Health coach Arielle Haspel had a dream: Open a Chinese restaurant where food-sensitive diners could pig out without fear.
There was only one problem: She wasn’t Chinese.
Ready the cherry-picking Woke among us.
Arielle and her husband, Lee, cut the ribbon on Manhattan’s Lucky Lee’s.
At good ol’ LL’s, the lo mein wouldn’t make ya feel “bloated and icky;” and nothing was “too oily.” Arielle’s Instagram said so.
Apropos, she advertised her easy-on-the-gut eatery as “clean.”
Wanna see some dumbness? I give you The New York Times:
[A] stream of food writers posted about how Ms. Haspel’s decision to brand her Chinese food as “clean” was dredging up stereotypes that were hurtful to Chinese-Americans, not to mention tone-deaf.
Tone-deaf! Hurtful! Bad white people! Bad!
In fact, Arielle had no business serving Chinese food, period. Her chopstick logo, her bamboo-bedazzled decor…hateful racist appropriating theft!
Everyone knows that only someone whose relatives were born in China has the right to enjoy chicken fried rice.
No word yet why Asians are allowed to have a hot dog. I guess the weenies haven’t gotten to that yet.
But they’ve gotten to Arielle:
[S]he was portrayed by critics on social media as the latest in a string of white restaurateurs who have promoted their Asian cuisine by labeling it as superior to food made by actual Asians.
Exactly — the worst thing you can do in business is tout your product as superior.
In this case, that’s white supremacy.
Also in this case: Supreme Moronity.
This is where we are. But Arielle’s in the wrong, too. She’s made that worst of all possible mistakes in response to social justice war — the one Tucker Carlson knows to avoid (here); she’s apologized:
“We are so sorry. We were never trying to do something against the Chinese community. We thought we were complementing an incredibly important cuisine, in a way that would cater to people that had certain dietary requirement.”
How about this response instead: It’s just food. And no individual or group owns a culture. And a whole lot of this.
As it stands, if you’re in Manhattan, in the mood for Kung Pao, and have a delicate gut, you may be faced with a startling predicament: You can be a racist or have diarrhea.
These are the difficult decisions one must make, at the most enlightened time in history.
They call that a “Sophie’s choice” — when both options are crappy.
Kung Pao or Dung POW!
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