It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when we reached the peak of chili crunch in the United States, but if you were to inspect my kitchen today, you’d see, next to an old jar of Lao Gan Ma — years ago, the only chili crunch I could easily find in food stores nearby — at least half a dozen others.
While each jar contains a spicy crimson sediment under oil, some have the sweetness of star anise, while others are deepened with tiny dried shrimp or fried shallots. Some have the subtle crunch of fried sesame, garlic or crushed peanuts, or the mouth-numbing of Szechuan peppercorns.
Some of these concoctions are rooted in local Chinese or diaspora traditions, family customs, or one’s idiosyncratic taste, and each one is different from the others. (Yes, I really do need them all!)
You can call these seasonings chile oil or chile crisp or chile crunch, and the truth is, I didn’t think much about the precise language of the category until Thursday.
That’s when the Guardian reported that Momofuku, the global culinary company founded by celebrity chef David Chang, owned the trademark for the term ‘chile crunch’ and was moving to protect it, while seeking a similar trademark for ‘chili crunch,” spelled with an i.”
Momofuku has sent cease-and-desist letters to other food companies that use either phrase in their marketing, and several have already stopped, fearing a costly legal battle, according to the Guardian.
But how can one presume to have the English translation for a basic seasoning? Like mustard and mayo, chili may inspire feverish brand loyalty, but it’s certainly impossible to own.
All kinds of battles are being fought in the condiment aisle, where immigrant foods are strategically packaged for American consumers. The more successful a seasoning is and the more recognizable it becomes to consumers, the more intense these skirmishes become.
Perhaps the most well-known recent branding controversy involved sriracha. Although Huy Fong Foods popularized its version of the squeezed chili sauce in the United States, David Tran, the company’s Vietnamese-born owner, did not trademark the word, which he had borrowed from Thai cooks.
By the time he realized his popularity, it was too late. Sriracha had leveled up. It was in fast food restaurants and fine dining and packaged food and ramen. By then, “sriracha” had become a common cultural reference in the United States. For better or worse it belonged to no one.
Momofuku is a big company doing what big companies do, protecting their brand. argues that her chili crit is so distinctive and has become so popular since it debuted in 2020 that it defines the term. Notably, it acquired the “shame of Chile” trademark in a legal settlement after a rival company accused it of trademark infringement, according to The Guardian. (Mr. Chang did not immediately respond to a request for comment.)
“It should never have been trademarked,” said Jing Gao, who owns Fly By Jing, whose Sichuan chile crisps helped popularize the condiment. “It’s a descriptive, general, cultural term, but in Chinese, there are many ways to refer to sauces like these with many variations, local styles and techniques.”
Chile crisp and chile crunch have become the American vernacular for everyone. Although Lao Gan Ma, with its recognizable red label, was one of the few commercialized versions of chili chips available in the United States a decade ago, this condiment has opened the door to a competitive, fast-growing category in recent years .
Ownership seems antithetical to her pleasures. Crisp Chile is not a precise spice with a rigid definition, but a translation for an extended family of spices with infinite variations, a basic pattern that seems to invite play, variation and adaptation in cuisines.
At least five businesses that received letters from Momofuku have resigned, but not Homiah. Michelle Tew is the tiny company’s owner and only full-time employee, and Ms. Gao is an investor in it. Ms. Tew’s shrimp-rich chili sauce is a Malaysian product she wasn’t sure how to market when she started raising funds through Kickstarter in 2021.
How could she translate her family’s seasoning for American consumers? “Sambal chile crunch” followed because it clicked for people and caused the least confusion.
“I’ll try it and see how it goes,” said Ms. Tew, who was given 90 days by Momofuku to respond. “If I don’t stand my ground, it would be a very successful strategy for Momofuku.”
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