In Defence of Overthinking It

There’s a growing movement—online, at your cousin’s dinner table, and even within the walls of some fine restaurants—that insists food should be simple. Fun. Uncomplicated. “It’s just dinner,” they say, with a shrug that somehow manages to flatten centuries of craft into a casual Tuesday.

But what if it isn’t?

What if a plate can be a language, a thesis, a confession? What if one dish can hold twelve ideas, and all of them matter? What if the folds of a dumpling are meant to mirror a historical map, or the weight of a consommé is measured not just in grams but in grief? Is that pretentious? Possibly. But is it also art? Absolutely.

The phrase “overthinking it” is usually an insult—coded shorthand for “doing too much.” But in the hands of someone who cooks like they mean it, “too much” is the whole point. The layering of reference, the orchestration of textures, the deliberate clash of sacred and profane (a foie gras corndog, a duck jus gummy bear): it’s not overthinking. It’s thinking—fully, fiercely, without apology.

We’re not saying every meal has to be a manifesto. There’s beauty in restraint, joy in a perfect tomato, transcendence in a buttered roll. But those moments are heightened when they’re surrounded by thought, tension, and contrast. Simplicity without context is just marketing.

So no, it’s not “just dinner.” It’s a conversation between maker and eater. Sometimes flirtatious. Sometimes confrontational. Sometimes cryptic. But never indifferent.

And if that makes you uncomfortable—maybe it should.