Craft Versus Content: The Sauce Was Thin
Garlic oil sticks to my fingers. Not the good kind. Cheap shit they wipe your hands with after filming the “authentic” hand-rolled pasta. No one ate it. They just shot the reel.
Back in Lygon Street. Where the foot traffic sensors don’t lie. Down 30% from 2015. Marketing people still call it a “vibrant Italian quarter.” Bullshit. Half the cafes are empty. Rent’s too high. The young kids don’t show up like they used to.
Brunetti’s notes
Fabio Angele pulls out his ordering pad. Full of numbers. Foot traffic declines. “I have a lot of thoughts,” he says.
He talks about the old days. When more than 700,000 people flooded the street for one weekend’s fiesta. You couldn’t move. Now? Empty tables. Sensors prove it. He shows me graphs. Split pages from his waiter’s book.
His eyes don’t match his smile. He wants to believe content saves craft. “Without Instagram,” he says, “we would not survive this.” He lets customers film their meals. Offers the best lighting. Pays staff to pose like they’re “hand-making” dishes.
He means it. He believes it. And that’s the problem.
Back of house
I remember Tuesday night. Behind Toto’s Pizza. Australia’s first pizza house.
Mario’s filming himself for TikTok. “Watch as I hand-knead this sourdough,” he says to the camera. Smiling. Winking. Slow-motion flour everywhere.
Camera off. He reaches under the counter. Pulls out pre-made dough from a plastic bin. No sourdough starter. No waiting. No craft.
I said nothing. Ordered the pizza anyway. Wanted to feel like I belonged to something real. Stupid.
Craft versus content
I used to think I was better than this. That content culture was killing real cooking.
Then I saw Chris at Riverside Deli. Greek migrant’s son Along Walker. No social media. No website. Just cooking.
“You want to post videos?” he asked me. “Go ahead. I have no time.” He changes his menu every day. Real cooking. No shortcuts.
But his customers are vanishing. Fewer office workers. Younger kids want Uber Eats. They don’t want food that changes daily. They want predictable content. Predictable food.
He’s wrong. I wanted to tell him. His food’s dying because it can’t be packaged. Because it doesn’t look perfect for the camera.
I felt it then. That cold resentment. Not for the system. For him. For making authenticity so fucking hard. For making me feel guilty about wanting both. The perfect reel and the perfect taste.
The pho stall
Queen Vic Night Market on Thursday. Crowds everywhere. Noise. Music. Smells.
A young chef films her pho broth. Steam rising. Perfect orange light. “Family recipe,” she tells the camera. “Four generations.” Her hands move slow. Beautiful.
Camera stops. She pours the store-bought base into the pot. Covers it with fresh herbs. Adds a bit of meat. Done.
I ate it anyway. Tasted okay. Not great. Thin.
Halfway through my bowl. She started filming again. Reset the scene. Made it look like she’d just started cooking.
Why do we keep doing this
I asked Mario about it. The next night. Between takes.
He looked tired. Really tired. “You think I want this?” he said. “But not doing it? My rent goes up. My staff lose jobs.”
He showed me his phone. Last month’s TikTok made him 200 new customers. Real people. Who came in. Ate.
“But they came for the video,” I said.
He gave me a look. Yeah. Stupid question.
“But they stayed,” he said. “They came back. Without the video? They never find us.”
He’s not wrong. The numbers prove it. Foot traffic down. Social media up. It works.
Problem is—what happens when the video stops working? When the performance becomes the only thing left?
I don’t know why I feel so angry about this. Why I resent him for making me need his performance. Why I want both. The camera angle that looks like craft. And the craft itself.
The sauce was thin. But I ate it anyway.
Midnight. The street’s emptying out. Mario films one last reel. “Goodnight Melbourne!” he shouts to his phone. Smiling big. Waving.
He turns off the camera. Drops his shoulders. Wipes his face. Reaches for the cheap soy sauce. Starts prepping for tomorrow.
The real tomorrow. Not the one we film.
