Indian culture is under siege by Westerners enamored with yoga, authenticity, and convenience. The dosa—a beloved, inconvenient tradition—could be next to fall.
Continuing our series where we ask novelists to write restaurant reviews that are absolutely not restaurant reviews, the author of the Southern Reach trilogy meets his match in a Dublin brie.
Nobody stands between one cyclist and her cheese on a vegetable-fueled bike tour through Eastern Europe.
Between love and tacos, sometimes it’s better to choose tacos. Our series continues where we ask novelists to dine out, then write us something that 1) is a restaurant review; 2) is not a restaurant review.
A new series where we ask a novelist to eat in a restaurant, then write us something that meets two criteria: 1) it is a restaurant review; 2) it is not a restaurant review.
When celebrities are candid, they tend to go all out. Reddit’s “Ask Me Anything” interviews—edited for the seven deadly sins—provide an Idolatry of Self so big, it produces Zen koans.
Twice a year, a group of friends gathered in a coal-mining pocket of Pennsylvania—friends in their twenties with fragile identities, who didn’t know yet what would happen.
Small towns around Europe host goose-pulling days—contests to snap the necks of birds at high speed. In the name of sport and pride, a tradition from the Middle Ages prospers, criticism notwithstanding.
The only thing worse than Valentine’s Day is a crappy Valentine’s Day. A handful of TMN writers and editors dish (anonymously) on their worst dates—crying men, rugby brawls, and a dislocated sacroiliac joint.
A sharp rise recently in the price of onions in India is about a lot more than just sandwiches. When onions are up, even governments are at risk.
Going on a five-day cleanse—subsisting on a diet of shots, smoothies, very few actual foods, and no caffeine—leads to visions of apocalypse. From 2013, a quest to find the seven billionth child on Earth.
Radio advertising has gotten ridiculous—incendiary spots for monster-truck rallies and ladies’ nights at clubs. But surely the most appalling ads are for brunch.