Food halls are changing the game
Foodie culture has crashed headfirst into urban renewal and the new realities of shopping
FOR MONTHS, Arturo Mei parked his food truck – a tricked-out old blue school bus – in a craggy Northern Virginia parking lot by a defunct Korean restaurant/pool hall and a floundering Kmart.
This party bus cranked out Mei’s version of delicate, snowy Taiwanese-style ice cream, which he’d shave into sweet ribbons that tasted of green tea, taro or mango. Snocream drew lines of foodies to the decrepit strip mall that had long since ceased to attract much of anything.
“Back in the day, food trucks were the trend,” Mei, 34, says with a chuckle. “So we did that.” But he felt their moment was waning – and set his sights on the next thing.
After more than two years in its periphery, he and partner Peter Choi rented the 1 500m2 pool hall. The pair carved it up, building out five stalls and a bar. And just like that, Annandale – a suburb known for its myriad Korean barbecue joints and bakeries – had a “food hall”.
The eatery, called the Block, is emblematic of the modern food hall in almost every way: There’s trendy neon signage, a handful of vendors, concrete floors, communal tables, blaring pop music and young women Instagramming their outlandish desserts. Mei and Choi? They were onto their next projects: Two more food halls.
Food halls – loosely defined as vast spaces filled with upstart food vendors and frequently a shop or two – have become a popular answer to several nagging urban-development problems.
They’re where foodie culture and a changing American palate have crashed headfirst into urban renewal and the new realities of shopping.
Derelict neighbourhood in need of revitalisation? A block of flats desperate for a rent-justifying amenity? Declining strip mall? Across the country, they’re all getting food halls.
In 2010, there were 25 in America. By 2020, real-estate analysts predict, about 300 will pock the landscape.
In Plano, Texas, there’s Legacy Food Hall, where you can nibble on bacon-grilled cheese doughnuts or tour a brewery. At New York’s Chelsea Market, you can graze on vegan maki stuffed with braised fennel and sundried tomato, or wait in the snaking line for an adobada taco.
Austin will soon have four food halls. New York has two dozen, including Eataly, the market that might have started the craze. More are bound for college towns and the ground floors flats and old shopping strips. In Arlington, Virginia, a new food hall is being erected for tenants that include a pizzeria. It will be in a mall.
Which brings us to the question worth asking about the food hall boom: Aren’t these just food courts?
For decades, food-court purveyors had a stranglehold on how we ate when we shopped.
But, as many old pillars of retail crumble – the Limited, Radio Shack, Toys R Us – landlords are faced with a vast sea of space and a dearth of potential tenants.
Developers “have said, ‘Wait a second. What really drives foot traffic?’” says Jodie McLean, chief executive of Edens, which operates Union Market, a sprawling Washington food hall that sees more than 2.5 million visitors a year. These days, it’s avocado toast, Taiwanese fried chicken, Israeli-style pita – exotic or artisanal foods that fulfil the supposed need of millennials for experiences.
“Everyone has ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder),” says Mei, himself a millennial. “Food hits most of their requirements.”
Including camera-ready food: Munch, one of the Block’s vendors, hawks “Insta-worthy donuts” on its chalkboard. Frequently, they’re sold out by midday.”