What could be the downside of fresh veggies, homemade empanadas, and a pop-up restaurant specializing in banh mis?

But when they appear in unexpected places—think inner-city areas populated by immigrants—they’re often the first salvo in a broader effort to rebrand and remake the community. As a result, these neighborhoods can quickly become unaffordable and unrecognizable to longtime residents.

Stoking an Appetite for Gentrification

This observation inspired me to write a book, titled “The $16 Taco,” about how food—including what’s seen as “ethnic,” “authentic,” or “alternative”—often serves as a spearhead for gentrification.

Take City Heights, a large multi-ethnic San Diego neighborhood where successive waves of refugees from places as far away as Vietnam and Somalia have resettled. In 2016, a dusty vacant lot on the busiest boulevard was converted into an outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44. There, food vendors gather in semi-permanent stalls to sell pupusas, lechon (roasted pig), single-sourced cold-brewed coffee, cupcakes, and tamarind raspado (crushed ice) to neighborhood residents, along with tourists and visitors from other parts of the city.

A public-private partnership called the City Heights Community Development Corporation, together with several nonprofits, launched the initiative to increase “access to healthy and culturally-appropriate food” and serve as “a business incubator for local micro-entrepreneurs,” including immigrants and refugees who live in the neighborhood.

On paper, this all sounds great.

But just a few blocks outside the gates, informal street vendors—who have long sold goods such as fruit, tamales, and ice cream to residents who can’t easily access supermarkets—now face heightened harassment. They’ve become causalities in a citywide crackdown on sidewalk vending spurred by complaints from business owners and residents in more affluent areas.

This isn’t just happening in San Diego. The same tensions have been playing out in rapidly gentrifying like Los Angeles’ Boyle Heights neighborhood, Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood, New York’s Queens borough, and East Austin, Texas.

In all of these places, because “ethnic,” “authentic,” and “exotic” foods are seen as cultural assets, they’ve become magnets for development.

Why Food?

Food, it seems, has become the perfect lure.

It’s uncontroversial and has broad appeal. It taps into the American Dream and appeals to the multicultural values of many educated, wealthy foodies. Small food businesses, with their relatively low cost of entry, have been a cornerstone of ethnic entrepreneurship in American cities. And initiatives like farmers’ markets and street fairs don’t require much in the way of public investment; instead, they rely on entrepreneurs and community-based organizations to do the heavy lifting.

In City Heights, the Community Development Corporation hosted its first annual City Heights Street Food Festival in 2019 to “get people together around table and food stalls to celebrate another year of community building.” Other recent events have included African Restaurant Week, Dia de Los Muertos, New Year Lunar Festival, Soul Food Fest, and Brazilian Carnival, all of which rely on food and drink to attract visitors and support local businesses.

Meanwhile, initiatives such as the New Roots Community Farm and the City Heights farmers’ market have been launched by nonprofits with philanthropic support in the name of “food justice,” with the goal of reducing racial disparities in access to healthy food and empowering residents—projects that are particularly appealing to highly educated people who value diversity and democracy.

Upending an Existing Foodscape

San Diego Magazine’s neighborhood guide for City Heights, for example, emphasizes its “claim to authentic international eats, along with live music venues, craft beer, coffee, and outdoor fun.” It recommends several ethnic restaurants and warns readers not to be fooled by appearances.

But that doesn’t mean objections don’t exist.

Many longtime residents and small-business owners—mostly people of color and immigrants—have, for decades, lived, worked, and struggled to feed their families in these neighborhoods. To do so, they’ve run convenience stores, opened ethnic restaurants, sold food in parks and alleys and created spaces to grow their own food.

All represent strategies to meet community needs in a place mostly ignored by mainstream retailers.

So what happens when new competitors come to town?

Starting at a Disadvantage

My analysis of real estate ads for properties listed in City Heights and other gentrifying San Diego neighborhoods found that access to restaurants, cafés, farmers’ markets and outdoor dining is a common selling point. The listings I studied from 2019 often enticed potential buyers with lines like “shop at the local farmers’ market,” “join food truck festivals,” and “participate in community food drives!”

San Diego Magazine’s home buyer guide for the same year identified City Heights as an “up-and-coming neighborhood,” attributing its appeal to its diverse population and eclectic “culinary landscape,” including several restaurants and Fair@44.

When I see that City Heights’ home prices rose 58 percent over the past three years, I’m not surprised.

Going Up Against the Urban Food Machine

I argue that investors and developers use food as a tool for achieving the same ends.

When their work is done, what’s left is a rather insipid and tasteless neighborhood, where foodscapes become more of a marketable mishmash of cultures than an ethnic enclave that’s evolved organically to meet the needs of residents. The distinctions of time and place start to blur: An “ethnic food district” in San Diego looks no different than one in Chicago or Austin.

Meanwhile, the routines and rhythms of everyday life have changed so much that longtime residents no longer feel like they belong. Their stories and culture reduced to a selling point, they’re forced to either recede to the shadows or leave altogether.

It’s hard to see how that’s a form of inclusion or empowerment.

This article originally appeared in The Conversation, and is reprinted with permission.