When you go to as many pop-ups as I do, you quickly come to realize that enjoying them means throwing yourself through endless hoops, all in the name of finally getting to buy a thing. You swim into the riptide of minute-long ordering windows and contact chefs via Google forms and direct messages. Then you hope you’re waiting in the right line in some random place, dropping everything in order to pick something up when someone else tells you to. You embrace chaos.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve persuaded friends and family to come with me somewhere nondescript to pick something up, only for us to get lost and argue because none of us knows where exactly we’re supposed to be going. Is it that school parking lot? That apartment building? That cafe that looks like it’s been under construction for ten years? On rare occasions, I have to assure my compatriot that, no, this isn’t some setup where we’re going to get murdered — but I don’t really know that myself. Maybe we’re walking into a trap, and my tombstone will read, “I was told there would be focaccia.”