There’s an expression (I believe it was originally derived from this clever 2018 tweet) that Los Angeles is “shitty heaven” and New York is “fun hell.” As someone who’s lived in both cities for significant periods of time, I strongly agree with this neo-Dickensian comparison. But if there’s anything that can be both shitty heaven and fun hell, it’s Coachella.
Like all great music festivals, Coachella has always been a study in extremes: agony and ecstasy, filth and transcendence. One minute you feel near death, in a patch of dead grass near the water station, worryingly close to the sea of Porta-Potties, dehydrated and disoriented, your phone with no service; the next, you’re eating Dippin’ Dots and watching Radiohead perform an extended version of “Everything in Its Right Place” while the sun disappears over the horizon, briefly convinced that maybe humanity isn’t entirely doomed. The friction is unavoidable: Without a little suffering, there’s no payoff.
That said, I understand, intellectually and from personal experience, that Coachella is no longer really a music festival. It is now largely an elaborate backdrop for content creators to go photograph their Revolve outfits in the flattering desert light and assemble as many not-so-humblebrags as possible within 72 hours. The food has also evolved: This year’s full lineup includes not one but two birrierias, plus Dave’s Hot Chicken, Tacos 1986, and a small army of upscale burgers.
Fine. Great, even! But the real headline is an on-site, book-ahead Nobu omakase experience for $375, tucked inside a Red Bull-branded pyramid. Danielle Dorsey from the Los Angeles Times documented the experience, which, to me, looks less like upscale omakase and more akin to eating someone’s Sugarfish leftovers. For the same price as a plane ticket, you’ll receive a glorified Red Bull-vodka in a plastic cup, a few pieces of sashimi on disposable plates, a super-standard lineup of nigiri, and a couple of hand rolls and maki. If I paid $375 for this meal, I would consider myself Fyre Festivaled.
If I paid $375 for this meal, I would consider myself Fyre Festivaled.
I’ve been to Coachella three times and its gradual but extreme vibe shift has been impossible to ignore. In 2004, it was dusty, chaotic, perfect. Festival food meant corn dogs and dry falafel wraps (fine for me; I was 17); photographic evidence is minimal; everyone was sunburnt and sweaty but smiling. (My friend was temporarily blinded by squirting sunscreen in her eye and got lost for five hours and we still had a great time.) When I returned in 2012, things had already started to change — expanded VIP sections, Instagram quickly establishing dominance, ramen stands and truffle fries replacing the county-fair-like concessions that came before.
When I returned for a third time last year, 13 years later, it had fully tipped into functioning primarily as an influencer trade show. The food options were notably elevated to restaurant-mukbang status — Prince Street Pizza, a Kazunori hand roll bar that feels like the spiritual precursor to the Nobu thing; I saw Emma Chamberlain waiting for a Sweetfin poke bowl — but also beside the point. Even while biting into my frankly delicious slice from Prince Street, as I looked around at the sea of selfie-taking and brand activations, I thought to myself, This is really, truly, absolutely the last time I will ever go to Coachella.
Festivals, at their best, create a shared experience. They’re one of the few remaining spaces where we all abandon some creature comforts and lie on the ground together, where everyone is a little bit unkempt and a little bit lost, where the memory of a moment matters more than how it looks. The more we layer in hyper-exclusive, hyper-controlled experiences, the more we lose that.
It’s not just Coachella. This is part of a broader shift in how we think about travel and events; as experiences led by consumption and performativity rather than emotion. It’s no longer enough to simply enjoy something good — privacy and exclusivity have become luxury’s final frontiers, and food has followed suit. Meals are no longer just meals: They’re flexes, proof of access, content in waiting.
As someone who’s attended more festivals than I can count in my adult life, my best food memories from these events rarely look like that. Here are three that stick:
- Asia Dog at All Tomorrow’s Parties, New York, 2010: Food was such a non-consideration during this era of fests that it felt downright luxurious that New York City food truck Asia Dog was summoned to the site of this intimate festival (at a retro-cool run-down country club called Kutsher’s in Upstate New York) to serve banh mi dogs to stoned Iggy Pop fans.
- Spaghetti at Hellfest, France, 2019: Leave it to the French to serve all kinds of Euro-gourmet dishes at its world-famous heavy metal festival, including moules frites, baguettes with raclette, and cheese plates. My best friend and I got to scarf down a plate of some of the best spaghetti marinara I’ve ever had for under 20-ish euros, consumed while sitting in the grass surrounded by heshers, waiting to see KISS and Slayer.
- Casino buffets at Psycho Las Vegas, 2016–2018, 2022, 2023: When Psycho Las Vegas (RIP) was still an annual exodus for me and my friends every August, we’d commit to visiting one of the big buffets on the strip each weekend: the Bellagio, the Rio, and our favorite, the Bacchanal buffet at Caesars Palace. The $60 or so we’d drop felt decadent — but it was still only one-sixth of the price of the Nobu meal at Coachella.
None of these meals were exclusive. None required advance booking or a wristband tier. What made them memorable was context — the hunger, the timing, the people you were with. Plus, we didn’t have to suffer through the sting of realizing we’re suckers who paid a fortune for a mediocre bento box.
To be clear, the music at Coachella still hits. On Thursday night, I received a late-night text offering me a plus-1. All I would need to do is show up. I almost accepted it, though ultimately decided to graciously decline. But watching the livestream from home this year, I was reminded how good the actual performances can be; this year’s incredible sets from Nine Inch Noize and FKA Twigs did make me briefly consider blowing up my boundaries and hunting down a weekend pass.
I probably won’t, but if you happen to be heading to Indio for weekend two, skip the Nobu. And if you still want festival food that feels a little bit special, Bad Bunny’s favorite tacos can be a good compromise.
Embarking to the desert? Book meals for before or after the festival in nearby Palm Springs or one of these spots on the way in or out from Los Angeles.