Some Food Isn’t Worth the Wait

And that's okay to say.

Jun 02, 2025

A street food market in Jogokariyan, Yogyakarta. (Photo by: Chalafabia Haris, 2022)

Halo and happy Monday! If this is the first time you’re getting a letter from me, welcome to Kepayang! My name is Fabi, a writer and initiator of this platform, where I discuss all things food, culture, and sustainability through essays and community activities.

This time, I’m writing from Jogja. It was a long weekend from last Thursday to Sunday in Indonesia. And like hundreds of others, my family and I decided to spend it here. I’ve been wanting to write about how I feel about queuing for food, and during this long weekend in Jogja, I finally feel like I’ve gathered my thoughts enough to turn it into an essay. So, without further ado, enjoy!

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While swiping through Instagram stories, I stumbled upon an interesting ad from a doughnut shop in Jakarta. The shop hadn’t officially opened yet, but they announced that they’d be giving out free doughnuts during their soft opening to the first few people. I thought to myself, “Not bad, who wouldn’t want a free doughnut?”.

It sounded like a great deal — until another hundred people also showed up and lined up to claim those free doughnuts.

On the day of the giveaway, people didn’t just post about how the doughnuts tasted, but also about the crazy line in front of a shop that hadn’t officially opened yet. Just like that, the crowd became a walking advertisement — and the shop went viral.

But beyond viral spaces, this situation also happens in many other places.

I happened to be in Jogja while writing this. Jogja is a 7-hour train ride from Jakarta, a city well-loved for its charm, nostalgia, and artsiness. Every long weekend, there’s a wave of local tourists, and last weekend, I was one of them.

That Saturday morning, I planned to go to a gudeg (stewed young jackfruit) spot in the Caturtunggal area. I used to live in Jogja for about half a year, and back then, I never realised that this place was such a hotspot for tourists. So I was honestly surprised to see that all the tables were full, even at 10:00, a time when people should have finished with their breakfast already.

And to paint an even clearer picture of how chaotic it was, I even had to stand next to a just-abandoned, messy table to chope it for me and my brother. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. When we finally tried to order, the staff told us we’d have to wait an hour for food.

“Everything’s an hour? Do you not have anything ready?” I asked the staff.
“Just the white rice and the krecek (deep fried cow skin, crackers)”, they replied.

Without thinking much, we gave up our spot and walked over to our usual lotek place, Lotek Bu Bagyo, just a few hundred metres away. It was quiet, calm, and sure enough, within ten minutes, we already got our lotek, a mix of blanched veggies and bakwan (veggie fritters), drenched in a savoury and spicy peanut sauce.

While enjoying my lotek, I thought to myself: clearly, people don’t queue for no reason. So what’s on the other end of the wait?

The obvious answer is the food itself. For legendary spots like Bakmi Jawa Mbah Gito, people may be willing to queue for a comforting bowl of mie godog (soup noodle) whose taste hasn’t changed over time. Or for cult favourites like Sate Ratu, they might wait an hour for a sate merah (lit. red satay), a fresh take on chicken satay that’s executed just right.

But with newer viral spots, the appeal often has less to do with taste and more to do with the feeling. Being one of the first to try something, especially something everyone’s talking about, can feel special. I get it, it’s somewhat rewarding to be in the know, to be early, to be seen. Even if it means sweating under the 32°C sun at 1 PM for a doughnut.

And sure, if that brings joy, that’s valid. The problem is when we stop being honest about what we’re actually getting.

It becomes a problem when the hype isn’t backed by quality, and people start sugarcoating their experience. For example, a crowded restaurant might serve a bowl of sayur lodeh (mixed vegetables in a coconut milk broth) with telur kriwil (omelette) that’s lukewarm. Not hot, not cold, just lukewarm. Or imagine a famous coffee shop known for its es kopi susu gula aren (iced latte with palm sugar), but tasted like all milk and no coffee. These experiences might be trivial, but after waiting for a long, long time, I would expect it to be spotless, and I would rather know it earlier.

Visiting any restaurant, in general, naturally comes with expectations, even more so if you’ve had to wait. And if, after all that, the food doesn’t meet the hype, you can’t help but wonder: why didn’t anyone mention this in the reviews? And if you start to suspect that people might just be pretending it was good… well, you wouldn’t be wrong to question that.

A 2020 study by Hydock, Chen, and Carlson found that people with negative experiences are actually less likely to share that negative feedback, particularly directly with a brand. This is not because they don’t care, but because giving negative feedback feels uncomfortable. This discomfort, called an "aversion to criticise," can override even the genuine desire to vent. So instead of voicing disappointment, people stay quiet or convince themselves it wasn’t that bad, and the cycle of hype continues unchecked.

Of course, I’m not speaking for everyone.

Taste and time tolerance are personal. I might think waiting ten to twenty minutes for a cup of manually brewed coffee is reasonable. But someone who isn’t into coffee might not agree, especially when they hear me justify the wait by saying, “Well, it’s hand-brewed.”

My own limits aren’t exactly set in stone either. For places I know and trust, thirty minutes is usually my max. Still, that can stretch depending on the circumstances. If I’m travelling like to Jogja right now, I might be more patient, knowing I won’t get to try that place again anytime soon. But once the wait drags on beyond that point, it starts to feel less like a genuine experience and more like people are trying to convince themselves it was worth it.

Japanese brew and chocolate pastry at Tadasih, Yogyakarta.

At its best, queueing for food can be part of the joy — the build-up, the buzz, the shared experience.

But when the food doesn’t deliver, and people stay quiet, that’s when it gets problematic. It’s not just about taste anymore; it becomes a performance we all agree to take part in. Maybe we’re afraid of sounding difficult, or maybe we just want to believe the hype was worth it. But if we can’t be honest about the misses, how will we ever know what’s genuinely good?

How long would you queue for food? And do you call out spots that don’t deliver? Let me know in the comments below!