I Was Vegan and Craving Bacon. I Had an Epiphany

The vegan dining landscape in 2011, when I first made the switch to a plant-based diet, was as sparse and limited as a food desert. In a nod to our community, salad bars set out cubes of unseasoned tofu, which is as enjoyable to eat as raw bread dough.

Procuring a substance called tempeh, which was rumored to be preparable in such a way as to approximate the function of bacon on a sandwich, was possible only at the crunchiest of health food stores—the kind of places where a woman with shaved armpits was more likely to stand out than to blend in.

I studied all the menu hacks. If I wanted to join my friends on a dinner out, this usually meant some combination of a side of potatoes and a house salad with no cheese—at least in those few establishments willing to accommodate such odd proclivities.

Unfortunately, French food, what with the French's unshakable commitment to lactose, was off the table. Italian, with that nation's preference for olive oil, made a more natural partner—but I had to watch out for eggy noodles. I found other allies in my quest for more options: Ethiopian, Indian, and some Korean food.

Documentaries were made. Tastes began to shift. Gradually more of the American dining establishments where I'd ordered house salads for months added dedicated vegan entrees. That these entrees tended to be steamed vegetables with absolutely no spices indicated a misunderstanding about the vegan community; as if instead of animal products what we wanted to avoid was flavor.

Still, progress was progress. Going vegan forced me to do something I thought I could avoid forever: Learn to cook. If I wanted dumplings without eggs, my only choice was to make them. I bought premade wrappers and prepped my own filling, folding them into pleated-edge semicircles the way I'd learned to do in Beijing.

Under the tutelage of some fruitarian YouTube influencers, I learned to make elaborate and colorful smoothie bowls. I used my rice cooker to prepare quinoa for hot dinners. Quinoa was also having a major moment at the time, when it seemed a gluten-free label might offer some secret to a prosperous life for more than just celiacs.

A year into this process, I missed real bacon. I wanted to crunch a strip of sweet and smoky pork flesh between my molars. I wanted to look at a menu—no, not look. I wanted to point at a random line of text and be able to eat whatever the waiter brought me as a result.

I didn't want to have to jog three miles to my city's sole vegan bakery for a cupcake. I wanted more choices. I wanted to consume everything. F*** the planet, I thought. I'm hungry. A lot of ex-vegetarians write about giving up the lifestyle. In this genre, cravings are often not a feeling but a message from god. Eat meat, He tells them, and it will be good.

I didn't want to let the moment pass without fanfare. My birthday dinner approached. The perfect moment, I thought, to re-evaluate my life choices.

I didn't have to look at the menu when my friends and I sat down for our meal. "Bring me the bacon lollies," I told the waiter. "And a veggie burger."

Here I should admit that at no point in my life have I ever craved a real burger. I can only remember tasting one once, when I admitted this to another human in eighth grade.

The bacon arrived as skewered strips on a platter. I considered the aroma (heavenly), the glaze (perfect), and the creature of its origin (long gone). Then I ate it.

"It's okay," I shrugged to my companions.

"So you're eating meat now?" One asked me. "No, I'm going back."

What I realized as I ate the last strip was that, as tasty as it was, I could live without it. I had made a commitment to my health, to the planet, and to making life more difficult for any man who ever wants to take me out to eat. A commitment I decided to reaffirm.

The problem for me was not that I needed meat. The problem for me was that I needed to become a better vegan home chef. I needed more recipes in my repertoire. I needed to learn how to marinate tempeh.

Around the time I last ate bacon in 2012, I visited a new exhibit at the American History Museum in Washington, D.C. that looked at how culture and technology have changed the way Americans eat.

In bold and declarative fonts, food packaging from the 50s highlighted products: "Made with artificial flavors!" That declaration shrank and moved closer to the back of the label as the years passed.

The sampling of labels in the exhibit showed how food preferences change over time. There's the sugar-free era, then fat-free. There's the contemporary impulse to add protein to everything despite almost no signs that anyone except the most malnourished is suffering a deficiency.

Now vegan labels get top billing on prepackaged snacks like new varieties of potato chips made from green peas and new ice creams made from coconut milk and guar gum.

As a vegan, I should be a natural advocate for these alternative products. When David Chang added the Impossible Burger to the menu at Momofuku Nishi in 2016, I rushed out to try it. There I discovered it tastes just like a burger, something I have never really wanted.

From the ethical perspective, there are some gains to eating these substitutes if they help someone give up animal products. It can be really difficult to make the switch without training wheels.

But I'm worried that consumers choosing ultra-processed fake meat foods for health reasons are getting sold a fantasy. A lab-grown burger a day is not likely going to keep any doctors at bay. I believe the disaster of ultra-processed food proves itself in our expanding collective waistline.

Even as our diet preferences and food culture shift over time, Michael Pollan's adage holds true: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." Plant-based probably does not always count as a plant.

In the decade since I last ate bacon, vegan dining is no longer a desert. I can walk to several vegan restaurants where vegetables and grains are served with the love and respect they deserve. The worst of the house salad years are behind us.

I'm not a poster child for the vegans. I have a don't-ask-don't-tell approach to exactly what leather-like material my handbags are made from. If my dog directs her pouty gaze to a smoked ostrich neck at the farmers market, I'm buying it for her.

Selfishly, I'm glad if more people choose a vegan diet. It's a good indicator of more dining options for me. When the food trend pendulum swings in the other direction, back to real meat, I'll still be here with my marinated tofu. And I'm very happy to share.

Kara Panzer is a writer and public relations professional based in New York City.

All views expressed are the author's own.

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