The term "foodie" may have peaked, and faded, but its spirit is now woven into American culture. Once, being a foodie meant seeking out rare cheeses, enduring hourslong lines for pastries, and knowing the backstory of every chef in town. It was a subculture powered by TV stations like Food Network and shows like Bravo's Top Chef, which, along with the rise of the internet, gave enthusiasts a new shared language and an endless stream of content.
In the early 2000s, foodies drove the shift from elite gourmandism—once a marker of wealth—to something more democratic, per Eater. Food TV, blogs, and review sites like Yelp expanded the universe of what counted as culinary excellence, elevating street tacos and halal carts alongside fine dining. The 2008 recession and the rise of smartphones only accelerated the trend, as social media made every meal Instagrammable and every eater a potential critic.
But as the culture went mainstream, cracks appeared. The obsession with authenticity, often filtered through a white, outsider gaze, could feel stifling or appropriative. At the same time, the boys club image of rock-star chefs began to crumble amid allegations of abuse and misconduct. Foodie fandom, like any other, faced its reckonings.
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Today, "foodie" has become almost an insult—a relic, like "metrosexual." The idea that curiosity about food warrants a special label seems outdated, now that food talk saturates everything from social media to office banter. Yet, the core impulse remains: People still geek out over new dishes, track down the latest pop-up, and debate the merits of a perfect bowl of noodles. The language, and that sense of discovery, are here to stay, even if few want to claim the "foodie" title anymore. Still interested? WalletHub has a list of the best US cities for foodies, while Michelin spotlights the best foreign cities for lip-smacking repasts.
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