There was a time, not too long ago, when a purse shaped like a baguette felt like a thrilling, even subversive novelty. It was a witty wink at consumer culture, a playful accessory that subverted traditional ideas of luxury by injecting a dose of everyday culinary humor into high-end wardrobes. Today, however, consumers hardly bat an eye when encountering Moschino’s trompe l’œil celery purse or spotting a hot-dog-and-pretzel-print jumpsuit from Big Bud Press created in collaboration with a Los Angeles bar. How did modern style get to this point, and has the relentless wave of edible aesthetics finally become a little too much?
Fashion has long found profound inspiration from the culinary world, but the recent influx of food-fueled prints, graphics, and trompe l’œil accessories that picked up steam during the pandemic has now reached a definitive cultural tipping point. Today, countless examples of these food motifs and edible, wearable creations exist across every conceivable price point.
The range of products is staggering. Loewe’s summer collection once featured a $4,150 lambskin tomato clutch, while mass-market retailers like Walmart introduced a line of rotisserie chicken bag-like purses and charms starting at just $5.97. As with many modern micro-trends, this trajectory started firmly in high fashion before working its way down to mass-market ubiquity. In 2020, a literal chocolate chip cookie went down one of New York Fashion Week’s most buzzed-about fall runways. The baked treat protruded from a sleek black purse designed by Puppets and Puppets, instantly going viral for its whimsical inclusion of a classic dessert on a high-end handbag.
The then-emerging brand quickly made food a central pillar of its creative vision. Its collections featured cake-topped aviator caps, Ferrero Rocher-inspired heels, and beeswax-sculpted cheese hats. These hyperrealistic, absurdist food designs proved uniquely capable of achieving instant social media virality. Prior to working in fashion, Puppets and Puppets designer Carly Mark worked as an artist whose pieces revolved around candies and snacks. As she noted in an interview with Business of Fashion, the Puppets universe felt like an ideal pairing given what she considers the shared primary motivators of both food and fashion: pleasure and money.
During the pandemic lockdown era, the much-duped “strawberry dress” took over TikTok, and Tombolo Company found a major hit on its hands with its vongole shirt, which debuted in 2019 before hitting peak popularity in 2021. The shirt appeared in Vogue in 2020, and publications like InsideHook called it an obvious bedfellow to day-drinks, rooftops, and weekenders—effectively cementing it as a casual status symbol. Katie Kimmel’s T-shirts made public enthusiasm for chicken parmigiana akin to being a devout sports fan, and industry observers dubbed “seafood kitsch” the definitive look of the summer as items like Rachel Antonoff’s popular seafood-tower dress flew off digital shelves.
Why was food so primed to become a dominant motif in clothing at this specific cultural juncture? One could make the argument that these trends have deep roots in the millennial optimism of the 2000s and 2010s, when the concept of the “foodie” was newly minted. Brands printed tongue-in-cheek food- and coffee-related motifs and slogans—with a fervent, ubiquitous love of avocados coming readily to mind—on hipster apparel as the idea that “you are what you eat” developed growing cultural fervor. That period served as a crucial stepping stone in the evolution toward the far more elaborate and pervasive marketability of food-as-identity witnessed today.
Cole Poska, a content creator who serves as a partner and creative director at Beyond Studios, points out that food brands possess an asset most traditional fashion labels would kill for: decades of deep nostalgia, iconic identities, and consumers who are borderline obsessed with them. Poska’s own Instagram feed frequently reimagines restaurant merchandise just for fun, including viral designs for Cheesecake Factory apparel featuring a hat that cleverly resembles the restaurant’s iconic brown bread. He notes that people will defend their favorite fast-food order with the kind of fierce loyalty that is nearly impossible to manufacture. The same intensity applies to a martini order or a favorite local taco spot, turning daily consumption habits into a shorthand way of telling the world who we are through what we like.
Yet, widespread fatigue is undeniably setting in. Food and lifestyle publications have begun questioning why every seasonal dress suddenly seems decorated with pasta and cocktail shrimp. As the initial novelty factor of a shrimp-print dress wears off, a larger question looms regarding whether these food-as-fashion moments possess any true longevity. Digital feeds constantly overflow with products hurriedly designed for flash-in-the-pan viral trends that are quickly destined for landfills—especially when the objects prioritize shock value and cheap gimmicks over genuine function and thoughtful brand identity.
This phenomenon is intrinsically linked to the accelerated speed of modern trend cycles and increasingly short consumer attention spans. However, commentators have noted that the rising costs of everyday food items also cast an increasingly complex shadow over food-themed fashion. A $425 cardigan emblazoned with embroidered oysters carries far less originality than it might have a few years ago, reading at best as playful banality and at worst as a stark reflection of economic disparity—its wearer signaling both financial comfort and, more importantly, being well-fed in an era of food insecurity.
In that light, beyond its role in personal expression, food has increasingly morphed into a distinct status symbol. A designer sweater touting an appreciation for caviar serves as shorthand for access to elite culinary culture. Meanwhile, wearing a mass-market version ordered from discount platforms feels more akin to wearing a knock-off designer belt.
For brands attempting to escape the trap of accelerated-trend-cycle disposability, survival may require a more subtle approach than simply manufacturing a bag shaped like a giant stick of butter. Sam Salad is the co-founder of Meals, a Los Angeles-based, workwear-inspired apparel company that describes its mission as baking food culture directly into clothing, successfully blurring the lines between what people wear and what they consume. Utility remains at the forefront of the brand, which offers classic chef pants with a slightly fuller cut in both standard colors and subdued aesthetic homages to blue cheese and watermelon.
When Meals launched in 2019, Salad was selling premium denim along Venice’s Abbot Kinney Boulevard, a hotbed of Instagram-driven food culture and trendy restaurants that helped inspire his own creative path. As Salad notes, contemporary design must translate fluidly across languages and digital platforms.
Food is hardly a new bedfellow for fashion designers, even if today’s hyper-fast trend cycle has kicked the concept into overdrive. Food remains entirely universal. Issey Miyake once famously merchandised a pleats collection as miniature omakase sets, while fashion history treasures iconic collaborations like the lobster dress designed by Salvador Dalí and Elsa Schiaparelli. At the time of its 1937 creation, that dress was a scandal, representing a conformity-defying sartorial stance famously worn by Wallis Simpson. Decades later, heavily altered iterations of the concept can be found mass-produced at a fraction of the cost.
For contemporary brands hoping to avoid corny, food-motif purgatory, the clearest path forward involves shifting focus away from sheer production volume and back toward storytelling and craftsmanship. As Salad observes, doing a select few things exceptionally well is ultimately enough, much like the enduring business model of In-N-Out Burger.
Poska shares a similar philosophy regarding creative longevity in an oversaturated market. He emphasizes a preference for crafting single items that generate sustained conversation for a full year over churning out dozens of forgettable pieces. As he puts it, the first person to make a candle look like a stick of butter is a creative innovator, while the hundredth person is simply making a candle.
