Howard Hanna’s journey from Michelin-starred aspirations to the greasy splendor of a KC smash burger says everything about the restaurant industry’s seismic shifts. A man who once dreamed of opening a fine dining empire now finds himself mastering the art of the Frito pie. But what makes this particularly fascinating is how his evolution mirrors a broader cultural reckoning: the death knell of elitist dining and the rise of accessible, community-driven food culture. When Hanna admits he’d rather eat at an immigrant-owned hole-in-the-wall than a high-end restaurant, he’s not just expressing a preference—he’s diagnosing a systemic failure in the way we’ve been taught to value food.
Let’s unpack this. For decades, the restaurant world has operated under the delusion that fine dining is the pinnacle of culinary achievement. But Hanna’s experience—twice a James Beard semifinalist, yet now cooking at a place where the menu features spam fries and cornhole tournaments—exposes the absurdity of that hierarchy. The pandemic didn’t just disrupt supply chains; it shattered the illusion that wealthy diners are the lifeblood of the industry. In reality, the working class has always been the true engine of restaurant culture, and Hanna’s pivot from ‘The Rieger’ to ‘Hank’s Garage’ is a masterclass in humility. What many people don’t realize is that the most innovative chefs aren’t the ones with Michelin stars—they’re the ones who understand that food is a communal experience, not a performance.
Take City Diner, for example. This isn’t just a place for biscuits and gravy; it’s a microcosm of America’s love affair with the greasy spoon. The Webster City bacon, the crispy hash browns, the unapologetic simplicity of it all—it’s the kind of food that doesn’t require a reservation or a $50 tab. And yet, in a post-pandemic world where so many restaurants have closed, places like this thrive. Why? Because they’re not trying to impress—they’re just feeding people. A detail that I find especially interesting is how Hanna’s personal choice to eat there when ‘for-real hungry’ underscores a truth: sometimes, the best meals are the ones that don’t try too hard.
Then there’s El Pulgarcito, a Salvadoran spot that serves breakfasts that are somehow both healthier and more satisfying than the American standard. This isn’t just a restaurant—it’s a cultural bridge. The plantains, the refried beans, the avocado-laced eggs—they’re not just ingredients; they’re a narrative of migration, resilience, and flavor. What this really suggests is that the future of food lies in these immigrant-run establishments, where tradition meets innovation without pretension. The fact that Hanna, a chef who once dreamed of Michelin stars, finds these meals more exciting than any fine dining experience is a damning indictment of the restaurant world’s priorities.
Jarocho, with its leche de tigre and whole fried fish, offers another layer to this story. The restaurant’s approach to seafood is unapologetically Mexican, but it’s also deeply personal. Hanna’s anecdote about teaching his daughter to eat fish fins like potato chips isn’t just charming—it’s a reminder that food is about connection, not just taste. The way he describes the restaurant as a place where ‘you’ll find things you wouldn’t expect’ speaks to a broader truth: the most memorable meals are the ones that surprise you, that challenge your expectations of what a ‘Mexican restaurant’ should be.
Kata Nori, with its sashimi and hand rolls, might seem like an outlier in this list, but it’s not. It represents the growing trend of hyper-local, high-quality casual dining that doesn’t require a formal setting. The fact that Hanna can go from a snack to a feast in one visit says something about the evolving definition of ‘fine dining.’ If you take a step back and think about it, the line between sushi bar and fast food is blurring faster than ever. This raises a deeper question: what does it mean to ‘elevate’ food when the act of eating itself is already an elevation?
And then there’s Tacos El Güero, the late-night haven where the molcajete of salsa becomes a communal experience. The loud music, the people hanging out on their car hoods, the guy at the window who ‘gives you s–t’—this isn’t just a restaurant; it’s a social institution. In an era where dining has become increasingly solitary (think of the rise of delivery apps and ghost kitchens), places like this are a lifeline. They remind us that food is meant to be shared, to be celebrated, to be a part of something bigger than ourselves.
So what does all of this mean for the future of dining? It means that the days of the ‘chef as artist’ are numbered. The real revolution isn’t happening in the back of a Michelin-starred kitchen—it’s happening in the front of these neighborhood spots, where the menu is written in crayon on a chalkboard, and the staff knows your name before you do. As for Hanna, his journey from fine dining to the Frito pie is more than a career shift; it’s a manifesto. He’s saying that food shouldn’t be a gatekeeping tool—it should be a bridge. And in a world that’s still trying to figure out how to eat after a pandemic, that message has never been more urgent.
