Food: A man seated across a sizzling tawa on the footpaths of Rawalpindi flips over kebabs with the ease of a maestro. The lens captures it all: the crispy sounds, the shabby lighting, and a plate handed over to the customer. Within a few hours, the clip racks up hundreds of thousands of views. It’s soothing, pleasing, and strangely emotional. But what is going on here? Why has food content, something so simple, repetitive, and often apolitical, become such a compelling form of storytelling across platforms in Pakistan? Food reels offer an alternative in a country where voicing thoughts is increasingly restricted, dissenting views are dangerous, and the news cycle is either exhausting or unreliable: a gentle, easily assimilated version of reality.
The Politics of the Plate.
On the surface of it, food content seems neutral. However, the unforeseen obsession of people with street vendors, home cooks, and nostalgic recipes isn’t just about taste; it’s about class. When an influencer glamorises a dusty stall for bun kebabs or thali in a low-income neighbourhood, it’s not just about the food. It’s about sugarcoating poverty with aestheticised visuals. Regardless of the main intention, such content reveals the extensive inequalities that are rooted in urban life in Pakistan.
However, paradoxically, it also brings acknowledgement. Many of these vendors, once disregarded by society, have found fame and livelihood through these viral videos. This kind of power was soft, unstructured, algorithm-driven, and emotional — reshaping who and what gained visibility and what didn’t.
Gendered Kitchens, Digitally Reclaimed.
The homemaker is quietly making a comeback as a digital artist if you scroll down a little more. Women are creating platforms based on tandoor methods, pickling advice, and recipes, particularly in smaller cities. It appears to be a renewed affirmation of conventional and typical gender roles. In actuality, though, it’s also about reclaiming space in a male-dominated digital environment, being financially independent, and taking creative ownership. Is it feminist? Not entirely… Is it power? Absolutely.
Biryani Borders and Cultural Identity.
Biryani emerges as a battleground of regional pride. Karachi vs. Lahore, Sindhi vs. Memoni – these aren’t just food preferences. They’re insubstantial identity conflicts sheathed in layers of rice and spices. When someone posts their own “authentic” biryani recipe online, they’re not just cooking. They’re laying a cultural claim.
In a country divided by ethnicity, language, and geography, food content becomes a surprisingly conflict-free way to assert, contend, and preserve one’s own cultural identity. It’s a softer form of nationalism, served beautifully.
Saying the Unsayable — Without Saying It.
Food content has also emerged as a quiet refuge from the noise of blatant politics. In moments of crisis, rising inflation, political unrest, or global tragedies, food creators often change subtly, such as sharing communal meals, providing low-cost recipes, or implicitly extending support. No tirades or catchphrases. They merely express unadorned resistance.
Because in Pakistan, even silence can be seen as political. And food, it turns out, can carry the weight of words we’re not allowed to say out loud.
The Soft Revolution Is Here.
In an era of distraction, critics may dismiss this as mere content, more pointless scroll fodder. However, that is a lazy approach. Resistance occurs when those without power utilise skill, beauty, and care to convey their experiences. Simply put, it’s not the shrieking kind. It seethes.
So yes, the biryani is still sizzling. But the message below is the same: we matter, we are here, and we will be seen, even if we just share lunch.
