Food Kinks: Dining in the Dark

Sometimes, eating real food at a movie theater is the only thing that does it for me

I have seen every movie nominated for an Oscar this year because I spend a great deal of my free time at movie theaters with reclining seats and full-service menus.

I don’t know if I’m a cinephile, per se. I don’t have a Letterboxd account. I will watch almost anything: horror, action, period dramas. Mostly, I just like to emotionally eat in the dark. This isn’t a hobby or a coping mechanism. I need this. It’s my thing. My kink, though I don’t think it’s rooted in childhood trauma or anything particularly Freudian. I’m not going to write “don’t judge me,” because I don’t care if you judge me.

I gotta house this chicken goat cheese wrap while Jesse Buckley cries about her dead son.

When I’m sitting in a movie theater, cramming an overstuffed smashburger into my face, I am relieved of the burden of civilization. I can truly be my truest, most honest, and grotesque self.

The only person I have to make eye contact with is Leo DiCaprio’s giant head projected on a silver screen. I can disappear while sucking BBQ sauce off my fingers.

It’s a liberating act of radical surrender.

As a rule, I feel immense social pressure to wipe mayonnaise or hummus or Gochujang-paste from my beard when I’m in public, but not so when I’m sitting, feet up, in a vinyl La-Z-Boy-style theater seat. It is a safe space. Possibly, the safest.

​​It is no secret that the movie theater business is in steep decline. Ticket sales are down nearly a third from just five years ago, and the number of adults who go at least once a month fell 22 percent between 2019 and this year. There are various reasons for this, the growth of streaming platforms chief among them. People are staying home, binge-watching made-for-Netflix shows and movies, and slowly evolving into hideous, Cronenberg-esque couch-human hybrids.

There’s also a creeping behavioral problem: an epidemic of rudeness at the major chains. According to a recent poll, a third of moviegoers admitted to taking a call during a screening — 46 percent of millennials and 42 percent of Gen Zers. There’s barely anyone monitoring out-of-control texting or scrolling. Then there are the smaller indignities: the food options are limited, and commercials blare before trailers.

But the theaters where I like to debase myself aggressively discourage cellphone use, don’t shove ads down your throat before the show, and offer more sophisticated food options.

These theaters serve a surprisingly diverse selection of comfort foods that sit somewhere between upscale fast food and serviceable gastropub. One place serves filet mignon sliders with blue cheese, caramelized red onions, arugula, and garlic aioli. It’s bougie but tasty. I’ve ordered a perfectly fine tuna salad and snacked on blistered shishitos and fried pickles. My local sit-down theater serves a fried buffalo cauliflower sandwich that I’m really into. Even the popcorn is kicked up and tossed with truffles, Parmesan, or ranch seasoning. Old school Regal theaters? There’s only one option: butter-flavored car oil.

I’m not a drinker, but these theaters all have bars, and if you want an IPA, or a cocktail, or a spiked milkshake, they can make that happen.

Sometimes I go to the movies in the mornings, say 10 a.m. on a Saturday. I zoom right to my reserved seat (always an aisle) and order a coffee and French Toast sticks or a breakfast pizza with bacon, eggs, mozzarella, and scallions. Then I snarf it all down, blissfully checked out of reality, while zombies moan on the big screen.

I’m also not some anti-social loner. I enjoy eating at restaurants. I put my napkin on my lap and never slurp my soup. I can twirl pasta with a fork and splatter nothing. I have been known to attend dinner parties, where I laugh and make small talk, and no one knows that I am on autopilot, a human Waymo.

It’s just that if given the option, I’d rather put on sweatpants and do my best impersonation of a self-force-feeding foie gras duck while watching a Portuguese-language drama about political oppression in South America at a movie theater that also plays indie hits and black-and-white classics.

I’m not reinventing the wheel. There was a time when one of the cornerstones of American leisure time was the ‘dinner and a movie’ one-two punch. This was a classic couple activity—first dates, anniversaries, and regular ol’ Fridays. It was also one of the things you’d do with friends. I spent many nights in the late 90s watching Wesley Snipes movies on LSD with my best buds. Later, in the 2000s, I was a master at sneaking Taco Bell gordita crunches and Popeye’s biscuits into AMC theaters.

I’m sure there are still people who grab a bite at a nearby hotspot and then go to the multiplex. I’m not one of those people anymore. When I ask my wife if she wants to go see a movie, she knows what to expect: me, eating chicken wings while watching The Rock punch someone.

I’ll be honest with you because the internet is the one place in our society where being honest with countless strangers is rewarded with positive affirmations: it’s always midnight in a movie theater, and I do love munching on quality garbage as my eyes glaze over. I recently watched a sci-fi comedy about a time traveler, and I happily popped little pretzel dogs into my mouth after gently dunking them in a spicy mustard sauce. I ate those pigs-in-blankets with my pinky up, like a little French dauphin.

A few years ago, apropos of nothing, my therapist interrupted me—then looked me square in the eyes—and declared, “You need to get out more.” And I had been talking about a funny meme. I responded immediately, and defensively: “I go to the movies.”

And then I told him I go to the movies and gorge on mozzarella sticks. Yes, I go with my wife sometimes. And friends. But mostly, I like to drink Coke Zeros and eat loaded fries all by myself.

I reminded him, too, that when I’m at the movies, I am surrounded by the family of man, who are also mindlessly chomping away as light flickers in their dead eyes.