Across TikTok, fine-dining venues, and glossy food magazines, a curious trend has emerged: the glorification of “poor people’s food.” From gourmet reinterpretations of instant noodles to canned stews plated like art, the once-stigmatized staples of frugality are being recast as markers of taste and authenticity. This global movement—sometimes dubbed “poverty cosplaying”—reflects more than culinary irony. It reveals deep cultural shifts in how comfort, nostalgia, and social distinction are expressed through food. In an age of abundance and inflation alike, the humble meal has become a stage for emotional connection, ethical performance, and aesthetic play.
| Aspect | Details |
|---|---|
| Trend Name | Poverty Cosplaying |
| Key Components | Nostalgic comfort, working-class aesthetics, luxury reinterpretation |
| Spread | Global – U.S., Europe, Japan, South Korea |
| Examples | Gourmet ramen, deconstructed canned soups, “working-class chic” pop-ups |
| Social Media | TikTok #poorcore, Instagram “ugly food” trend |
| Demographics | Gen Z, urban millennials, creative elites |
| Wow Factor | Irony, emotional nostalgia, aesthetic minimalism |
| Trend Phase | Early mainstream adoption – high cultural awareness, ongoing debate |
The Roots of “Working-Class Chic”
Food has always been a mirror of class identity. In Pierre Bourdieu’s framework of taste and distinction, what one eats—and how—is a way of expressing belonging or aspiration. Today, this logic has evolved into a post-materialist paradox: affluent consumers gravitate toward dishes once associated with scarcity.
Across Seoul, Tokyo, London, and New York, ramen bars serve “upcycled” instant noodles for twenty euros a bowl. Restaurants design interiors with metal stools and fluorescent lighting, imitating factory cafeterias. Online, creators post videos titled “$1 meals made fancy” or “dining like the broke student I never was.” What unites these performances is not financial necessity but symbolic play—a flirtation with simplicity, labor, and authenticity that feels both nostalgic and self-aware.
According to an analysis in El País (“Being Distinguished: Why the Rich Like Certain Things and the Poor Others,”, affluent consumers tend to appropriate the symbols of lower-income cultures once these symbols lose their stigma. “Working-class chic” is therefore not an accident but a cultural cycle—where every sign of struggle eventually becomes aesthetic currency.
Comfort Food and the Pull of Nostalgia
While irony plays a role, the deeper force behind poverty cosplaying is emotional. Research on food nostalgia shows that familiar flavors evoke safety and belonging—particularly in times of uncertainty. In the study “Food Nostalgia and Food Comfort: The Role of Social Connectedness” (Reid et al.), participants associated simple, home-cooked dishes with stronger feelings of social connection and emotional stability.
After the pandemic and amid inflation, these emotional associations have intensified. Comfort foods—instant noodles, grilled cheese, tinned soup—represent reliability in a volatile world. They recall the kitchen table, the after-school snack, or the one meal everyone could afford. When chefs or influencers repackage these meals as luxury experiences, they are not only performing irony; they are also selling familiarity.
This nostalgia cuts across cultures. In Japan, “B-kyū gourmet” celebrates regional street food with pride. In South Korea, tteokbokki and ramyeon reappear in high-end contexts as markers of cultural continuity. In the U.S. and Europe, “poorcore” and “retro comfort” aesthetics borrow visual cues from post-war cooking, positioning them as both sentimental and sustainable. What looks like playacting poverty may, at its emotional core, be a search for roots in a fractured food landscape.
From Scarcity to Statement: Class and Performance
If comfort explains the why, performance explains the how. In the age of social media, food is not only eaten but exhibited. Poverty cosplaying thrives in this performative economy because it offers both irony and empathy in one image. A user filming themselves eating “gourmet spam musubi” communicates restraint, humor, and taste sophistication—while still participating in consumer culture.
Bourdieu’s theory of distinction helps decode this. The upper classes, he noted, seek symbolic difference rather than material excess. Today’s elite foodies flaunt anti-luxury luxury: dishes that appear humble but require insider knowledge, access to rare ingredients, or aesthetic awareness to appreciate. A 25-euro ramen is less about price than perception—it signals cultural literacy.
This dynamic also exposes tension. When affluent diners romanticize “poor food,” they can inadvertently erase the social realities tied to it. For many, canned meals or bulk staples are not nostalgic artifacts but economic necessities. The transformation of such foods into high-end novelties risks trivializing struggle. Yet for others, the reinterpretation can be empowering—reclaiming pride in foods long dismissed as inferior. The line between celebration and exploitation remains thin.
The Risks of Imitated Authenticity
Cultural appropriation in food has been debated for years, but poverty cosplaying adds a new layer: class appropriation. Turning working-class staples into lifestyle symbols can disconnect them from their historical meaning.
When restaurants design “factory-canteen chic” interiors or serve “deconstructed instant noodles,” they perform authenticity as spectacle. The dish is no longer about sustenance but story. As critics have observed, this performance offers emotional satisfaction without material solidarity. The aesthetics of hardship become an accessory to privilege.
Still, not all reinterpretations are cynical. Some chefs use the format to comment on inequality or sustainability. Others frame it as homage to their upbringing—transforming economic necessity into culinary creativity. The intent matters, but so does context: who profits, who’s represented, and who gets to decide what counts as “authentic”?
Ultimately, the trend forces a reckoning with how we value food narratives. Authenticity cannot be manufactured through nostalgia alone. It requires recognition of the lives, labor, and histories embedded in every “simple” dish.
Global Expressions of the Trend
The global spread of poverty cosplaying reflects both shared anxieties and connected aesthetics.
In East Asia, post-industrial urban life fuels fascination with retro minimalism. In Seoul, “banjiha chic” cafés (inspired by semi-basement apartments) echo cinematic tropes from Parasite. In Tokyo, the “Showa retro” boom merges thrift-store décor with vintage lunchbox menus. These spaces signal a longing for community and pre-digital authenticity.
In Europe, the energy crisis and inflation have normalized frugality. Yet the upper-middle class reframes austerity as virtue—through “upcycled dining,” local sourcing, or reclaimed ingredients. “Poorcore” cuisine in Berlin and Copenhagen rebrands leftovers as sustainability acts, giving moral and aesthetic capital to thrift.
In North America, TikTok drives much of the narrative. Hashtags like #brokefood and #uglydelicious celebrate imperfection while flaunting culinary skill. The New York Post reported on Gen Z “pimping up instant noodles with gourmet upgrades”. Here, irony meets entrepreneurship: creators monetize relatability while subtly reinforcing the value gap between real and staged scarcity.
Taken together, these variations reveal that poverty cosplaying is not merely a Western export but a global mirror of class anxiety. Whether born of nostalgia, humor, or critique, it expresses a universal desire to reconnect with the modest, the familiar, and the “real.”
Reclaiming Meaning in Everyday Food
The rise of poverty cosplaying challenges the food world to rethink authenticity. If everyone—from Michelin chefs to TikTok creators—draws from the same palette of “humble” ingredients, what distinguishes empathy from aestheticism?
One response is to re-center the social function of food. Family recipes, community kitchens, and comfort meals persist not because they look good online but because they sustain bonds. As the Food Nostalgia and Social Connectedness study suggests, emotional well-being is linked not to luxury but to familiarity. Recognizing this could shift the narrative from imitation to appreciation—from cosplaying poverty to valuing simplicity.
For the industry, the lesson is clear: authenticity is not an aesthetic choice but a social one. Restaurants and media that elevate “struggle food” responsibly can highlight resilience, resourcefulness, and cultural continuity. Those that treat it as costume risk alienating the very communities whose traditions they borrow.
In the end, the return of the humble meal might mark not decline but renewal. Beneath the irony lies a genuine hunger—for grounding, connection, and meaning in what we eat.
See also: Crave Shift – Why We’re Falling for Functional Indulgence