Are we having a Banana Summer?
First Barbie. Then Brat. Now Bananas.
Last summer, Emma Apple Chozick reported that hot dogs were everywhere. She didn’t lie. They were gracing the homepages of homeware brands, being erected in Times Square and getting dressed up in the city’s glitziest, glizziest cocktail bars.
Well, I’m here to tell you that this summer, there’s a new masculine motif penetrating the culture: bananas. Why is it that as soon as the temperature rises above 80 degrees, our society gets an appetite for the most phallic of foods? Y’all make me sick.
I first clocked the fruit’s return to relevance when I scrolled passed a shirtless Jon Gries peeling one in an Instagram post for Jacquemus. The carousel saw the White Lotus star holding an “I LOVE BANANAS” poster, posing next to a banana-shaped shrub, and lifting two bananas as if they were fifty-pound weights. Fun stuff.
Weeks later, I read an article titled “Why Banana Is Summer’s Freshest Fragrance.” It name dropped the buffing bar that’s been in my cart for a calendar year, and some perfumers embracing the “sophisticated aspect” of the sweet scent. Even Prada has a taste for the trend, selling a $380 candle inspired by their archival banana print.
Be it fashion or beauty, it makes sense why a brand would lean into the banana. It’s the one item on almost every grocery list. Yeah, they’ll probably rot on your counter, but you’ll buy them anyway. Why? Because they’re a classic. Which is what most brands want to be. As far as produce goes, the banana has real personality. It’s playful, nostalgic, and ripe with innuendo—communicating to consumers that these brands don’t take themselves too seriously. Even if their price tags say otherwise.
In the world of food, however, bananas are still the butt of the joke. They’re mashed up as baby food, thrown into smelly gym bags, and split open for cartoonish ice cream sundaes. The Magnolia Bakery banana pudding may be famous, but the fruit has yet to have its big moment in the New York City dining scene. Until now, maybe.
Earlier this month, I was walking the streets of East Village on a rainy Saturday (as one does) when I came across a sign filled with plastic bananas. It was official—the fruit was following me. Below the sign was a new-to-me restaurant called Bananas. After a quick Google search, I learned that the restaurant was named after a slur historically used to describe Asian Americans who were “culturally white.” Hate that. The chef-owners chose the name ‘Bananas’ to reclaim the term, and because they wanted the menu to be a little bit… well, bananas.
Like any fusion restaurant, Bananas takes a creative approach to its menu, reimagining American classics with bold Asian flavors. And they do it well. We started with the caramelized onion dip—a dish I’ve only ever eaten at my aunt’s house and out of a tub with classic Ruffles. This was not that. Served with shrimp chips and topped with furikake, the appetizer was whipped to the gods. So light and smooth. The onion wasn’t overpowering either. It was subtle in a good way.
Less subtle was the NOLA BBQ octopus, which tracks for a dish with NOLA in its name. I usually find octopus forgettable. Not this time. The protein was cooked to perfection, but it was the rich cajun-garlic butter sauce that kept me going back for more. It packed a punch too, with a spiciness that lingered a little. Our server tried twice to pry the plate from us, but we insisted there was more to enjoy.
Then came my entrée. Behold, fusion at its finest: a chopped cheese krapow. All the greasy goodness of a bodega-style chopped cheese together with the spices of a basil pad krapow. I believe my exact words were, “This is major.” Was I full by this point? Of course. Did I eat the whole thing? Absolutely. To justify my gluttony, I told myself that the dish wouldn’t travel well, but in reality the sandwich was just too delicious to resist. The same was true for the rosemary fries.
Though there were iterations of bananas on both the food and drink menus, I left the restaurant without consuming a single fruit save the one garnishing my passion fruit sangria. I promised the waitress I’d be back to try their banana offerings—and the tom yum meatballs—but in the meantime I’d have to find my banana fix elsewhere. Because the fruit is in fashion, it wasn’t hard to do.
At Ma.dé—an Indonesian restaurant in Soho—I paired an on-the-rocks banana cocktail with shrimp brioche, calamansi butterfish and crispy lamb ribs. The drink was reminiscent of laffy taffy (derogatory), but the food was phenomenal. Nearby at Morgenstern’s Bananas, I got banana soft serve that tasted more like an icy piña colada than a creamy banana ice cream. I later learned the dessert was dairy free.
I had better luck at Pop Up Grocer, The Tin Building, and 2nd Floor Bar & Essen where I got an iced peanut butter banana latte, a banana cookie, and a banana boat cocktail respectively. The latte was balanced, the cookie was a dream, and the cocktail came with a two-per-guest limit. Nice and boozy, just how I like ‘em.
Naturally, I had to round out these sweet treats with something savory. So, I swung by Patacón Pisao in the Lower East Side to cheat on the banana with its well-endowed Cuban cousin: the plantain. I went with the Patacón Pabellón—a sandwich with black beans, shredded beef, sweet plantains and fried queso stuffed between two tostones.
The sauces were the highlight, each providing the perfect tang. Don’t get me wrong, the sandwich itself was good. The beef was juicy and the plantains were delicious. I just prefer all those components separated on a plate instead of packaged all together in a sandwich. The banana-on-banana action was overkill for me, but that’s probably because I’ve eaten a lot of bananas recently. Like bunches.
And I couldn’t help but wonder: is the rise of banana culture a direct result of the rise of fascism? Much think about.
Let’s go bananas 🍌