Avocado Toast

The live lit essay that turned me into a momentary icon

On a previous newsletter, I wrote about how a rant on avocado toast catapulted me into the kind of community fame only a niche art form (live lit) in a Big City, Small Town (Chicago) can provide lol. I asked subscribers if they wanted to read it and 96% said yes. I’m sharing the essay below, which has been left in its original form except for a few typos. Without further ado:

An avocado toast worth every single penny. At El Pan de la Chola in Lima, Peru

Of all the hills to die on, avocado toast isn’t the obvious choice. When it comes to cultural appropriation, you can find way more damaging examples in the gentrification of Latino neighborhoods, the use of blackface in popular culture and the ever-present Native American headdress within 5 feet of Skrillex. And though all these things have made me shake my head, few trends have infuriated me as much as the presence of avocado toast in every overpriced boozy brunch hellscape in America.

It didn’t start this way. It didn’t have to be this way. In many Latin American households, and definitely in Peru, my home country, avocado toast is a mainstay in the kitchen. It’s a morning staple, an afternoon treat, a midnight snack. It is so ubiquitous, I had no idea it was a newfangled notion until it was declared the 2015 food trend of the year by the tastemakers of our time: Brooklyn Bloggers. When I first saw the Tastee videos teaching grown adults how to mash avocado and spread it on a piece of bread, I smiled. When I read the Food & Wine posts singing its praises, I nodded in agreement. At last, my adopted country was embracing what most Latinos have always known to be true: that avocado toast is a gift from the gods for our suffering in this cruel world. I would never want to deprive anyone of this fully satisfying breakfast. When it comes to politics, you could describe my party affiliation as that of Socialist Hedonism. I want everyone to enjoy the simple pleasures that I do.

The trouble began when the phenomenon trickled down to the Thrillists, the Buzzfeeds, the dark corners of Reddit, and the badlands of the Mommy blogosphere. For in its propagation, the humble Latin American origins of avocado toast were wiped away and replaced as a creation stemming from the “Clean Living” movement. I don’t know what the exact definition of “Clean Living” is, but I’m willing to bet my Peruvian ass that it somehow involves Lululemon, a $30 bag of hemp seeds, and at least one advocate named Mindy. All signs of evildoing. This terrible misinterpretation of history coincided with another scandal: the sudden appearance of the $10+ avocado toast menu item. Don’t believe me? Head to Dove’s Luncheonette in Wicker Park, Summer House in Lincoln Park, The Allis at upscale frat party Soho House, or any eatery that has an actual Head Mixologist.

You may be thinking, yes food fads are annoying. Of course, hipster joints are overpriced. But how is this any different from the small fortune you spend on ground coffee at La Colombe, Ines? Why are you calling out an urban trend when you yourself have been exclusively attracted to man buns in the last year?

Because this time, it’s personal.

Three factors about my life are important for understanding my rage. Let me begin by stating that I love food. With wild abandonment. It’s the kind of love that most people have for a long-term partner, a child, a weird identical twin that they share an invented language with. One of complete acceptance and the source of most of my happy memories. This love of food is coupled with a surprising and, I would say, miraculously healthy body image. Miraculous because, as any woman will tell you, you are bombarded from Day 1 with the message that you are a horrific deformed monster unbearable to the human eye. Unless you buy this moisturizing cream or use this lipstick, of course. As far as I’m concerned though, my yucca thighs and butter belly are evidence of a life well lived. A life based on that wise 21^st century Tao, The Tao of YOLO. I do wonder how I grew up to be so Zen about it and the only convincing theory I have is the following: as the daughter of a diplomat, I spent my formative years in three continents, six countries, and eleven cities. By the end, I realized that it is impossible to satisfy every single contradictory beauty standard thrust upon us. Women, the game is rigged. Cut your losses and go home. There is liberation in defeat.

This brings me to the third factor. The term I most identify with far more than woman, Peruvian, Latina, city-dweller, straight, cisgender, Gemini is “foreigner.” In a life full of inconsistencies and upheavals, the one thing that has remained the same is me as a foreigner, somewhere. Even in Peru, where I’ve only lived for a total of 8 years. Why I feel that way is another story for another time, but what I want to make clear with these 3 factors is this: The world will still shit on your food choices, simply by virtue of being a lady. Extra points if you add minority.

In my early years, the playground Thunderdome of suburban America was where ethnic strife flourished. Each brown paper bag held clear indications of whether you were gross or normal. As most immigrant kids can attest, the late 80s and early 90s were a peanut-ridden, Kool-Aid guzzling, Taco Bell-monopolized culinary wasteland. Feeding little Brayden organic quinoa-wrapped sashimi didn’t become a thing until the early aughts. So when I brought my homemade Peruvian delights, it was met with the cultural awareness that one expects at a Trump rally. And nothing was the target of more shame than a Triple, a three-decker sandwich made with tomato, hard-boiled eggs and, here we go, avocado. As soon as one of my classmates spotted it, the groans and retching would begin. “It looks like snot!!!!!! Boogers!!! Ewwwww!!!” The worst offenders predictably had Cheetos’ toxic orange powder crusting their teeth or irregular bowel movements from the mystery meat in their Lunchables, but my moral superiority did not matter. Avocado was not only a fruit, it was an unknown one and therefore shunned.

My teenage years in Argentina were not much better. Most of you may know it as the land of wine and meat. That is literally it. Argentinians have been on an alcoholic-approved paleo diet since the first cow-rearing Conquistador reached its shores. Having wiped out most of its indigenous population and pretty much killed off their Black one during a 19th-century war, Argentina is like the Vermont of Latin America. Diversity is a thing they really, really support as long as it’s not within their borders. And it shows in their food. They like it plain and straightforward and preferably as European as humanly possible so they can forget they’re considered Latinos by the rest of the world. Lunch at my house was a hard pass for some classmates who, at 5’2 and 90 pounds, considered me “curvy”. I was never quite sure if they were impressed or horrified when I polished off the last slice of pizza or an entire pint of ice cream in one go. Sometimes even in front of boys.

At my Canadian college, my roommate told me, point blank, that breakfast sandwiches were wrong. That’s all you need to know about her.

My grown-up years have become infinitely better, if only because it is now shameful to shame others about the shame they feel about their shameful food choices. I think. The United States has cooked, braised, grilled, pickled, sautéed, and baked its way out of its bland palate and into one of the most exciting food scenes in the hemisphere. The influence of ethnic groups in this front can’t be overstated. But it still creeps up. My vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free, lactose-intolerant friends always make a big deal about making sure they’re not culturally oppressing me if we share a meatless appetizer. Their well-meaning concern is fully informed by their fancy liberal art degrees in White Guilt that have somehow left them with the impression that Latinos must eat organs at all times. I have to use every ounce of the good etiquette my mamma taught me not to lash out at them. I’m not the one limiting my diet or food choices. And where the hell did they get the idea that people of an economic struggling country have tastes that only a Versailles King could afford?

I have to tell sommeliers that I like bold, dry, spicy wine, with not even the faintest whiff of sweetness because invariably they’ll notice I have a vagina and assume I want a boozy version of cotton candy. I once dared to order a sirloin steak at a restaurant. The waiter turned to me: “Are you sure? Most of our female patrons find it too fatty for their taste.” I wanted to answer back that most of his female patrons made terrible life choices. I decided to hold back for fear he would cut out the greasy portions in revenge. I nod politely when people mention how they really shouldn’t be eating that ice cream or are being bad by having that one piece of pie, but most of the time I want to yell at them that NO. YOU ARE A GROWN-ASS ADULT AND IT IS LEGAL TO EAT THAT SCOOP OF ROCKY ROAD OR SHOVE THAT RHUBARB PIE IN YOUR PIEHOLE. Wanting it does not make you bad, it makes you human. Refusing it doesn’t make you noble. Just deprived.

Avocado toast has been my preferred breakfast for years, just like Peruvian cuisine has been my main source of sustenance since day one. It is only in recent years that non-Peruvians have been exposed to our food and want to talk to me about it. For our country it’s a great source of pride, an acknowledgment of what we’ve always known to be true: we have the best food in the world and it’s just a shame it took the rest of you so long to realize it. I find it amazing that my non-Peruvian friends have gotten drunk off pisco sours and no longer spell ceviche with an s. But among these developments is the neo-colonialist notion that Peruvian food has been “discovered.” In other words, I could not, for the life of me, get many people to try it out until some intrepid First World dude gave it its seal of approval. A First World dude that probably came in the form of a rogue New York Times writer, considered edgy for venturing further south than Costa Rica. Or a venture capitalist Silicon Valley douche who really wanted to try Ayahuasca because his six-figure salary could not fill the emptiness inside. Avocado toast is a reminder that my endorsement will rarely be as powerful or as valid or as trusted.

Don’t take this as an attempt to repeal your right to this tasty dish. Mash up some avocado, put it on piece of hearty toasted bread. I prefer to add a bit of lime, and some salt and pepper. Top it off with ham or poached eggs or some tomatoes. But for the love of god don’t use a freaking credit card to pay for the damn thing. Here is the only time when it’s appropriate to pay more than $3.50 for avocado toast. The avocados must be flown fresh from a Peruvian grove in the Province of Piura, sprinkled with the pink Maras salt of the Andes, and garnished with queso fresco from the city of Cajamarca. Get that for me and I will gladly pay the price and shut up.

I feel like I need to add a few caveats though lol:

• I wrote this in 2017, to put it into the sociocultural context of the moment. This is very dated in so many ways but it also a nice slice of life of the Peak Millennial Hate Era.

• Part of the magic of live lit is the “live” part, which means that my tongue-in-cheek inflections might come off as aggressive??? LOL, I swear I’m not.

• My apologies to Argentina, I adore Argentina, and I wouldn’t write a serious article about its food in this way. However, there’s truth in comedy, etc etc etc. This isn’t meant to be a serious food article anyway.

• Australia is the only white-majority country that is exonerated from my critique since they too are avocado toast originators.

• I still spend a small fortune on La Colombe. I no longer date men with man buns.

---

What I’m Reading

• I’m finishing up all the half-read books on my nightstand before I move out of my Brooklyn apartment. A veritable hodgepodge of reading material! At the top of my pile is Leyendas del Sabor by Carolina Ronquillo, an essay/cookbook hybrid on the history behind some of Peru’s most important dishes.

• I read Yellowface (R.F. Kuang) and In Cold Blood (Truman Capote) while I was in the hospital, choices I’ll unpack on a therapist’s couch for many years to come. Yellowface was a quick and fun read, though I don’t like being way smarter than a protagonist as a reader—come on, if you’re going to be petty and Machiavellian, you have to be more strategic! I also didn’t think the foe earned their place in the narrative. As for In Cold Blood, I approached it with a writer’s eye. I was more interested in examining how Capote constructed the narrative than the narrative itself.

• Finished The Situation and the Story, Vivian Gornick’s instant classic on writing personal narrative. This quote gave me a lot to chew on: “…we have a set of memoirists whose work records a steadily changing idea of the emergent self. But for each of them a flash of insight illuminating that idea grew out of the struggle to clarify one’s own formative experience; and in each case the strength and beauty of the writing lie in the power of concentration with which this insight is pursued, and made to become the writer’s organizing principle. That principle at work is what makes a memoir literature rather than testament.”

What I’m Watching

• I live for Bravo and Prestige TV, but when the first murder scene in Ripley made my skin prickle and my stomach turn, I realized that now was not the time for television noir. I need low-stakes TV. All problems must be wrapped up by the end of the episode and pass the censorship of the major networks. I don’t know how long this mini-PTSD will last, but right now I’m finding a ton of satisfaction in Elsbeth, Palm Royale, and Suits—shows that defy storyline coherence and reject serious ambition in favor of digestible entertainment.

• It is with the utmost digust that I say the following: The Valley is Trash TV Treasure.

What I’m Listening

• This was on repeat the first few nights I spent in the ICU, when I could not believe that the year from hell had taken the extreme measure of almost killing me. Dramatic, much???? Sometimes I think my stubborn refusal to let the past 12 months defeat me is what kept me alive.

• My vibe is much more this right now. Even though I still can’t lift more than 10 pounds, walking too much makes me so sore I need to lie in bed for a day after, and scallion pancakes will send me to the toilet for a whole day. But whatever, give me a few more weeks/months!

What I’m Downloading

• This was my comfort podcast during my ICU stay. I needed to hear from women on the other side that middle age gets better. That the next 40 years are absolutely worth it.

---

Shameless Self-Promotion

• My May is too bananas to add on more work, but hit me with your June-August assignments! I’m still looking for more work in these areas:

  • Overseeing Spanish-language recording sessions.

  • Editorial/long-form work.

  • Journalistic and other media translation

  • Interview-based pieces. Think About Me sections, profiles, internal reports, etc.

• After pausing them while I recovered, my half-hour virtual Tarot readings are back on! The energy–it’s been turbulent! Tarot is a great way to clarify whatever has been bugging you lately. The suggested donation is $40. Books yours here.

• I finally added more looks to my Poshmark closet! Make me an offer. Soon, I’ll share links to my furniture sale.

• Thanks to all my new minty-fresh subscribers! Your support means a lot. I hope to see you soon in my weekly virtual write-ins. Interested in joining? Upgrade for the invite and access other benefits like samples of my pitches, freelance templates, and perks like city guides.