Troy Lindell

Troy Lindell grew up in Duluth with frozen lakes, warm gas station pizza, and a deep mistrust of anyone who says “umami” without irony. After a brief stint at a culinary school in the Cities, he dropped out midway through his saucier course, citing a “crisis of palette.” He’s since devoted his life to documenting the kind of food you eat with regret in one hand and a wrinkled napkin in the other. Troy writes for the guy eating onion rings in his car in a snowstorm. His pieces often oscillate between high-concept metaphor and furious note-taking about portion sizes. If it’s greasy, cheap, and comes with a plastic spork, Troy’s already three bites deep.