There’s a pivotal moment I wait for during every episode of Top Chef. After the judges take their first bites, there’s a pause of possibility. Will they hate the dish, or will they love it? What are they tasting, exactly? Umami, sugar, acidity? Will these flavors guarantee a win or send one chef packing?
Yes, the “first taste” moment is a staple of most cooking reality TV shows. But I love it so much now because for so long, I couldn’t appreciate that first bite of anything.
I developed an eating disorder in 2015, when I was in college. Even though I lived in New York City—a major gastronomical epicenter—I rarely went out to eat. Better to stay home where I could control every last calorie, I thought. Bogged down by diet culture, I had more or less settled for the same slate of “approved foods”—bland grains, greens, and plant proteins that kept me below a certain caloric intake. I never really “tasted” my food beyond noting if something needed more or less salt.
Post-graduation, I became less tied to diet culture, thanks, in part, to my career as a journalist. Through my reporting, I learned the pitfalls of a life piloted by restrictive eating, and slowly, I “healed” through therapy, intuitive eating, and writing. (Though the term “healed” has never felt quite apt to me).
“Diet culture is everywhere and our best efforts to limit its impact and exposure don’t completely eliminate the sneaky way it can creep in and steal some of the joy out of eating.” —Kristen Bunich, RD
I think I speak for many people with disordered eating histories when I say that the behaviors linger. Every year, you may shed a layer or two of restriction, but some food rules can feel impossible to banish. They shout at you when you pick up a piece of bread or (god forbid) order dessert. Kristen Bunich, RD of The Intuitive Dietitian explains it best: “Diet culture is everywhere and our best efforts to limit its impact and exposure don’t completely eliminate the sneaky way it can creep in and steal some of the joy out of eating.”
Consider how, for example, we tend to sort food into moral categories that we quickly internalize. “Superfoods” like kale and spirulina lounge on a throne of capital “H” Health, while palatable foods are banished to the nutritional basement—making you feel bad for craving them, much less eating them. “We are so trained in categorizing food it can be hard to enjoy those foods,” says Bunich. “What would it look like if we allowed all of these foods in and mindfully savored the foods?”
At the start of 2023, I was in the best place I’ve ever been in with food. I’d been working closely with a therapist to define what my future relationship with food might be. I was on a quest for food freedom through intuitive eating—a non-diet food philosophy that encourages people to connect with what their bodies need without judgement. “Letting go of binary thinking with food is a form of food freedom,” Bunich says. “[For example] instead of viewing all carbohydrates as ‘bad,’ you get the freedom to explore those foods and see how you feel after you eat them. How they taste alone or paired with foods. The energy they give your body alone or in combination with other foods.”
I think of intuitive eating as a call and response. My body tells me what it wants and I (try to) listen. But as I said, there are layers of eating disorder recovery, and I was about to discover another.
On Christmas Eve, I contracted a flu that could only be remedied with some horizontal time on the couch and lots of DayQuil. I wanted something to watch that would keep me interested without requiring too much brain power. In a fit of nostalgia, I chose Top Chef, a Bravo reality cooking show I’d loved as a teenager. The hosts and contestants would talk about food with a reverent passion akin to how I, a child with dreams of becoming a writer, would talk about books. The show helped teenage me begin my own cooking journey. I would time myself at the grocery store. I would ask my mom to buy me overpriced cookbooks from Anthropologie. I would make pasta and even try Julia Child recipes from scratch. My love of cooking burned bright—until my eating disorder extinguished it.
As the Top Chef judges hold the food to their lips, it’s evident that they’re looking for more than just great flavors on the fork; they’re looking for a little bit of magic… I wondered, “Why don’t I expect more of the food I eat?”
Lying on my couch in a feverish state in late 2023, I remembered what Top Chef did for me as a teenager. It taught me how to taste and smell, how to own what I liked and didn’t. I learned that there’s an intimacy of making a dish for someone you love. And, of course, it taught me the power of that first bite—and how good something can taste.
Slowly, a realization dawned on me. Even though I’d made progress in my intuitive journey, I still hadn’t fully leaned into this “first bite” energy. As the Top Chef judges hold the food to their lips, it’s evident that they’re looking for more than just great flavors on the fork; they’re looking for a little bit of magic. An unexpected spice. A blend of sweet and sour. Something, anything surprising. I sat up on my couch and wondered, “Why don’t I expect more of the food I eat?” I expect to be delighted by what I read… so shouldn’t I also expect to find delight in what’s on my plate?
After my body fought off the flu and my energy rebounded, I found myself experimenting with new, previously “forbidden” cuisines. Inspired by several chefs’ attempts, I made dumplings from scratch. Were they perfect? No. Did I almost cry when the dough became to dry? Yes. Did I eat and love them anyway? Absolutely.
I was in search of delight, and delight requires risk. “Most of us get into a routine of eating the same foods,” says Bunich. “Adding in some variety that may be inspired from a reality cooking show can keep your meals interesting, ensure you are getting a variety of nutrients, and expose your gut to a variety of [beneficial microbes],” says Bunich. In other words, expanding my palate and trying new things is genuinely good for your body and soul.
But most importantly (for me at least), cooking shows helped me relearn what diet culture would love you to forget: that food is an act of play, creativity, and love—both for ourselves, and others. It’s more than just calorie counts and macros and fuel.
I won’t pretend that Top Chef’s Quickfires and Elimination Challenges have stripped me of my diet culture conditioning for good. It’s still here within me, and I think I’ll live with it for a long time. What it has given me are a few moments a week of absolute awe; where the chef rules until they “pack their knives—and go.” Instead, I get brief, joyous glimmers where every calorie-counting habit and dumb dieting rule fades into the background, and my only judgement is: “Wow, this is delicious.”
