Foodler is Ruining My (Social) Life.


It all started out innocently enough…. I grew tired of the whopping panic attack that is ordering takeout.

“Hi there! I’d like a large order of crazy noodles with duck, an appetizer sampler, a small order of cold sesame noodles, mango rice and a lemon Vitamin Water.”

Okay so that’s a large noodle, appetizer, cold noodle, rice, and water?

“Uhhhhhhh….well… kind of. Lemme just repeat…..”

Address please

“119 DontRuinThis Road, Apartment 1, Somerville.”

Apartment Number?


Phone Number?

” 401-555-9999″

401- 555- 9989? Okay 45 minutes.

“Uh no that’s 555-9999. Nine as in… nine. And, sorry, one more thing. I’d like to pay with my credit card please.”

Hold on please.


Okay. Number please.

6844 5563 3335 0009. Expiration 09/15.


“Zero. Nine. One. Five.”

Okay. 45 minutes.

I finally manage to exhale—palms sweating, heart racing, and anger building. You thought you saw anxious before? Magnify that tenfold when it comes to my meals. I like them the way I like them, with all of the appropriate accoutrements, served piping hot and made by happy, clean, respectful people. Phone calls like the above don’t do much to assure me I’m getting what I want. And when you’re hungover and weak on a Sunday afternoon, well, we all know takeout is our lifeline.

And if takeout is my lifeline, Foodler is my Knight in Shining Armor. And much like any good relationship, Foodler causes me to become delusionally content with the present and ten pounds heavier. Which is precisely why it has simultaneously revolutionized and ruined my life.

Foodler allows you to read, with your own eyes and brain, the menus of all the takeout joints in, well, any radius. You then get the satisfaction of checking off very specific choices:

Crazy noodles. Check.  With duck. Check. And lemon curry sauce. Check.

You can even add text to a special instructions box:

Also add 18 packets of sweet and sour sauce. Or perish.

Now, naturally, I’ve exaggerated here. Always use your most brownnosing language in the special Instructions box:

Please note: I would absolutely adore 18 packets of sweet and sour sauce on the side. I will pray for you and your entire family.

Once you place your highly-detailed, customized order, Foodler allows you to plunk in your current address, credit card, and phone number—in perpetuity. Never again will you fumble around for your Visa and re-read it to an incompetent receptionist. You can even choose the exact percentage you’d like to tip your driver… for the rest of your life.

What I like most about that feature is how I can always pick 25%. And, unlike in the past, when the staff could only understand the magnitude of my glorious, giving heart when they walked away from my front door, now they know the second I place my order. I like to imagine them all scurrying around in there.

“25% tip! Line her Styrofoam in gold! Give her the special napkins. New vat of oil for her spring rolls. Exactly 18 sauces. No more, no less. And for God sake, James, I want steam billowing out of that bag when you reach her front steps!”

Ah, Foodler. Ever the knight. I see you.

Finally, and much to my recent chagrin, I learned that Foodler rewards you. And this isn’t some chintzy “free two liter with any purchase” coupon. No no no. They give you bucks. Currency. Food currency. Do you understand what this means to a person like me? Food currency? Just ask my jeans. They’re on temporary medical leave. The discounts are nothing short of phenomenal. When I sign into the app, a “40% off” link appears next to just about every takeout restaurant in a three mile radius. Last Sunday I spent four dollars, including tip, on a thirty dollar order. And I didn’t originally plan it that way. One minute you’re ordering a pizza, the next minute you realize you have 15 bucks to burn on carbs.

And the rest, my gluttonous friends, is history. Goodbye, summer. Goodbye, self-discipline. Hello Foodler. You’re the only one who gets me.