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Bad restaurant food

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Were 19th century European visitors to the United States inclined to be super critical about the food they ate in restaurants and hotels? It’s hard to know the answer, but they were often negative. An example was a woman from Scotland who grew so used to bad food that she was surprised to find a good breakfast in La Junta, Colorado, in the 1880s. She bonded with the proprietor, a German who had been trained in Paris, agreeing that Americans were mainly interested in quantity, not quality. [Note: old images were impossible to find, so I have used a variety of some I have collected over time, all from the latter 20th century.]

Delmonico’s in New York was, of course, a glowing exception. Outside of New York, however, the Delmonico name lost its majesty. A typical example was the Delmonico restaurant in Walla Walla WA. The local newspaper advised the new owner to change the name, noting that it had been eagerly adopted “by so many inferior restaurants and hotels about the country.”

Most Boston restaurants were judged bad. A Boston paper declared in the 1890s that “in no city of the same size are there such inferior restaurants, so little tavern life, and so little appreciation of good cookery . . .”

Widespread criticism continued into the 20th century when keeping fresh food in cold storage for extended periods was targeted as a major culprit, added to the fact that Americans didn’t know how to order in a restaurant and bolted down their food.

In a 1920s essay, food writer Elizabeth Robins Pennell viewed cafeterias and the automats as proof that Americans cared little for food. The automat was perfect for those who didn’t want to waste time eating, she declared, “since after you put your money in the slot, the sandwich or salad, the coffee or chocolate that comes out may be swallowed as you stand – not one fraction of a second lost in a hunt for a seat.” She judged that “The man who first wrote ‘Eats’ above his restaurant door spoke the truth better than he knew, in one word pointing out to us the depths to which we have sunk.”

Duncan Hines criticized the nation’s restaurant mercilessly in the 1940s. He felt it was more dangerous to eat your way across the country than to drive across it. He admitted that he “would like to be food dictator of the U.S.A. just long enough to padlock two thirds of the places that call themselves cafes or restaurants.” He was expressing a common view of the food available to highway travelers, as also expressed in a 1951 Life magazine article which concluded that “In whatever region he is traveling, the American tourist soon finds that good simple American cooking is an elusive myth.”

But it wasn’t as though the dining public was necessarily going to fare better in cities. Occasionally restaurant reviewers revealed how unenthusiastic they were about a restaurant, without exactly trashing it. In a review a San Antonio oyster restaurant’s food, decor, and service were branded in turn as okay, inoffensive, and not exciting or depressing. The conclusion was that “You can pay a lot more for a lot less, and that’s the most exciting news of this review.”

In 1968 a columnist summed up restaurants of that time by agreeing with an experienced professional that mediocre restaurant food had become the norm. As examples he mentioned ‘The drive-in eatery, the Ma-and-Pa hash-house, the roadside ‘Stop-and-Eat’ wagon, the Main Street ‘Greasy Spoon.’ Hamburger. Ham-and-eggs. Canned fruit salad. Buns and coffee, and suggested diners might as well just “Take what they put before you. Slather it with ketchup. Eat and hurry on.’

By the 1980s, chain restaurants had become omnipresent across the nation. Two Chicago Tribune critics ranked 15 chains. They agreed that overall the quality of food in them was “mediocre.” The bottom five, which included the Ground Round (fatty, flavorless, and overcooked beef), Howard Johnson’s (rubbery clams, over-breaded shrimp, too much fried food), the International House of Pancakes (nothing-special crepes, old toppings, tough steak, plain lettuce salads), Shakey’s (substandard pizza, starchy buffet), and Wag’s (withered salad greens, chili tasting like canned), came in for heavy criticism.

However much patrons might complain about food (or service) in a restaurant, they tended to make their peace and accept less than perfection at restaurants that they frequently patronized. They kept their criticisms to themselves – even though restaurateurs say they would have preferred to hear them.

In 1993 columnist Kevin Cowherd described a fantasy eruption of anger that might occur after taking a bite of bad food in a restaurant: “. . . it’s so awful that you spit the food into your hand and fling it angrily at the ceiling and then stand up, backhand all the silverware and glasses off your table and scream . . .” He admits he never threw a fit like this but says, “Just once I want to react to lousy restaurant food with a major, king-hell tantrum that shakes the walls and peels the paint and makes everyone around me cringe.”

Whew!

© Jan Whitaker, 2026



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acdha
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“An example was a woman from Scotland who grew so used to bad food that she was surprised to find a good breakfast in La Junta, Colorado, in the 1880s. She bonded with the proprietor, a German who had been trained in Paris, agreeing that Americans were mainly interested in quantity, not quality.”
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ACT UP in Louisiana Was Pragmatic, Bold, Creative. Let’s Learn From It.

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Nearly four decades have passed since ACT UP (the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) started in New York in 1987 as a direct action activist group “united in anger and committed to direct action to end the AIDS crisis.” The 1980s were a time of mass death and government inaction, and ACT UP responded with confrontational protests that disrupted business as usual to force change.

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Scientists Find That 96 Percent of Delicious Tuna Is Infected With Parasitic Worms

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For seafood lovers, there are few things more appealing than a simple slab of raw tuna — a fish whose fatty, savory, and tender muscle tissue has been a delicacy for thousands of years.

Unfortunately for those foodies, fresh raw fish comes with the distinct possibility of parasitic infection. Off the coasts of southern Brazil, that risk is rising, as hauls of the common skipjack tuna come with the near certainty of parasitic contamination.

That’s not an exaggeration. According to a new report published in the journal Ocean and Costal Research and flagged by ScienceAlert, a whopping 96 percent of a recent load of tuna was infested with gut-busting worms.

Out of 53 skipjack, marine researchers counted over 1,600 worms infesting nearly every organ of every fish hauled in from the ocean. Only the kidneys and hearts of the tuna remained worm-free, the researchers noted. Everything else, including the muscle tissue we humans eat, was festering with flatworms and roundworms.

Though most preparation methods will kill the parasites, the images are pretty off-putting. As the researchers explain, the sheer volume of parasitic infection is alarming.

“These results highlight the importance of sanitary inspection and emphasize the importance of immediate evisceration to avoid the migration of larvae from the viscera to the musculature,” the authors write.

Still, parasitologists say the worms aren’t all bad. Though increased presence of worms also comes with more risk of infection, University of Washington parasitologist Chelsea Wood told ScienceAlert in a prior story that they can actually be a sign that the fish is well-sourced.

“Everyone assumes that worms in your salmon is a sign that things have gone awry,” Wood said. “But the anisakid [roundworm] life cycle integrates many components of the food web. I see their presence as a signal that the fish on your plate came from a healthy ecosystem.”

More on food: Scientists Turn Plastic Waste Into Edible Cookies Because That’s the Future We Deserve

The post Scientists Find That 96 Percent of Delicious Tuna Is Infected With Parasitic Worms appeared first on Futurism.



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rocketo
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maybe the AI art of food was on to something

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How Cyber Sleuths Tracked a Nigerian Scammer to His Doorstep

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This is an adaption of a podcast interview 404 Media recorded with Erin West and Paul Raffile. Check out the whole thing here on YouTube.

Erin West and Paul Raffile stepped out of their van about 45 minutes outside Lagos, Nigeria, and walked down a muddy hill. At the bottom, they entered a field with houses made of corrugated steel and cardboard. Raffile kept falling into the mud.

After walking about a quarter of a mile, the pair came to a hut, six feet high on stilts, and climbed up a ladder. Inside was the baba lao, a local spiritual leader. The baba lao was going to do a ritual designed to ensure a Nigerian scammer would make more money in his blackmailing or manipulation of an overseas victim, maybe back in the United States.

A scammer who accompanied West and Raffile had a photo of the victim he was trying to get money from, and the identity he had impersonated to do so. The baba lao then fused these two souls together to bring more fortune to the scammer, Raffile recalled. For two and a half hours, the baba lao jumped between grinding herbs, creating talismans, sacrificing an animal. Locals gathered outside the hut.

West and Raffile are scam experts: West is the founder of Operation Shamrock, an organization that aims to disrupt scam operations, and Raffile is a long time cybercrime researcher, who focuses especially on sextortion. This is where scammers, like those in Nigeria, will assume the identity of a young person, approach teenagers in the U.S. on apps like Instagram, have them record explicit videos, then pull the mask away and threaten to release the videos to the victim’s friends and family unless they pay up. Sextortion is common across U.S. social media platforms; at least dozens of young boys have taken their own lives after being targeted.

The pair hatched a plan to go to Nigeria to see if they could actually track down a scammer. The trip provided rare insight into how some scammers live and how brazenly many of them flaunt their scams.

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Sextortion is “targeting youth. It's surging,” Raffile said. “I wonder, can we hatch a plan where we put ourselves out there as a target, create our own fake account, get scammed by these criminals, and then trace the criminal back to their home turf?”

They made an Instagram and Snapchat account pretending to be a young person. Within a couple of days, they started receiving suspicious direct messages. West said she was “flabagasted” at how quickly the messages came in.

The scammers were pretending to be young women, often using photos stolen from OnlyFans models. As the chat progressed and the scammers demanded money, the pair said they could only pay in Bitcoin, and sent a link to a website where the scammer could allegedly claim their payment. The site was actually grabbing the scammers’ IP addresses. It showed the scammers were in Lagos, Nigeria. With not much to go on just yet, the pair got on a flight to Nigeria.

Once they landed, they had around six days to find a scammer. It would not be financially viable to sit around in Lagos forever. The pair deployed the IP address grabbing website again, but this time one of the scammers granted the tool more permissions in his browser. The tool was also designed to, if possible, get their exact location, or turn on its camera and see their face. This time, it worked. They had a scammer’s face.

At one point, another scammer asked the pair to move from Instagram, where the conversation initially happened, over to WhatsApp, which revealed the scammer’s phone number. The pair’s fixer put that number into TrueCaller— an app that harvests peoples’ phone contact lists and makes them searchable, essentially — which revealed the name Big Dollar. West also provided the number to some contacts who investigated it. They worked with another expert too who was able to dig up more information and find the scammer’s real name. They then found other social media profiles belonging to Big Dollar, including a TikTok account that had posted blackmail messages. The pair were given GPS coordinates of where this scammer might be.

They drove to Big Dollar’s village, and ultimately he refused to meet the pair. West told Big Dollar on the phone, we know who you are, we know where you live, and the next step is we’re going to give this information to the FBI. Around this time, they saw Big Dollar’s social media accounts go dark. 

West said, “it was an interesting opportunity to really put some fear in a class of people who aren't really afraid of being arrested.”

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People started building artificial beaver dams in California. Now something "mind blowing" is happening

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It’s well known that beaver dams transform landscapes. In their absence, artificial versions were built in northern California to recreate lost wetlands – boosting the survival of threatened coho salmon. 

The findings are published in Frontiers in Ecology and Evolution. Fish biologist Michael Pollock of NOAA’s Northwest Fisheries Science Center called the results “mind blowing”. 

The Scott River valley in northern California was once home to so many beavers it was known as Beaver Valley. Their dams created an enormous riverine wetland, providing habitat for juvenile coho salmon and a host of other wildlife. 

Then European fur trappers arrived in the 1830s. Thousands of beavers were trapped and killed, and much of the habitat created by their dams and wetlands was lost – taking with it the cold, slow-moving habitat favoured by coho salmon. 

Coho salmon in French CreekA coho salmon in French Creek, a tributary of Scott River, California. Credit: David Herasimtschuk, FreshwatersIllustrated

With the beavers all but gone, in 2015 the nonprofit Scott River Watershed Council built two artificial dams on a tributary called Sugar Creek. Wooden posts were hammered into the streambed, interwoven with willow and conifer branches, then the gaps were plugged with gravel, straw and mud.

Three years later, several more dams were built on another tributary, called French Creek. From time to time, the remaining beavers even chipped in, repairing, modifying and sometimes expanding the dams. “When beavers do adopt a structure, their work is far superior to what we can accomplish,” says Charnna Gilmore from the Scott River Watershed Council. 

Chinook salmon passing an artificial beaver damChinook salmon passing an artificial beaver dam. Credit: Scott River Watershed Council

The artificial dams held, creating around 9,000 square metres of new habitat with the capacity to support more than 8,500 young salmon. Compared with areas where no new dams were built, the water in the restored habitats stayed cooler, avoiding temperatures known to stress the fish and slow their growth. Juvenile coho survival rates soared, from 8% before the dams were built in French Creek to 60% afterwards.

Juvenile coho survival rates soared, from 8% before the dams were built in French Creek to 60% afterwards.

Coho salmon spend their first summer in freshwater before heading out to sea and later returning to the streams to breed. Two years after the first dams were built, more salmon were returning to the Scott River than to any of the other rivers monitored in the study. And while salmon numbers elsewhere remained low, returns to the Scott River stayed healthy, even during severe drought.

Small, low-cost interventions yielded big, impressive results. But it’s bittersweet. “My take is that the artificial dams have helped people remember what the beaver can do and how integral they are to the health of stream ecosystems,” says Pollock. “But beavers can only thrive if landowners allow them to.” 

Find out more about the study.

Coho salmon, French CreekFollowing the construction of the dams, juvenile coho salmon survival rates soared from 8 in French Creek. Credit: Herasimtschuk, FreshwatersIllustrated

Top image: Sugar Creek, California. Credit: Scott River Watershed Council

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2026 Genius Award Winner in Performance: Betty Wetter & TUSH

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If you’ve ever found yourself squished into the nearly always sold-out audience of TUSH at Clock-Out Lounge on Beacon Hill, you’ll know that you need to expect the unexpected. You might see a drag queen do a beautiful rendition of a Beach House track, or another queen literally “ski” across the tables of the bar while “Chariots of Fire” blasts over the speakers. Either way, make sure you tip.

Led by Seattle powerhouse Betty Wetter, TUSH is a bimonthly drag- and burlesque-fueled show that continually feels fresh. The show’s cast is venerated, but the members aren’t precious or pretentious about their work. Rather, you get to see performers at their best and most experimental, playing around with ideas both silly and serious to a rapt crowd. It’s become a space where some of the coolest performance is happening right now. And, fuck, is it so much fun to watch.

Officially established in 2018, TUSH has assembled a boisterous cast—everyone brings something different to the party. There’s Miss Texas 1988, who’s been a cast member from the beginning and is a consistent kooky presence (she’s also a Stranger contributor and will cohost the Genius Awards). Pussy Willow ups TUSH’s raunch factor, and Moscato Sky brings burlesque and vocal prowess to the stage. Beau Degas (who, famously, beat then-future Drag Race competitor Bosco for her spot on the cast) marries high drag with deeply weird ideas, while Angel Baby Kill Kill, a bona fide storyteller, incorporates the freakiest touches to her numbers. Amora Namor serves fabulosity on a platter, and Stasia Coup—winner of a six-month residency via the 2026 CompeTUSHion—always has the most intricately unhinged set pieces.

Resident DJ dark wiley is behind the decks, fomenting a musical atmosphere that toes the line between nostalgic throwbacks and full-on turn up. And, of course, leading the chaos is Betty, the mistress of ceremonies, anchoring the show with her trademark wit and gay commentary. As TUSH’s ringleader, she conducts the madness in a way that makes the audience feel well taken care of, whether she’s asking the crowd to whoop for queens or giving everyone a political action item to do once they get home.


Rather than gesturing to this idea of “community” and calling it good, the TUSH cast takes their platform seriously.

Behind the scenes, Betty encourages her TUSH bedfellows to do whatever brings them joy. “There’s no theme, I don’t push anybody in any direction—I want them to chase the ideas they want,” says Betty. “I truly think that’s the core of what makes everybody so good.”

But TUSH’s definition of queer performance extends well beyond drag. TUSH brings art to its audience that they might not have come out for otherwise. Over the years, Clock-Out’s gold-curtained stage has welcomed all manner of queer performers including the Drama Tops, Woody Shticks, ATM, Quincy Yeoman, and 2015 Genius Award winner Cherdonna Shinatra. On a recent night, I watched dance duo the Bonnies roll around with cucumbers in their mouths, twirling on platform shoes made of pickle jars. It was as confounding as it was entrancing, an inspired, offbeat performance nestled perfectly amongst all the drag and burlesque numbers surrounding it.

That freewheeling approach to curation depends on a solid sense of trust between TUSH and its audience. “They’ll go with you on a journey, and I think this show has pushed me more than any other show,” says Miss Texas 1988. “They’re so supportive. I constantly want to do my best for them.”

Betty Wetter (center) leads TUSH, the beloved bimonthly drag show comprising (clockwise from top left): Angel Baby Kill Kill Kill, Beau Degas, Pussy Willow, DJ Dark Wiley, Amora Namor, Miss Texas 1988, Stasia Coup, and Moscato Sky. Credit: Billie Winter

That support is palpable at every show—the crowd is engaged, regularly hollering at the stage, tossing ones into the tip buckets that go around, and laughing their asses off. Their attention is its own presence in the room, empowering the performers to go out on a limb. It’s perhaps no surprise that this respectful, engaged crowd—hungry to be challenged—consists largely of lesbians and trans people. (More than once, I have gone to a TUSH show and felt like I’ve stepped into a vortex of friends’ exes and people who have ghosted me on Tinder.)

“Drag caters to white cis men so often. I would honestly say that they are the minority and the most picked on at our show,” says Betty. “Obviously everybody is welcome, but the lesbian and trans community have really lifted us up. And in return we want to make sure that they’re welcome and have a space to be and to see good entertainment.”

That attentive support has led to financial stability for the cast that’s often hard to find at other drag gigs. While they are by no means paid what they are worth (every queer performer deserves $1 million a year and free health care for life, full stop), a TUSH gig means consistent tips, merch sales, and sold-out shows at a venue that wants them to succeed. That stability and renown have expanded TUSH’s reach outside of Clock-Out and into other parts of the community—you may have seen TUSH at a Seattle Reign FC game, a Seattle Storm game, or Pride in the Park, spreading the gospel of queer performance to the masses.

“We’re in a place where we’re continuing to grow every month,” says Moscato Sky. “You ask [the audience], who’s new? And it’s constantly a loud roar of people screaming at you. I think that’s so beautiful.”

Rather than gesturing to this idea of “community” and calling it good once they take their final bows after each show, the TUSH cast takes their platform seriously. In 2024, Betty, along with Elby Brosch and Shane Donohue of Drama Tops, started the Queer Sick Pay Fund (qSPF), an organization that pays Seattle-area queer performers who have to miss their gigs due to illness or injury. Nightlife is a space with little in the way of a safety net, and artists routinely have to push through illness, injury, and burnout in order to make enough money to live. Finding a fiscal sponsor in Velocity Dance Center, qSPF is an effort to fill that gap, compensating queer artists for income lost when they need to take time off.

TUSH regulars have been some of the biggest supporters and donors of qSPF, Betty says. That support helped the organization to launch another community effort—the Gender Affirming Care Grant. Every quarter, qSPF gives out one $5,000 grant and five $1,000 grants to trans folks actively planning a gender-affirming surgery or procedure. So far this year, qSPF has raised nearly $40,000 in donations.

“It gives us a foundation to work off of. We constantly talk about having a platform, like, what do I do with this?” says Betty. “For myself, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to keep using it to do cool stuff.” 


More 2026 Genius Award Winners
Film | Food | Literature | Music | Performance | Visual Art

The post 2026 Genius Award Winner in Performance: Betty Wetter & TUSH appeared first on The Stranger.

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