That One Dish Spotlight, No. 8: Dennis Lee

Guess what, clowns - we're talking with the greatest food writer in history about stupid food, his creative process, and a comforting childhood Korean-Chinese dish

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The that one dish. spotlight is a column that connects us with amazing AAPI writers, artists, chefs, creators, and entrepreneurs who talk about the “one dish” that best captures their experiences living at the intersection of one or multiple cultures. Everyone’s got “that one dish” that provokes a certain emotion, becomes a staple they lean on in the ups and downs of life, or immediately transports them to a formative time, Anton Ego-style. Our personal experiences continue to show how food and the five senses involved with both making and enjoying it evoke vivid memories that serve as meaningful links to the past. You can check out TOD’s archive of past interviews here.

Very seldom do I genuinely laugh out loud when reading something. A humorous article or social media post I read will more likely elicit a BATMN (Blew Air Through My Nose) than an LOL—much less an LMAO. But tucking into the latest edition of the Substack newsletter, “Food is Stupid,” penned by food writer and fellow Chicagoan Dennis Lee, often has me CHAMOMGUMB (Chuckling Heartily and Muttering “Oh My God” Under My Breath”) or even a SOMCOTBDMWCTTO (Spitting Out My Coffee on the Bus During My Weekly Commute to the Office). “Food is Stupid'' is Dennis’ anti-food food newsletter (a more refined iteration of his award-winning blog, “The Pizzle”), where he concocts brilliantly absurd culinary experiments that run the gamut from making no-knead bread with grape Gatorade to coating a whole black truffle with Shake ‘N Bake and deep-frying it to cooking cacio e pepe with bully sticks (also known as dried bull penises—thus turning cacio e pepe into “cacio e peepee”). 

Dennis’ content is certainly a contrast from the picture-perfect, aesthetic food that we’re used to seeing on recipe blogs and in glossy mags, but his background in food writing (he’s contributed to Serious Eats and Bon Appétit) and experience in the kitchen (he used to work as a pizza maker) inform his unhinged, ludicrous creations in such a way that make them inventive pieces of performance art—rather than haphazardly-made gross food thrown together for the sake of garnering views and likes (for those here on TikTok, y’all know what I’m talking about). Call it culinary heresy if you want, but “Food is Stupid” has garnered the attention of plenty of chefs and food editors, in addition a community of 6000+ dedicated subscribers who tune in every week to watch him transform A5 Wagyu beef into Hamburger Helper and turn ground-up hot dogs into smashburgers. I’ve always thought of Dennis’ work and writing style to be not just a breath of fresh air in the perfectly polished, heavily-edited food media landscape, but a wickedly funny, intelligently-written commentary on the current age of senseless social media food trends and heated arguments over who makes the best roast chicken or spaghetti bolognese. It’s a refreshing reminder that food is food, and doesn’t always need to be taken too seriously.

Anyway, I’m really stinking proud of Dennis and all the work he’s done these past few years. I had the honor of working with him back in 2018, when he wrote a lovely piece about jjajangmyun for the fourth issue of Dill Magazine, and again a few years later when he shared with us just how well oysters do in kimchi. This is a full-circle moment, and I’m so elated to have him with us for this week’s dispatch of “That One Dish.” Read on for my conversation with the self-professed “professional assclown” and “The Greatest Food Writer in History” on what constitutes “stupid food,” how he stays inspired, and, of course, the one dish that best captures his Korean-American identity. Be sure to tune in next week—we’ll be featuring Dennis’ recipe for a Taco Bell bibimbap (yup, you read that right) that he contributed to Matt Rodbard and Deuki Hong’s latest cookbook, “Koreaworld.” If you’re not subscribed, be sure to do so below to make sure every dispatch gets conveniently delivered to your inbox. And now, without further ado …

Photo by Clayton Hauck

Walk me through your thought process on ideating foods for your newsletter. How would you define “stupid food?” 

I really draw from what’s going on, both in pop food culture or Internet culture, or just things I find ridiculous about food—say, people’s constant obsession with messing around with pasta, and people getting really mad about something like carbonara and the proper way to make it. Then when everybody argues over that, suddenly somebody comes up with a different version of it and then everybody gets mad again. I’m, like, it’s the same dish over and over again. So, I’ll find little absurdities in all that, then zoom in and think, well, why is everybody so angry about this? There are other foods other than pasta, guys! I’ll look at stuff that makes me have an emotional reaction, then immediately jump on it and think, what is it about this thing that’s pissing me off? Why does this look so stupid to me? Then what’ll happen is that I’ll condense that into a subject line for the newsletter. If I say it out loud—like with the gender reveal chicken cordon bleu—and can’t get all the way through saying it without laughing, that’s sort of my test to see if all these concepts are ringing all at once. 

Much of the food media landscape is driven by beautiful photos of food, styled and dolled up to the point where it’s too pretty to eat. Or food that’s been so heavily edited or even compromised just to follow a certain aesthetic. Your content is the antithesis of all that, yet there’s this ingenious absurdism that comes from making puppy chow out of literal puppy chow or an oyster shooter out of a Monster Energy drink. Can you elaborate on that? 

When you cook for yourself, what does your food look like? I made a ham sandwich for lunch with some cheese, mayo, and giardiniera. And I had potato chips with it. I work from home, and if I’d been in an office like I used to be, I’d probably pack myself something similar. We don’t normally glorify what we eat on an everyday basis. A lot of times food just looks gross, like, food can just naturally look gross as a product. All the garnishes and stuff we do are really wonderful, but, you know, I’m not chopping up herbs for my frozen pizza or anything. Part of it is to say that, yes, I’m playing with food in such an absurd way, but it’s still the same kind of stuff you’d make as a home-level cook. None of this stuff ever looks good. If you look at the photos [on my newsletter], they’re just taken on my phone. They’re always poorly lit, but most people’s kitchens are probably poorly-lit. Everything’s sloppily thrown together, but that’s also who I am. People have got to relate to it somehow. 

What do you normally eat in a day? 

Pretty much whatever. Since I write a lot of pop culture stuff for my day job, I get a lot of samples so I’ll have to try new sauces, potato chips, lots of junk like that. But I’ll eat anything I can get my hands on, whether it’s Taco Bell or just cooking ourselves pretty simple dinners of veggie-heavy stuff with some protein. A bit of Korean food, stuff I get from Joong Boo that’s really easy to put together. If it’s just me and my wife, who am I flexing for? If we have sandwich meat for lunch or ramen noodles that we dress up, it’s whatever. I eat way worse than how I think most food writers would openly admit to eating. People can’t constantly be eating super aesthetic food unless they’re doing photo shoots or recipe research for their books. 

How do you stay inspired after having consistently written this sort of content for several years? 

I’m like a kid when I come up with ideas. When you were younger, wouldn’t you come up with ideas and think to yourself, wouldn’t it be hilarious if I just did that? But, instead of letting my adult brain kick in and stop myself from doing something an adult would normally stop themselves from doing, I just say, well, yeah, it would be really funny if I made a Crunchwrap filled with garbage or stuffed a hot dog into an Olive Garden breadstick. I entertain that childlike sense of wonder. Like those playground dares where it’s, like, “Oh, I bet he won’t eat that.” I may as well try it, or else the question in my mind later will be, why didn’t I try it? I’m a living example that you won’t necessarily die if you tried that little tame thing you were all curious about, you know? 

What’s the most memorable food you’ve made—if not on the newsletter, back in the day on The Pizzle?

One of the things that did almost make me throw up was this Play-Doh empanada I did for The Pizzle. Play-Doh is obviously not meant to be eaten, but it’s made to be non-toxic in the case somebody does ingest it, like a child. It’s primarily made of wheat flour, with some scent put into it, salt, and some borax. It tastes so bad. I took a bite of one of them, and that was the first thing I think I’ve ever eaten where I just almost straight-up lost it. I couldn’t get the flavor out of my mouth. I was in a huge panic. I never really felt that way. I’ve pulled away from cooking with non-food objects since then, because I found out that kids read my newsletter—so I don’t want to give them the wrong idea.  

What's one dish that captures who you are as a Korean-American? Something that best encompasses your life, your experiences, your existence—without thinking of what's authentic, what dish is the most "you?"

Tangsuyuk (탕수육). It’s a dish you can only get at a Chinese-Korean restaurant (where you’d normally get jjajangmyun or jjampong). It’s deep-fried pork or beef tossed in a thick sweet-and-sour sauce. It’s one of the things I grew up with that was a really special thing to eat. It’s so easy to eat. It’s fried, sweet, salty—something I can never get enough of when I have it.

Are there any specific memories associated with that dish? Does it invoke any specific feelings? 

We had a lot of family get-togethers to celebrate things like an elder’s 60th birthday—which is really important in Korean culture. We’d go to a Chinese-Korean restaurant and order tangsuyuk along with a bunch of other dishes like Mongolian beef or jjajangmyun. There’d be a lazy Susan in the middle of the table, with amazing amounts of food spinning around in front of you. It reminds me of getting together with family, celebrating something, and eating. 

And finally, I just have to ask you—how does it feel being the greatest food writer in all of history? 

Very lonely. You’re up at the top just looking down, and nobody can touch you. 

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.