The United Nations Peace Summit That Is Picking Where Six People Want to Eat

Somewhere in America right now, there's a group chat that started three weeks ago with "hey want to get dinner Friday?" and has since devolved into a 247-message thread that would make Middle East peace negotiators weep with recognition. Because apparently, choosing where six adults want to eat requires more diplomatic strategy than the Treaty of Versailles.

The Opening Gambit: False Hope

It always starts so innocently. Someone drops the casual "dinner this weekend?" and everyone responds with enthusiastic thumbs-up emojis. You think to yourself, This will be easy. We're all reasonable adults who enjoy food.

Oh, sweet summer child.

Within 12 minutes, Sarah mentions she's doing keto now. Mike reveals he's "trying to avoid gluten but it's not like a serious thing." Jessica casually drops that she's been vegetarian for two months (news to literally everyone), and David—David just says "I'm easy, whatever works."

David is lying. David is never easy. David will shoot down the next four suggestions with the precision of an anti-aircraft missile.

The Yelp Review Rabbit Hole

Someone suggests that new Italian place downtown. Immediately, the group enters what scientists call the "Yelp Review Death Spiral"—a phenomenon where grown humans spend 45 minutes analyzing whether TiffanyLovesFood2019's complaint about "weird lighting" should influence their dining decisions.

"But look, this person says the portions are small."

"That review is from 2021 though."

"Yeah, but what if the portions are still small?"

"I mean, how small is small?"

Meanwhile, the restaurant in question could have changed ownership three times, been demolished, and rebuilt as a Starbucks, but your group is still debating whether the breadsticks are adequately garlicked based on RandoFoodie47's two-star review from the Obama administration.

The Dietary Restriction Olympics

By week two, the list of requirements has grown longer than a pharmaceutical commercial's side effects warning. Sarah can't do carbs. Mike's avoiding gluten "mostly." Jessica needs vegan options but "not like, weird vegan stuff." Someone's lactose intolerant but only on weekdays. Another person just discovered they might be allergic to nightshades after reading a wellness blog.

David, who claimed he was "easy," has somehow vetoed Thai food (too spicy), Mexican food (too heavy), sushi (too fishy), and pizza (too... pizza-y?). At this point, you're starting to wonder if David survives purely on photosynthesis and spite.

The Democracy Experiment That Failed

Someone suggests making a list and voting. This seems reasonable until you realize you're now conducting a more complex electoral process than most small nations. There are ranked choices, veto powers, and someone inevitably suggests using a polling app that requires everyone to download something and create an account.

Thirty minutes later, two people have voted, one person voted for a place that closed in 2019, and someone else voted for "that place with the thing" which could literally be anywhere in the continental United States.

The Great Compromise Collapse

By the third week, desperation sets in. Someone suggests a place that's "fine for everyone"—you know, one of those restaurants that does everything poorly rather than anything well. The kind of place where the menu looks like it was written by a committee of people who've heard about food but never actually eaten any.

"They have salads AND burgers AND pasta AND tacos!"

Yes, and they probably microwave all of it, but at this point, you're willing to eat reheated cafeteria food if it means this nightmare can end.

The Inevitable Surrender

After three weeks of negotiations that would make career diplomats quit and become yoga instructors, someone finally says the magic words: "Let's just go to Applebee's."

And just like that, the great restaurant debate of 2024 is over. Not because anyone particularly wants Applebee's, but because everyone is too emotionally exhausted to continue. It's the dietary equivalent of agreeing to a ceasefire because you've run out of ammunition.

The Final Plot Twist

The best part? By the time you actually meet up at Applebee's three weeks later, Jake can't make it anymore because he's got "family stuff," Maria ate already because she "got really hungry around 4," and David—David who was "easy" and then proceeded to complicate everything—orders a Caesar salad and complains that it's "too lemony."

The remaining four of you sit there, picking at your 2-for-$25 entrées, and someone inevitably says, "We should do this more often."

And somewhere, in a group chat far away, six other friends are just beginning their own three-week journey into the restaurant selection abyss, blissfully unaware that they're about to discover that choosing where to eat is humanity's greatest unsolved problem.

Because apparently, splitting the atom was easier than splitting the dinner bill at a place everyone can agree on.