to ignore the thoughts floating in my mind—questioning whether I even believe myself.

Chef Gavi takes the first bite. His face is indecipherable at first, but then his eyes widen. “This is unexpected,” he says. “The smoky depth of the gochujang and the brightness of the saffron—it’s an innovative fusion of two contrasting flavours, where heat meets sweet.”

Another judge on the panel chimes in after taking a bite, adding, “You still get the sofrito, but with a layered twist at the end. Well done, Jun.”

The applause is instant, loud, and gratifying. I force a smile and shake everyone’s hands: the judges, the host, and the other contestants as I make my way back. Inside, I feel… hollow.

I think about my grandmother and the countless hours she spent cooking in her kitchen. I’m nothing like her. The dishes she made didn’t need explanations or some fancy presentation. They were honest and authentic, like her. But here I am, presenting a dish that feels like a stranger’s creation; a Frankenstein of borrowed parts.

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The other contestants present their dishes one by one, each more genuine than mine. In every round, there’s always one that sticks out from the rest. This time, it was Iman’s biryani, topped with slow-cooked chicken. The sweet, floral aroma of his rice moved me. It was boldly traditional, yet so rich and complex. But the judges’ reactions were… lukewarm.

“Nice flavours,” one says, “but perhaps too safe. It’s already been tried and done, and, honestly, we’re looking for something daring.”

Somehow, I end up winning the round with my fusion. Backstage, all the contestants come to congratulate me, but I manage to catch the flicker of disappointment in Iman’s eyes. 

It’s been 5 hours since, and I’m back in my hotel room. I stare at the TV screen piercing through the darkness, its radiant glow blinding my eyes. I think back to the judges’ praise, their obsession with the new and flashy. And to their disregard for Iman’s culture. Is this what I came here for? To be praised for how well I can dilute myself? 

I turn the TV off and push the thought away.

(image credit: The New Times)