A-list mukbangs

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Terry Nguyen, Dirt's senior staff writer, on Hot Ones and Chicken Shop Date, two crispy kinds of internet talk shows.

It’s a winning combination: celebrities and fried chicken. Hot Ones and Chicken Shop Date are two different kinds of web talk shows, known for providing a safe gastronomical space for celebrities to reveal lesser-known facets of their personality. They’re not quite mukbangs, nor are they straightforward talk shows. The appeal lies in the gimmicky and unpretentious premise: eating fried chicken. It’s clickbait-worthy entertainment without any incrimination. And unlike the receding institution of late-night television, the shows’ social media managers don’t have to try hard at all to come up with sensationalized YouTube captions. 

Celebrities are always doing too much. Between Deux Moi, the tabloids, TikTok beef, and the never-ending press cycle, I don’t care to keep up with famous people. But I don’t mind an eating show. Their too much-ness gets absorbed at the sight of the wings. I’ll realize how attractive they are (as was the case for Kehlani’s Chicken Shop Date) or dive into an internet rabbit-hole about something they mentioned (David Blaine on Hot Ones is entirely responsible for my newfound interest in “magic”). It’s not interesting to hear most celebrities talk, unless they’re being grilled by Ziwe. The talk show is long dead. A revival in the age of streaming feels anachronistic. So just make them eat. 

With Hot Ones, which is in its eighth year of production, viewers are initially drawn to the reactions; the show features celebrity guests forced to eat hot wings, daubed and ranked in progressively spicier sauces, while being interviewed. They gradually lose their composure—and taste buds—over the course of an episode. The stars profusely sweat, cough, curse, and chug milk while host Seth Evans faces them with a compassionate grimace. It’s a vulnerable spot to be put in, so the show balances it out with Evans’ respectful earnestness. He waits for the guest to settle down or distracts them from the burn by proceeding with the interview. 

Evans’ questions are notoriously detailed, but never invasive or antagonistic. “What’s the most disgusting or disturbing thing you’ve seen unnoticed or uncared for in Kitchen Nightmares?” he once asked Gordon Ramsey. To Paul Rudd, who’s spent 25 years in show-biz: “Do you ever think about how much your narrative is shaped by the need to package the details of your life into these instantly accessible anecdotes?” (There are multiple video compilations of Evans surprising his guests with little-known details about their lives.) Hot Ones does its best to avoid controversy, even if its guests are controversial. The only episode producers have pulled was Mario Batali’s in 2017, after an Eater investigation into the restaurateur’s alleged sexual misconduct. There is the rare guest who nonchalantly handles the heat (David Blaine, Lorde), impressing Evans. But the best interviews manage to lower a celebrity’s guard, while putting their intellect and personality on display.

Chicken Shop Date, which began filming in 2014, is staged to feel like an easygoing sitcom. Conceptually, the approach is similar to Between Two Ferns. Guests are on a first date with comedic host Amelia Dimoldenberg in an empty London chicken shop. Dimoldenberg plays a flummoxed version of herself, and guests are expected to somewhat commit to the bit. Some, like Matthew Healy of the 1975 and the rapper Jack Harlow, flirt more eagerly (or naturally) than others. 

The awkward questions from Dimoldenberg (“What’s your type?”) and the off-key banter are part of the show’s charm. In some ways, the satire helps to shatter the facade. Dimoldenberg’s direct line of questioning leads to brief introspective interludes. However, the conversations are spliced and edited to be jarring, interspersed with B-roll footage of fast food workers and the storefront. As Dimoldenberg’s star has grown (she was recently interviewing celebrities on the Golden Globes and Oscars red carpet), some viewers have commented on the racial politics undergirding the show’s success: Dimoldenberg is a white woman who made her name interviewing primarily Black rappers.

Chicken Shop Date episodes are significantly shorter than Hot Ones, which is structured more like a formal talk show. Rather, Chicken Shop viewers tune in to gauge the playful chemistry between Dimoldenberg and her guests. The format also fulfills a sort of date fantasy for fans; the celebrity freely talks about their love life in obscure generalities. “Amelia got me falling in love with everyone she brings on here,” reads one recent comment on the date with British rapper Central Cee. “A new date drops and now I'm listening to artists I never listened to before.”

The anti-talk show format has grown tremendously popular over the past decade, edging into territory originally monopolized by late night TV. It’s concurrent with the rise of—and demand for—soft, non-critical press: the Vogue makeup tutorials, the GQ “What’s in my bag” videos, the NPR Tiny Desk Concerts. “There’s a humanizing experience in the whole show, which is taking celebrity, this thing that, by definition, is unobtainable, and then taking that person down to a level that we all understand, which is dying on hot sauce. It ends up being this humanizing experience that I think is unique to its format,” Evans told Eater’s Jaya Saxena.

These days, celebrities, even those with legions of fans, want to be humanized and affirmed. With social media, stars have a direct channel of communication with fans; they can exercise greater control of their image, and are no longer as reliant on the press for promotion or affirmation. (Remember Drake and 21 Savage’s deep fake media tour?) They are disdainful, even hostile, to any kind of “hard” press, criticism, or commentary that isn’t explicitly promotional of their artistic output.

An anti-talk show like Hot Ones or Chicken Shop Date isn’t a cop-out, but a low-stakes compromise. And the hosts are micro-celebrities in their own right, largely unaffiliated with the institutional gatekeepers of celebrity. Networks can try to resuscitate the late night talk show, but viewers have already moved on. Seth Meyers’ day drinking segment has proven to be incredibly popular; so has James Corden’s carpool karaoke (at least among theater kids). People want silliness—and a side of fried chicken.

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