The presentation of the chef in everyday life: Socializing chefs in Lima, Peru

This work illuminates the connection between foodways and identity forging in Spain’s migration context. The concern of Moroccan and Pakistani Muslims over maintaining halal food practices conflicts with Spain’s reliance on and celebration of Iberian ham. This “two food cultures conflict,” which I conceptualize as a halal/pork binary, can be traced back to the 15th century Spanish reconquista. However, Moroccan restaurateurs’ current revival of the convivencia (coexistence) narrative, their emphasis on a collective Andaluzi identity, and tapasization and halalization of Moroccan-Muslim and Spanish foodways are possible solutions to this tension. This identity work in the restaurant allows them to reconcile the cultural, religious, and gastronomic tensions between Muslims and non-Muslims in Spain and rewrites halal foodways into the Spanish foodscape.


INTRODUCTION
Food is big business in both Brazil and around the world. Brazil-based 3G Capital, for example, made news by its purchase of renowned international brands such as Budweiser, Kraft-Heinz, and Burger King. Brazil's current global managerial leadership marks a distinct change from its historical position as a commodity exporter, albeit a dominant one. However, scale is not the only measure of food's economic significance; in modern industrial societies, production and sale of food still provide basic livelihood for countless people, especially the most marginalized, from acai pickers on the Amazonian riverside to artisanal food street vendors in São Paulo. Comprehending the food business requires several analytical tools reaching across both social and geopolitical boundaries.
Such analysis must be attuned to the myriad problems of public health and social integration that remain despite-and in some cases have resulted from-the successes of modern agribusiness and industrial food processing. This special issue seeks to introduce the methods and findings in the field of Food Studies to readers of RAE-Revista de Administração de Empresas to encourage international and interdisciplinary conversations leading to better understanding of and innovative practices within the global food system.
The modern food industry has achieved remarkable technical advances to resolve the problems of production, preservation, transportation, and distribution, but it has created many new dilemmas.
The fundamental principle behind food industrialization is the commodification process, which transforms the organic diversity of plants and animals into standardized, interchangeable parts (Appadurai, 1986;Giedion, 1948).
Since the 19th century, the elaborate transportation, refrigeration, and financial service infrastructure facilitated global trade in goods such as wheat, coffee, and meat, but these commodities' market efficiency depended on ignoring qualitative differences resulting from place of origin and means of production (Cronon, 1991;. The consumers' cost savings, however, were paid by farmers facing cut-throat competition with producers from around the world, a situation made worse by their weak bargaining power relative to intermediaries who control the trade. Yet, consumers are increasingly rebelling against anonymous products of the globalized, industrial food system. In the early 20th century, the global elite were already willing to pay a premium for the guarantee that their sparkling wine came from a particular geographical location, the Champagne district of France (Guy, 2003). Such certifications of origin and production methods have proliferated in recent decades, restoring or reinventing identities once erased by commodification, as customers seek foods that reflect their values, such as use of organic methods, fair trade, animal welfare, environmental sustainability, or better taste (Parasecoli, 2017).
Today's industrial systems that transport food globally also gave rise to widespread public health concerns. To meet the unrelenting demand for increased yield, the commodity agriculture system devised multifarious cocktails of fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides, often posing long-term dangers to the health of consumers, farm workers, and the environment.
Likewise, preservatives used by industrial food processors to extend goods' shelf life and allow their global transport often imposed incremental but real threats to public health. The industry also exposes its workers to grave dangers, such as migrant field workers being sprayed by toxic chemicals or slaughterhouse workers wielding sharp knives at the factory's grueling pace (Gray, 2014;Stull & Broadway, 2004). The scale of mass production has also become a health concern, as contamination from Escherichia coli and other deadly bacteria spreads through food supplies. The industry's desire to shield consumers from knowledge about food production conditions can further hinder efforts to prevent such outbreaks.
Anthropology has linked eating habits to socialization processes. Dietary concerns always existed and were explained culturally. Medical research on agro-industrial processes identified damages that were unknown until recently and raised concerns about their harmfulness (Levenstein, 2012). However, health concerns and particular dietary requirements are becoming increasingly common and tend to individualize meals rather than keep them communal (Fishler, 2013).
In addition to economic and health concerns, food remains central to social issues of race, class, and gender in the modern world. In his influential study, Freyre (1933) considered food a basic element of the race mixture that forged the Brazilian nation. Although scholars critiqued the notion of Brazilian "racial democracy," globally, the culinary "melting pot" was a fundamental trope of social integration in pluralistic societies (Gabaccia, 1998;Heck & Belluzo, 1998). Bourdieu (1984) formulated an influential theoretical framework to explain how cultural expressions such as cuisine help maintain and perpetuate social distinctions while analyzing the role of food and other cultural expressions in constructing social class. The Parisian restaurant cuisine observed by Bourdieu in the 1960s lost its global dominance as "foodies" sought racialized communities or travelled the world pursuing innovative and/or traditional restaurants, and as street foods that were popular and vulgar became trendy and fashionable.
Rather than democratizing the social space of food, sophisticated diners' omnivorous pursuits of authenticity and exoticism distanced consumers from racialized cooks and vendors, thereby naturalizing social distinctions (Johnston & Baumann, 2010). However, attempts by celebrity chefs and food critics to appropriate and gentrify street food often depended on culinary knowledge and innovation of racialized cooks . Thus, in examining the complex social world of cuisine, researchers must combine the perspectives of producers and consumers, as well as discursive and sensory dimensions of food.
Food Studies researchers have an ongoing, collaborative project called City Food, which aims at rethinking culinary differences and identifying food's place in diasporic communities. A global partnership of noted scholars has assembled in the last three years, leading academic programs and centers, museums, and not-for-profit associations with the two-fold objective of increasing collaboration across the Global North-South divide.
One in Lima for 16 months and examined socialization practices in two culinary schools, which included classes on self-presentation so students become capable of self-promotion, to elucidate how culinary work is linked to person formation in Peru. This formation is regarded essential to promote the national brand.
Professionalizing the chef as a model citizen for interacting with the global environment, encouraging entrepreneurship, and constraining social practices considered deleterious could be the path for success.
As consumers become more affluent, they raise expectations regarding animal welfare and environmental protection, and the industry must consider this. The exploratory study, "Animal-derived food industry: Risks and opportunities due to farm animal welfare," by Thomas Michael Hoag and Celso Funcia Lemme attempts to map the agendas of companies in the industry and compares them with agendas of principal stakeholders to better understand the risks and opportunities facing companies' intangible assets regarding farm animal welfare.

The paper by Patricia Silva Monteiro Boaventura, Carla
Caires Abdalla, Cecilia Lobo Araújo, and José Sarkis Arakelian, "Value co-creation in the specialty coffee value chain: The thirdwave coffee movement," shows how Brazil, like other commodity exporters, relied on international markets, booms, and busts, because such goods were considered interchangeable. Coffee may be incorporated into the list of foods seeking to create value through strategies such as terroir (taste of place) that break the commodity's anonymity. The article highlights challenges in differentiating products through presenting higher quality or introducing the idea of unique experience.
Raising similar questions about high-value foods, "Legitimacy as a barrier: An analysis of Brazilian premium cocoa and chocolate legitimation process" by Marina Henriques Viotto, Bruno Sutil, and Maria Carolina Zanette uses institutional theory to examine the legitimacy of Brazilian premium cocoa.
Legitimization of a product's value involves several actors that must build a cultural-cognitive framework to recognize and differentiate the products. This process is educational in nature and involves not only producers but also media and the creation of new consumption trends.
Considering the scenario of gentrified Californian cities, Alison Hope Alkon in her paper "Entrepreneurship as activism?
Resisting gentrification in Oakland, California" identifies entrepreneurship as a form of opposition to gentrification. As observed in the contemporary foodie society, authenticity is created through associations with the gritty culture of lower classes. Yet, multiple forms of this authenticity are often in conflict.
Authenticity derives from the presence of not only gritty, racialized working classes but also cultural elites navigating the streets and curating the nature of public space (Zukin, 1996). These activist-entrepreneurs of food outlets create employment and business opportunities for the area's residents. The author shows how food-based entrepreneurs run successful businesses that, simultaneously, are also political projects.
Modernization is always seeking to impose sanitation on traditional foodways, particularly street foods. In Singapore, creation of hawker courts was considered a solution to not only the problem of sanitation but also social integration in a society with a delicate balance of ethnic groups. However, the article "Hawkerpreneurs: Hawkers, entrepreneurship, and reinventing street food in Singapore" by Nicole Tarulevicz identifies a new problem. These hawker courts were hugely successful, but a generation later, there was no form of social reproduction of the hawker population a generation later. As this generation is not substituted easily, there is an attempt to attract workers through the allure of entrepreneurship.
The main foci of this article are historical perspectives on the food hawking evolution in Singapore and the meaning of entrepreneurship and narratives of people who were successful but pursued the hawker life.

INVITED ARTICLE
In their essay "Beer with Chinese characteristics: Marketing beer under Mao," Jeffrey M. Pilcher, Yu Wang, and Yuebin Jackson Guo explain how a western consumer good became the most popular alcoholic beverage in Communist China.
Although economists pointed to market reforms of Deng Xiaoping as the onset of China's beer industry, the authors take a historical perspective to show that the groundwork for contemporary advances was laid under Mao. Using a culinary infrastructure framework, the authors conduct cultural analysis of beer marketing campaigns while focusing on the material conditions of production. The authors conclude that the Chinese Communist Party inculcated a taste for beer not through capitalist advertising campaigns but through non-market forms of conspicuous consumption as an urban privilege in a society defined by scarcity.

PERSPECTIVES, ESSAYS, BOOK REVIEW, AND BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS
The Perspectives section has two authors who write about the same subject. The article "How Big Business got Brazil Hooked on Junk Food" published by The New York Times on September 16, 2017, raised an important question about changes relative to health issues such as increase in diabetes and obesity on populations that recently began consuming industrialized food (Nestle, 2003). We used this article for discussion in this section This analysis looks at the halal concept not only as a product in an emerging "diasporic, religious market" (Bergeaud-Blackler, Fischer, & Lever, 2016, p. 13), but as a foodway and food behavior that can be traced to the period of al-Andaluz, one that is measured against

TWO CONFLICTING FOOD CULTURES AND DEPENDENCE ON HALAL FOODWAYS
Migrants take great care to prevent the moral contamination of haram (unlawful or forbidden meat that can seem threatening to them.) These concerns have moved to the forefront in the diaspora, whereas these dietary laws are "nearly unconscious" in [the home country] (Fischer, 2011, p. 111).
Readers 1). The same can be said of many Muslim immigrants living in Spain. The authors aptly describe this intensified concern around halal food observance by referring to it as a "halal consciousness" (Hashim & Othman, 2011, p. 1).
In her research on the migrant experience in Italy, Roberta Giovine recognizes the social and religious significance of the halal dietary code for North African Muslims who abide by these laws "in order not to transgress Allah's rules…to not lose their status as members of the nation of Islam and, consequently, their community-defined identity" (Giovine, 2013, p. 248). Also pertinent is Leila Abu-Shams' work on food and immigrant identity in Zaragoza, Spain, in which she investigates the fundamental role of food in Muslim Moroccan immigrants' daily lives. She asserts that food is a "sign or a mark of identity that actualizes and preserves group identity confirming the separation between us and them" (Abu-Shams, 2008, p. 186). Specifically, she captures the importance of the categories of halal and haram.
She explains, "When they select foods, they are following cultural guidelines…. Orders and prohibitions related to food ultimately put into sharp relief the distinct identity of a religious community and differentiates it from others" (Abu-Shams, 2008, p. 186). Riaz and Chaudry's Halal Food Production sheds light on the role of food and ritual within Islam and the dichotomy between that which is permissible (halal) and that forbidden (haram). When it is difficult to determine whether a food item is halal or haram, it is called mashbuh. The Qur'an states that pork and its derivatives, blood, and carrion are strictly forbidden (Riaz & Chaudry, 2003 p. 122). For Muslim immigrants in Spain, eating halal is often about negotiating differences (Gasparetti, 2012, p. 257). Ayse Çaglar's essay on the kebab in Germany provides insight into the symbolic dimension of food, its ability to serve as an ethnic signifier, and its significant role in immigrant identity formation. Referring to Sidney Mintz's work, she reminds readers of the notion that "what people eat expresses who and what they are to themselves and to others" (Çaglar, 2013, p. 211 Spaniards consume pork products, the strong affinity for this forbidden item is apparent to many Muslims when they eat in bars or shop in supermarkets.

CONVIVENCIA AND ADDRESSING THE TWO FOOD CULTURES TENSION
In light of the challenges of negotiating these conflicting foodways, the question remains as to what can be done to address and even transcend this cultural, religious, and gastronomic tension? Crucial to this exploration is the work by Robin Clair Patric et al.
on the cultural narratives of restaurant spaces. They assert that food and food establishments are "discursive practices in their own right… places and means of identity construction" (Patric Clair et al., 2011, p. 138). They argue that the restaurant's ambiance is expressed through various agents: "sensory stimuli, including music, aromas, interior decorating and more" (Patric Clair et al., 2011, p. 140). Drawing attention to aesthetic choices and cuisine, this ethnographic study identifies the agents through which restaurant owners in Spain construct specified cultural narratives.
By harkening back to the period of convivencia and underscoring the links between traditional "Christian" and "Muslim" cuisine in Spain, restaurateurs offer a means of lessening the gap between the two food cultures in contemporary Spain.
Literature in the anthropology of space and place focuses on the restaurant, emphasizing the roles of restaurateurs in determining the "culture" of the restaurant space. This can be viewed as a form of "identity maintenance." Grit Liebscher and Jennifer Dailey-O'Cain's Language, Space, and Identity in Migration offers insights into the concept of "space" as it relates to the migration experience. Recognizing the nuances of the immigrant experience, they explain that some migrants attempt to repress their place of origin, some endeavor to recreate it, and "others may do both at different times" (Liebscher & Dailey-O'Cain, 2013, p. 17). This attempt to replicate and recreate one's place of origin by merging it with the new context is crucial to understanding Moukib and Mohammad's restaurant identity work. Moreover, in The Restaurant Book: Ethnographies of Where We Eat, David Berris and David Sutton "examine the ways that processes of identity and memory are 'emplaced' in different sites, as restaurants come to stand for the larger places they inhabit and for social relations within cities and between nations" (Berris & Sutton, 2007, p. 4). Drawing on this concept of "emplaced" identity, I investigate how restaurateurs' discussions of their restaurant space reflect a larger vision of Moroccan, and more broadly, Muslim immigrants' place in Spain.
Throughout our discussions, Mohammad, the owner of Fez Restaurant, invoked the image of Spain as "an incredible mixture of Christians and Muslims." This recollection is significant in that it promotes a vision of coexistence rather than tension.
Moukib, the owner of Aljaima, also draws on the convivencia framework, viewing Moroccan and Spanish foodways collectively and acknowledging their emergence from the era of al-Andaluz.
Both owners seek to highlight, as food historians have, that this era involved a series of cross-cultural and cross-religious exchanges between Muslims and Christians (Marin, 2004).
Moukib has lived in Spain for 28 years. He studied biology and interior design and worked as a translator and waiter before opening Aljaima. One of his aims is to demonstrate that Spanish and Moroccan-Muslim customs are bound in Andaluzi culture.
I identify the moments in which he emphasizes a "shared history" between Spaniards and Moroccans or refers to the period of convivencia to signal gastronomic exchanges between Muslims and Christians. For example, when designing the Aljaima restaurant, Moukib explicitly sought to showcase architectural styles from Morocco that highlight the period of al-Andaluz. He explains that the interior of the restaurant is designed to look like a Moroccan patio with an air of Andaluz (see Figures 1-3). In modeling the space after this era, he emphasizes the historical presence of Muslims in Spain. He explains: Almería belongs to the era of the Arabs, and there are many artifacts of Arab architecture in Almería, Spain. The floor tiles, furniture, paintings, lamps, and jewelry were bought in Moroccan artisan markets. Everything else was designed by hand, including the ceiling, which is covered in handpainted designs. I wanted it to be modeled after traditional homes in Morocco to give it this identity (Field notes).
In a later telephone conversation with Moukib, I asked him again about the "identity" of his restaurant, wondering if he would distinguish between the elements that are purely Moroccan and those of Andaluzi origin. He previously used the terms interchangeably, leading me to believe that the restaurant promotes both a Moroccan and Andaluzi identity. He explained that Moroccan architecture is based on Andaluzi architecture, that they are one and the same, adding, "In Moroccan architecture, there is a mixture of Andaluzi Amazih" (North African Andaluzi)." In his mind, they could not be disentangled from one another, emplacing Andaluzi identity as an expression of Moroccan traditions, the shared history between Spain and North Africa, and Spain's Muslim past. For example, he likens Aljaima's traditional Muslim fountain to those in Granada, Spain at the Alhambra.
For Moukib, the fountain signifies the historical and ongoing practice of Islam in Spain (see Figure 4). However, much of the restaurant's furniture is directly from Morocco. As Liebscher and Dailey-O'Cain suggest, cultural representation in the restaurant space is not clear-cut, but multi-faceted.
Furthermore, Moukib views his restaurant's cuisine as a viable symbol of the historical moment of convivencia. The menu, which includes couscous, bastela de pollo, fish tagine, goat tagine, beef tagine, salads, bread, and traditional sweets, is "a collection of dishes from the Andaluzi era" in his words. The convivencia and al Andaluz narratives not only allow Moukib to claim a common history, but also serve as useful marketing techniques. For example, Aljaima's Instagram page highlights this collective history by advertising an "authentic Moroccan Andalucian cuisine." Moreover, many of Moukib's recipes are selected from a cookbook called La Cocina Popular de Almería (Gallego, 2010). He specified that these recipes are from Almería "from the era of the Muslims, when Muslims ruled Andalucía." He sent me recipes for beef and green peppers, beef stew, lamb with peas, pepper salad, sultan salad, broad bean tortilla, shish kebab, and pig's feet. Under the pig's feet recipe, he wrote a note regarding halal practices, emphasizing that "in Morocco one cooks lamb's feet instead." Here, he illustrates how halal and non-halal food practices from Spain to Morocco coexist within the Andaluzi framework. In doing so, he rewrites halal food practices into the current Spanish foodscape. Moukib's references to Andaluzi cuisine reveal a common culinary history, the exchanges that previously existed between Muslims and Christians, and the ongoing adjustments to suit religious needs. Referring again to Spain's period of Muslim rule, he recognizes that Muslims and Jews shared similar food restrictions, and that even today, they can "eat from the same plate." By invoking this Andaluzi narrative, Moukib taps into the history of culinary exchange that occurred during the Muslim rule of Spain. Both Manuela Marín and Olivia Remie Constable examine recipe books in their work to trace the adoption of Muslim dishes by Christians and their use of "loanwords," that is, the incorporation of Arabic cooking terms into the Castilian vocabulary. Like Moukib, their discussions demonstrate the incorporation of Muslim foodways and food language into the Spanish food system (Marín, 2004, p. 50).
In Moukib's view, the gap between Moroccan-Muslim food customs and Spanish cuisine is not that wide. He states that the dishes he serves in his restaurant are similar to those eaten in 11 th -century Andalucían villages. Moukib's emphasis on a single "Andaluzi cuisine" is a means of promoting a more expansive definition of Southern Spanish culture, one that acknowledges its Arab and Muslim roots. His emphasis on a common cuisine reflects his desire for a more nuanced definition of Spanish culture that locates halal culinary traditions within its boundaries.
According to this vision, Aljaima restaurant can be viewed as an extension of Spanish culture. In fact, the convivencia paradigm seems to extend to Moukib's personal sense of identity. He dislikes the term "integration," because it signifies perderse en otra (losing oneself in another thing). Instead, Moukib asserts that he is "coexisting in harmony," rather than assimilating into Spanish culture. Perhaps reference to this historical moment makes the Spanish, Moroccan, and Muslim aspects of his identity seem less disparate.

Food preparation and presentation is another area in which
Moukib and Mohammad attempt to address the two food cultures tension and actively facilitate cross-cultural consumption between Muslim immigrants and Spaniards. Both owners do so by either blending elements of Spanish food culture and halal food practices and/or merging Spanish and Moroccan food practices. Moukib wishes to expose Spaniards and other Europeans to Andaluzi cuisine to underscore the historical presence of Muslims in Spain and the gastronomic links between Spain and Morocco. Mohammad perceives Muslims' need for more halal eating establishments in Spain. Both owners have thought of creative ways to unify these seemingly divergent foodways. This fusion is accomplished through two inverse processes. I refer to these as the tapasization of Moroccan/ Andaluzi cuisine, which is the incorporation of Spanish elements, and the halalization of Spanish cuisine, or the introduction of the Muslim dietary code. In both cases, restaurateurs' blending of food practices can be considered an effort to recreate a sense of convivencia between Muslims and non-Muslims in Spain. These hybrid processes greatly resemble the conceptual framework Richard Wilk uses to discuss the construction of Belizean cuisine under colonialism. Wilk discovers that "cooks and workers working across cultures and classes engaged in various kinds of creolization that led to convergence" (Wilk, 2002, p. 77). In particular, Wilk's definition of "mixing, wrapping, and substitution" can be applied to decipher the hybrid food practices of Moroccan restaurateurs.
Moukib's restaurant, Aljaima, further embodies convivencia through its inclusion of a tapas menu entitled la ruta de tapas (the tapas route). Given the ongoing economic crisis in Spain, Moukib is aware that many Spaniards are less inclined to buy elaborate meals. His choice to incorporate the Spanish tapas system is at one level economic, but also appropriate to the convivencia paradigm he espouses. This additional menu offers Spaniards a familiar and more economic means of accessing Andaluzi food. Moukib describes it as a "fusion of tapas with Moroccan spices," since each tapas dish has Moroccan flavors with Spanish style presentation. His ruta de tapas can be viewed as an example of the restaurant's adaptation to the Spanish culinary context (see Figure 5). As such, the use of the tapas menu could be seen as an example of Wilk's concept of "wrapping," that is, "the enclosing of something foreign within a familiar wrapping" (Wilk, 2002, p. 78). However, at the same time, the combination of Spanish and North African culinary traditions reflects Moukib's Andaluzi framework.
Mohammad hopes to combine Spanish foodways and halal food practices. According to Mohammad, halal meat shops and restaurants are not common in Seville. In the future, he plans to open a restaurant that serves Spanish dishes such as salmorejo or chorizo using halal meat to cater to the Muslim community. This proposal for a Spanish-halal cuisine is an example of Wilk's concept of "mixing," which occurs when "dishes of different ethnic origins are served together" (Wilk, 2002, p. 77). During our first conversation, Mohammad noted that everyone who ate that evening at Fez Restaurant was Muslim and that "they were all looking for halal food." He claims that such a restaurant would also cater to Spanish converts to Islam and Muslim tourists so that "people from abroad who are Muslim can try Spanish food." In her essay "Arab Traces in Spanish Cooking," Manuela Marín claims that "there existed in al-Andaluz a superior model of gastronomic satisfaction" on the part of Muslims and Christians (Marín, 2004, p. 38). Both Marin and Constable note that as early as the 11 th century, provisions were frequently made for Muslims, such as the use of separate communal ovens and pots to avoid the mixture of forbidden dishes like pork and licit foods. Constable's work reveals how solutions to the halal/pork binary existed before the reconquista.
In fact, she notes that in the 13 th century, rights were granted to "subject Muslim communities" in Aragon and Castille to have "Islamic butchers and special shops or tables for selling ḥalāl meat" (Constable, 2013, p. 228). Similar to how Muslims' religious and gastronomic needs were historically recognized, allowing Muslims and Christians to share meals, Mohammad endeavors to recover this "model of gastronomic satisfaction." Through this proposed merging of Spanish food customs and halal food practices, Mohammad would provide a safe way for Muslims who observe halal to experience a primary element of Spanish culture-tapas. He, like Hamal and Mukhtar, clarifies how cultural and religious barriers manifest through foodways.
Although Mohammad does not himself express strong frustration with the omnipresence of pork in Spain, he recognizes that it poses a challenge for Muslims. This hybrid concept of a Spanishhalal restaurant, like the kosher-Chinese restaurants of New York that emerged in the mid-20 th century, offers one solution to this gastronomic conflict (Coe, 2009 (Frayer, 2014, p. 1).
This phenomenon further illustrates how food becomes the basis for negotiating identities. Dali's creation of the halal Iberian ham, a hybrid product, marks his desire for Muslims to carry out their dual Muslim and Spanish lifeways. This halalization of Iberian ham is a clear example of "substitution," that is, "a special form of mixing that occurs when an item that is normally part of a dish or meal is substituted by one of different origin" (Wilk, 2002, p. 78

INTRODUCTION
Carlos divided his students into two groups. Pulling ourselves off the dusty tile floor, we shuffled to either side of the classroom and formed two lines: five women on one side facing four men on the other. Carlos waited in the middle. When we had organized ourselves properly, he told us the assignment: one by one, each student from the male side of the room would cross and pretend to seduce the female student of his choice. The object was to project power and confidence; if a student seemed weak, he would have to do it again. "Do you know who Sean Connery is?" Carlos asked in Spanish by way of explanation. "Isn't he a hunk?
He's old, but he can get whatever he wants." He stood back and motioned to Esteban (a pseudonym), a tiny eighteen-year-old who was standing at the end of the line directly across from me. Esteban walked toward Maripas at the other end of my line, putting one foot in front of the other and maintaining eye contact, purposeful but shy. "Not confident enough!" Carlos called out, then demonstrated how one crosses a room by striding towards a girl named Wendy, who giggled when he stopped just short of touching her. "Again!" he said. Esteban tried once more, faster and with a straighter posture.
One by one, my classmates practiced their seduction walks, first the men and then the women. Round-faced Leomar was told to be more galán (powerful like a leading man); Victor, at thirty the oldest student and unofficial leader of the class, found himself praised for his ramrod posture and confident gait. "Remember," said Carlos once everyone had finished, "You should always be confident. If you are, then no one can say anything bad about you." He released us into the humid afternoon, each of us brushing off our baggy checkered pants and filing past the empty classrooms toward Cenfotur's main exit.
Carlos was teaching what amounted to an acting class, conference as a sign of progress for Lima's culinary scene (Pastor, 2011). Meanwhile, the latter portion of the comments section of Rayner's blog became a forum for Peruvians to explain the Lima Declaration in the context of their country. "To understand why this group of chefs decided to sign a manifesto that many of you find cheese [sic] and over the top, you will only understand after you study what has happened in Peru in the last 10 years," one commenter summarized. "I invite you to do a report of the work that Gaston [Acurio, a celebrity chef] has been doing in Peru and you surely will be inspired enough to sign a Manifesto [sic] like that." As these reactions might indicate, while the idea of a chef as a political figure might seem ludicrous outside of Peru, for many people in Lima, the portrayal of chefs as figures of development and salvation has become almost a matter of common sense.
Indeed, for the people I knew in Lima's culinary schools and restaurants, cuisine was a natural focal point for discussions about the future of society. Part of this confidence in the culinary industries is related to specific historical and economic circumstances. , the year that many of my classmates were born, Peru was just emerging from more than a decade of terrorism and economic collapse; by the 2000s, a series of neoliberal economic policies and the rejuvenation of business had made Peru's economy one of the fastest growing in Latin America. Some of Peru's most successful businesses profit from the extraction of natural resources; however, many others are linked to Peru's food and cuisine, ranging from the export of asparagus, quinoa, and paprika to the reinvigoration of tourism.
The emergence of these food-related businesses has taken place in tandem with the growth of food-related travel, media, and celebrity worldwide, making a focus on Peruvian cuisine part of a broader growth in the culinary industries enabled by the media and tourism (Rousseau, 2012;Ruhlman, 2006). Today Peru's "gastronomy boom" is evident in the Peruvian restaurant chains that have spread across South America and Europe, as well as in the estimated 3% of Peru's gross domestic product (GDP) that is attributed to restaurants within the country (Economist, 2014).
In 2017, Peru was home to two of the top 20 restaurants in the world (William Reed Business Media, 2017). In this environment, cooking is an accessible profession that has the potential to reap vast rewards, and thousands of young people from around the country have enrolled in culinary schools to emulate the chefs who have become some of their most cherished celebrities.
It is not only the potential for profit that has driven young Peruvians to enroll in culinary schools and open restaurants, though; it is also the widely disseminated message that food is integral to the expression of Peruvians' individual personal identities and their shared heritage as Peruvians. This message is similar to the identification of food with heritage that occurs in many locations around the world (Counihan, 2004;Fajans, 2012;Sutton, 2014), but Peruvians see the form of their gastronomy boom as quintessentially their own. Many people told me that this emphasis on food had to some extent always been present in Peru; they told me that Peruvians naturally love to eat, that they have especially good taste, and that they have always been good cooks. At the same time, they speculated that the gastronomy boom has emerged at this particular moment because Peruvians need to remember that there is something they all do well. Perpetual losers in war and soccer, cuisine is a sphere in which Peruvians of all socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds are now winning on a global scale.
The overt message of this common trope -that Peru's gastronomy boom will provide the opportunities and ethos necessary to create a more prosperous and inclusive society -is an easy one to approach with cynicism; many Peruvians I met, rich and poor alike, were skeptical of the chefs and gastronomy society officials who make these claims. Social scientists analyzing these campaigns have also rightly pointed out that the gastronomy boom's brand of "inclusion" actually excludes the contributions of many groups of Peruvians, often the same groups who have historically been barred from elite spaces (Alcalde, 2009;García, 2013). However, limiting an analysis of the gastronomy boom to its rhetorical inaccuracies runs the risk of obscuring the very real effects that the boom has had on many people's lives. Instead, the "gastronomy boom" should be seen anthropologically, not just as a set of claims about inclusion and diversity, but also as a series of social and political maneuvers that have rearranged a landscape of economic opportunities, created new hierarchies and credentialing procedures, and rewarded new kinds of comportment, sociability, and self-perception.
Lima's culinary schools -many of which did not exist twenty years ago, or if they did, it was in a much-reduced form -are ideal locations to study these changes because they are the sites where many of these new beliefs and behaviors are LaCucina, which enrolls a large number of rural-to-urban migrants and their children. These students often came from humble means, but every day they heard from their teachers that they had the potential to become as influential as celebrity chefs if they applied themselves appropriately. As I will show, in both schools, this means that students learn to embody a calculated mixture of international norms and Peruvian traits. The process of learning to create these personas prepares students to represent Peru (and sell Peruvian food) to the world. It has also served as a means by which instructors have created a new kind of model Peruvian citizen, transforming a potentially troublesome population of poor migrants into creative, capitalist workers whose characteristic trait is entrepreneurialism.
In teaching their students the behavior of proper employees, Peruvian culinary instructors are in good company worldwide.
Social scientists have long noted the connection between the socialization of personal characteristics and the formation of capitalist workers, from E.P. Thompson's seminal work on the socialization of dispositions among the English working class (1964) to more recent work on the flexibility valued in presentday employees, who are expected to continuously adapt to the demands of rapidly changing work conditions (Comaroff & Comaroff, 2001;Ong, 1999). Notably, anthropologists have described workers of the past several decades as thinking of themselves through a perspective of "neoliberal agency," a sense that their identities, abilities, and even cultures are marketable "assets that must be continuously invested in, nurtured, managed, and developed" (Martin, 2000, p. 582;Gershon, 2011). Seen from this angle, formal education is a means to a very capitalist mode of self-improvement; effective neoliberal workers see themselves as gaining credentials, relationships, and skills from schooling that can be reinvested into the self like a business.
Vocational education in Peru, much of it private, draws explicitly on this view of schools as a form of investment. Rural children move to cities specifically to "improve [themselves]" through education and implicitly to become morally superior through schooling (Leinaweaver, 2008). Families across the country spend large portions of their income on private education -to a degree that surprises outside observers -because they believe in a direct tie between education and better jobs (World Bank, 1999). Like many vocational schools in Lima, LaCucina and Cenfotur have benefitted from this ideology. Both schools are twoyear institutes that offer state-recognized cooking credentials; as such, they are widely regarded as offering good value, providing students with knowledge and advantages in exchange for a relatively hefty tuition (about 1,000 soles or $380 per month).
They attract students from across Peru's socioeconomic spectrum, but -in part because Lima's richest students choose to study cooking at universities or abroad -these schools' student bodies are overwhelmingly made up of the country's middle class and students who are migrants or the children of migrants.
Many scholars who study Peru worry that the education offered in places like Cenfotur and LaCucina is a form of "racism in disguise" in the sense that it encourages students to adopt traits associated with whiteness in order to progress (Leinaweaver, 2008). These warnings are especially poignant as scholars worldwide have noted that "progress" itself may be ephemeral in the sense that formal education tends to reinforce class stratification rather than enable upward mobility. Key to these critiques is the insight that education reproduces and legitimizes the dominance of some cultural signifiers over others. Bourdieu and Passeron (1977) argue that education is a process of social exclusion because it enables the transmission of cultural capital within classes; meanwhile, Paul Willis notes that lower-class students participate in their own economic subjugation by opting into working-class jobs in what they perceive to be a fulfilling act of rebellion against conformity (1977).
As I will show, concerns surrounding the role of Peruvian education in reproducing existing hierarchies are not unfounded.
Lima's culinary students are indeed encouraged to think of themselves as collections of individual culinary talents that can be marketed worldwide; they are distinguished from each other through grades, internships, and eventual work placements that reinforce the belief that some behaviors and tastes are superior to others. Yet strikingly, the characteristics into which Peruvian students are socialized are also part of a specifically Peruvian milieu, one that reflects not just the individual's place in the market but also the relationship between capitalist systems and Peru as a country more broadly -a context in which Peru as a whole was until recently seen as underperforming. In contrast to many of the vocational schools profiled in anthropological literature (cf. Woronov, 2015), the individual students at Cenfotur and LaCucina are not seen as "failures" or automatically of lower ability or lower class than students in academic tracks. Instead, the overwhelming sentiment in these schools -and, indeed, in Lima as a whole -is that Peru must work as a country to rise above its class position. With the individual student framed as a kind of metonym for Peru's progress, the entrepreneurship that my classmates learned to exemplify bore the traces not only of neoliberal agency, but also of Peru's specific racial ideologies, self-consciously promoting the notion that individual success is tantamount to national improvement.

Vivo citizens, Vivo nation
During my fieldwork in Lima, nearly every culinary school administrator I interviewed told me that the objective of cooking school was to form students into good people (buenas personas), whom they described generically as "ethical" or "responsible." Implicit in this characterization was the looming vision of a society that would prevent students from being good people if left to their own devices; when administrators referred to creating "buenas personas" they emphasized the fact that they were molding students who were not already good when they arrived. One administrator told me that many people came to Cenfotur with an attitude that would permit unethical behavior, and it was his job to train them to be different. With training, the students could become honest and attentive to order and cleanliness. Without it, students would likely become cooks who stole from their employers, sold expired or badly handled food, or told customers that the restaurant was serving a more expensive fish like lenguado (sole) when instead it was selling a different, cheaper fish that looked similar.
When instructors told me about this type of person, they often used the word vivo, which literally means "alive" but in Peru refers to being crafty or clever, capable of flouting official rules in order to achieve personal gain. While not overtly racialized, the term references a long history of ambivalence toward the presence of rural or indigenous people in Peruvian cities. Anyone in Peru can be vivo, but it refers to a type of craftiness that skirts official norms and as such often implies a contrast with a way of life that is more appropriate and implicitly European. In Lima, the association between indigenous traits and vivo behavior is all the more powerful because it links the supposed disorder of indigenous migrants to the perceived decline of the city over the past fifty years. For centuries after the Spanish conquest, Lima was depicted as a white enclave, but since the mid-twentieth century, an "overflowing" popular sector has moved from the provinces to the capital. The city grew from 1.5 million people in 1950 to eight million by the year 2000 (Matos Mar, 1984). In the absence of adequate public services in the latter part of the twentieth century, these migrants were famous for behavior that would be categorized as vivo, starting informal businesses and illegally occupying land that would eventually become Lima's vast shantytowns.
Food production holds a special place in these racialized imaginaries. Indigenous and mestizo (of mixed heritage) vendors have been accused of falsifying their wares since colonial times (de la Cadena, 2000;Weismantel, 2001) Alicia's answer is a revealing example of how the gastronomy boom retains elements of a crafty brand of entrepreneurship while also acquiring a veneer of respectability. For Alicia and other administrators, the formalization that culinary entrepreneurs must undergo is not so much a denial of the Peruvian spirit of being vivo, but rather the ability to demonstrate other characteristics that allow vivo-ness to become integrated into commerce. In other words, a person might be vivo but must also be hygienic, educated, and ethical in order to represent Peru at home and abroad. It is partly this compromise that makes the Peruvian gastronomy boom seem so transformative in its home country.
As entrepreneurial endeavors that acknowledge the peculiarities and potentially corrupt characteristics of Peruvian informality, businesses that exist within the framework of the gastronomy boom also demonstrate Peru's ability to integrate itself into global markets after a disastrous period of near collapse.
In order to signal this compromise between formality and vivo characteristics, cooks and restaurant owners must learn to embody a specific combination of skills and personality traits. In the rest of this article, I will describe how this very specific combination of Euro-American standards and Peruvian character has become part of culinary students' social and embodied practices, both via explicit instruction and in their schools' disciplinary practices. As I will show, while the schools deliberately socialize particular habits and outlooks in their students, the particular combination of these habits -the characteristic persona that allows students to embody something that is Peruvian and international (usually Euro-American) at the same time -is less of a model of capitalist citizenship in general than it is of Peruvian capitalism in particular. The result of this socialization process is an image of Peruvian capitalism in which vivo behavior is transformed via daily interactions and channeled into the drive to promote Peruvianness abroad.

Order and research in the classroom
When Alicia told me that the informal vendors of the gastronomy boom were "basically good" but needed to learn hygiene and education, she was articulating a view in which a person's vivo behavior and informality could be offset by acquired skills and made acceptable for tourists and international consumers. This attitude, widely shared among educators, was often the basis for explaining why culinary students needed to learn how to conduct themselves in orderly ways. On my first day at Cenfotur, for instance, one of the instructors told me that training cooks was like training soldiers in an army. By this he meant that he taught students to respect the strict hierarchies of the kitchen, but also that it was important to cultivate the disciplined, orderly habits of a group that worked together toward a shared goal. In theory, every aspect of a typical day in Lima's culinary schools was inflected with this commitment to discipline, though it was not always expressed as a direct analogue to military life. At both of the schools I attended, each day began with a student displaying his or her official ID and changing into a uniform; as it progressed, students typically found themselves in work environments in which they took on specific, defined roles like chopping, cooking, plating and cleaning.
Within these broad routines, instructors at both schools also encouraged the efficient and orderly execution of particular tasks. In both schools, the concept of mise en place was one of the first procedures that instructors taught; they explained that the French term meant "everything in its place" (todo en su lugar) and that it usually referred to the cutting and portioning of ingredients in advance of cooking, a process that saved time and allowed many kinds of dishes to be cooked right before serving. They also emphasized that mise en place referred not just to preparing the ingredients, but also to organizing oneself so as not to waste time. It was partly a mindset, the mental preparation that all cooks undertook so as to predict the most efficient preparation of their part of a dish. Accordingly, the correct sequencing of tasks was as much a manifestation of order as was the organization of space. When instructors demonstrated how to prepare a dish in a cooking class, they often narrated the rationale behind the order in which they were completing the steps, asking students which component of a dish would take the longest to prepare and thus which aspect they should begin first.
Finally, the orderliness that these schools taught in the kitchen was connected not only to the physical environment, but also to an individual's attention and attitude. Safety protocols were an especially obvious focus for this lesson as instructors taught students to be aware of flames, of the settings on pressure cookers, and the locations of fire extinguishers. Instructors also carefully reinforced attention to the food itself. They were usually lenient about mistakes that were made due to misunderstandings of recipes or techniques but were unforgiving of students whose errors came from neglecting to watch a searing piece of meat, ignoring a cheese-covered dish in a broiler, or forgetting to add a key ingredient.
Despite the ubiquity of these manifestations of order, no instructor spoke of an attention to organization or the capacity for restraint as traits that were naturally well-suited to Peruvians. While the instructors took as a given that none of the students could be expected to spontaneously adopt an orderly attitude, they emphasized that these forms of discipline were a necessary check on the attitudes that Peruvians already believed they had. This necessity came not just from the goal of improving the Peruvian populace, but also from pragmatic concerns about attracting tourists and sending culinary students to restaurants around the world. Peru's cooks might be creating food for international consumption, but -in keeping with the perspective of "neoliberal agency" within which the schools imagined themselves to operate -in many ways instructors saw cooks themselves as products that needed to be molded to suit foreign tastes while differentiating themselves from competitors. To this end, Peru's culinary schools emphasize the need to combine the orderliness expected in the international workforce with the traits that separate Peruvian cooks from those of other nationalities. Chief among them is a modified version of vivo behavior.

Ganas
While order in all of its manifestations was something that culinary students and instructors understood to be unquestionably foreign, traits like ambition and leadership were understood to be native to Peru. They were not qualities that every Peruvian necessarily had, though, and students could be evaluated and compared according to the quantity of ambition they displayed at any given moment. I became especially aware of this tendency when I was invited to observe the morning classes at the Instituto Pachacutec, an elite school that enrolls migrant students on full scholarship and trains them to work at some of the most famous restaurants in the country. I spoke with a chef instructor as he watched over a group of students in their final semester. "I like these students better than the students from other schools," he said as we watched the students crack open crab shells. "I teach at Cordon [the Lima branch of Paris's Cordon Bleu school] too, and I prefer to hire the students here. Cordon has better facilities, but the students here have more ambition." The word I am translating as "ambition" here is the Spanish noun ganas, which is related to the verb ganar ("to win" or "to earn") and refers to a person's hunger or desire. A person who has ganas is ambitious or even scrappy, while a person without ganas is apathetic, lackadaisical, or disinterested. Unlike order, my interlocutors viewed ambition as something one comes by naturally, not something that can be acquired by immersing oneself in an appropriately organized environment or dressing according to a code. They believe that ambition can be harnessed and to some extent augmented. As a result, instructors tended to frame obstacles to student success as the product of merely misrecognizing or forgetting ambition. One bartending teacher ended a lecture with a quote from Victor Hugo: "A nadie le faltan fuerzas; lo que a muchísimos les falta es voluntad" (often translated in English as "People do not lack strength; they lack will"). Another teacher critiqued a series of poor student presentations with the admonition, "It's not a matter of ability, it's interest" ("No es cuestión de capacidad, es de interés").
While it was necessary for students in this environment to know privately that they had the requisite drive to succeed, just being motivated was not enough. They also had to know how to properly display their ambition so that their instructors would recognize and reward it. At both LaCucina and Cenfotur, instructors were aware that such displays were in part cultivated performances, and they required students to take classes in which they learned how to play the role of a dedicated culinary student. Cenfotur's Taller de Desinhibición was one example of a class that taught students the ways that a passionate, driven chef should look and act. When Carlos the actor had his students pretend to seduce each other, he stressed that the most important expression of personality that a student could cultivate was confidence. His description of Sean Connery -"He's old, but he can get whatever he wants" -describes the ideal state of someone with ganas: the ability to recognize one's desires and go after them with assurance. Furthermore, Carlos's specific advice to the students about how to embody confidence -such as his instruction that a person must try to look gallant, to use wiles or appearance, to cross a room with purpose, and to ignore those who might criticize or doubt them -suggests that confidence is something performed or displayed as much as it is felt.
In this sense, Carlos and other instructors' views on behavior echo the work of Erving Goffman, whose book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life pays similar attention to the impressions that might result from a person's performance and mannerisms (Goffman, 1959). However, unlike Goffman who imagined a private "backstage" for the self, Peru's culinary performances have been predicated in part on the manipulation of the private self. For one thing, instructors have worked to manipulate beliefs under the assumption that appropriate dispositions lead to good behaviors.
Furthermore, these instructors also believe that merely behaving properly will affect a student's attitude (see Mahmood, 2005 for a discussion of a similar theory about the relationship between disposition and belief). To this end, Carlos's class was not just about acting, but also contained exercises meant to generate a feeling of self-confidence that promotes displays, like an appropriately seductive walk across a room. The result represents an ambition that is both recognizably on display and plausibly a reflection of an authentic, interior self.

A different kind of ambition
The insistence that a student demonstrate ambition and confidence may at first seem tantamount to instructing students to be vivo. It is certainly true that a vivo person has ganas. Yet in teaching their students to express their ambitions, culinary instructors also emphasize the differences between vivo behavior and the kind of ambition acceptable in the culinary world.
Crucially, the difference between being vivo and an ambitious cook is the type of social relationship that the two positions entail.
A vivo person is someone whose ambition takes precedence over the welfare and aspirations of others. Being able to cut in line or swindle a customer are vivo skills; the desired result is not necessarily advancement, but rather dominance in relation to others. In culinary school these are exactly the kinds of behaviors that instructors described as unacceptable. In their place, they encourage students to practice a kind of ambition that is not a zero sum game, but rather a desire for a kind of success that lifts others up with them. Claudio, one of the teachers at Cenfotur, explained the difference between these two forms of ambition by telling the class a joke (which I am paraphrasing here): One day a man went to the market to buy crabs.
He found a fisherman with two cages, one of which was labeled "Peruvian crabs," the other "German crabs." Then he noticed a difference between the two cages. "Why is it that the cage for the German crabs has a lock and the Peruvian one doesn't?" he asked.
"Oh, that's simple," said the fisherman. "When a German crab tries to escape, he pulls the other crabs up with him. If one gets out you lose them all. When a Peruvian crab tries to escape, the other crabs pull him back down so that he can never get out. The Peruvian crabs don't need a lock." (See Wilson, 1973 for a similar anecdote told in the Caribbean context) Claudio told this joke in the context of an impromptu lecture in which he was explaining to students that they needed to shed the tendency to measure their own value through comparisons to their peers. The crucial lesson of the Peruvian crabs is that the wrong kind of ambition is harmful to everyone, even if it momentarily assuages an individual's worry that he or she is not as successful as others. In attributing this misunderstanding of advancement to the entire nation, Claudio was offering not only an explanation of Peruvians' pessimistic perceptions of their own county, but also an acknowledgement that his students' self-sabotaging interpretations of the value of ambition would be difficult to change.
It is perhaps for this reason that Cenfotur's approach to transforming vivo ambitions works in part by transforming students' assessments of their own emotional states and characteristics. Instructors encourage students to support each other by working as a team, and Carlos's exercises often centered on having students recognize each other's altruistic tendencies rather than pure ambition. Culinary instructors in both schools have also created a conceptual difference between vivo behavior and the appropriate manifestation of ganas by stressing the fact that a culinary student should have very specific, socially conscious goals. Instructors emphasize that their students are future leaders who might one day have a responsibility toward those whom they would lead. This framing of ambition encourages students to have loftier goals than they might otherwise have. For many people I spoke with, knowing one is capable of working in a restaurant kitchen is not a sufficient goal for a future leader; students also felt they should have the ganas to work until they reach the assumed endpoints of the Peruvian culinary career: becoming a chef, working internationally, or opening a restaurant.
Further, students felt pressure to become socially conscious versions of these endpoints. It was not necessary for every chef to be a philanthropist, but in this worldview it was not permitted for a chef to take advantage of others in the way that a stereotypically vivo person might.
In this context, in which education is explicitly framed as the road to national improvement, analyses of scholars like Paul Willis are both confirmed and complicated. Willis warned that the illusion of upward mobility through education is part of what makes class structures endure, noting, "A few can make it.
The class can never follow. It is through a good number trying, however, that the class structure is legitimated" (Willis, 1977, p. 128). Peru's culinary schools exemplify this analysis to some extent, as lower class students often have greater difficulty performing the signs of orderliness and education than their peers. However, with a direct focus on the social body "making it" rather than the individual alone, Peru's culinary scene also contains examples of hiring practices that belie a strict focus on credentials or status. One notable example is the tendency among restaurants to hire very talented self-taught cooks in addition to formally educated culinary school alumni (a fact that the culinary schools tend to downplay or deny). When I asked chefs about why they hire both types of cooks, they articulated it as a need to find a balance in the kitchen, typically between the more vivo cooks "off the street" and the more restrained culinary graduates.
In other words, the social unit as a whole needs to acquire the balance of skills and dispositions that would ensure success in the marketplace -which means that individual adherence to the model of the chef espoused in Cenfotur or LaCucina is not always necessary for success.

CONCLUSIONS
As the pervasive emphasis on behavior in culinary classrooms might indicate, finding the appropriate place for vivo behavior is a central preoccupation of Peru's culinary schools. Like many limeños, students and instructors at LaCucina and Cenfotur see some aspects of vivo behavior as beneficial to future chefs; in their daily interactions in the classroom, they determine the extent to which ambition must be accompanied by organizational skills, order, and teamwork. In this way, the inculcation of behavioral norms at schools like LaCucina and Cenfotur has transformed vivo behavior into an interaction that is used for entirely different ends than the selfish or antagonistic goals that vivo entrepreneurs are usually assumed to embody.
The gastronomy boom's emphasis on leadership rather than personal gain allows the expression of vivo ambitions to focus on the social good that a student (and later a cook or a chef) can accomplish, rather than the extent to which he or she has advanced beyond others. Alimentos de origen animal: Riesgos y oportunidades para la industria debido a las políticas de bienestar de los animales ABSTRACT Farm animal welfare (FAW) has emerged in recent years as a potential material issue for the animal-derived food products industry. The issue is global in scope, given the large trade flows and multinational structure of many companies in the agribusiness industry, a critical sector of the Brazilian and international economy. This exploratory study is an attempt to map the agendas of companies in the industry and compare them with the agendas of the principal stakeholders for a better understanding of the risks and opportunities facing the intangible assets of companies with regard to FAW. The mapping was carried out by consulting websites and corporate sustainability reports. The overarching result of the study is to show that the industry as a whole is neglecting FAW as a material issue. to the future productivity of the sector merit analysis, as do potential opportunities to strengthen the sector's growth. This aspect is the focus of this research, conducted in a Brazilian public university. However, the study follows an international approach, without influence of specific issues of the Brazilian environment.

KEYWORDS |
One potential source of risks as well as opportunities is farm animal welfare (FAW). Consumers may change their consumption habits toward products with higher FAW levels (or even move away from animal-derived products). Also, the industry may lose its social license to operate. Tougher legislation, both domestic and international, may find companies unprepared, and companies' reputations and brands may be damaged by poor FAW policies and programs. Likewise, many opportunities exist, ranging from the opportunity to become a market leader in a niche product to the chance of being the standard setter for the entire industry. Each opportunity comes with the possibility of adding value through FAW.
This value can be both tangible, such as increased margins on products with high FAW levels, and intangible, such as increased reputation and brand value. This study is interested in the latter, specifically in how FAW can create risks and opportunities in relation to brand and reputation management.
Intangible assets, although difficult to measure, are widely accepted as increasingly important to understanding company value. According to Colvin (2015), intangible assets such as brand and reputation constitute 84% of the market value of companies in the Standard and Poor's 500 (S&P 500) index.
The primary objective of this study is to identify and explore the risks and opportunities facing the animal-derived food products industry in relation to FAW. Note that risks and opportunities are seen as reciprocal, meaning that any risk generates an opportunity, and vice-versa. A secondary objective is to initiate a discussion around the interaction between FAW, reputation, and company value. We believe that the risks and opportunities identified through this study would have a potentially large effect on company value, principally through brand and reputation. This study could be a first step toward potentially assessing FAW programs and policies through intangible asset valuation.
It is important to note that this is an exploratory study. To the best of our knowledge, no previous academic attempts have been made to map the risks and opportunities facing animalderived food companies in relation to FAW, or to analyze FAW through the valuation of intangible assets.

LITERATURE REVIEW
Animal welfare has been an established scientific field of study since the 1980s. However, the widespread and organized interest in animal welfare can be traced back to the 1950s and 1960s, principally in the United Kingdom (UK). According to Broom (2005), the first significant academic work in the field was Ruth Harrison's book Animal Machines. Harrison (1964)  to serve as the foundation of animal welfare as a formal area of study (Carenzi & Verga, 2007 These approaches can be broken down into three main groups of scientific thought: functional, feeling, and natural behavior (Carenzi & Verga, 2007).
One of the most prominent definitions under the first approach is Broom's definition, which states that animal welfare should be measured on the ability of an animal to cope with environmental stressors (Broom, 1986). This approach is probably the easiest to measure since it can be evaluated from visible health and physiological indicators.
The second approach argues that mental welfare, feelings, and emotions of animals, which are sentient beings, have also to be analyzed. Many scientists have objected to the functionally focused stressors approach. For example, an animal might be physically healthy, and yet be performing stereotypes, that is, making repetitive and invariant sequences of movements that indicate poor mental health (Terlouw, Lawrence, Koolhaas, & Cockram, 1993). This approach is significantly more difficult because it requires the measurement of animals' feelings and emotional states. However, there seems to be some convergence between the two approaches.
According to Broom, both approaches acknowledge the holistic nature of any evaluation between environmental stressors and biological function (Broom, 1998).
A third approach proposes that animals should be allowed to live their lives according to their natural impulses and tendencies (Fraser, Weary, Pajor, & Milligan, 1997) This approach, however, has some drawbacks, such as the difficulty of measuring natural behaviors and their complicated relation with animal welfare (Špinka, 2006). It can also be philosophically difficult to define "natural behavior" because, by definition, an animal that lives on a farm and interacts daily with humans no longer lives a "natural" life (Segerdahl, 2007). Lastly, a long history of research shows that domestication has potentially modified the genetic makeup of farm animals, probably altering the behaviors that might be classified as natural (Jensen, 2014;Price, 1984).
Whatever definition or combination of definitions are used, there is clear evidence that animal welfare can be objectively and empirically measured. One example is the altered cortisone levels in cows during transport, signaling fear, which can be measured and used as a proxy for animal welfare (Grandin, 1997 it as non-sustainable. Independent of specific definitions and measurements, ignoring or not properly addressing animal welfare in general presents a number of potential risks to the animal product industry. These risks include, but are not limited to, the growing moralization of meat eating, public awareness of current practices, and potentially costly legal requirements. Similarly, the failure to think strategically about FAW can cost a company a range of good opportunities, such as increased revenue from specialized niche products, overall positive brand image and reputation, and the potential to get in front of a sea change in the industry. The first issue is the moralization of meat eating. According to Rozin (1999, p. 218), "Moralization is the process through which preferences are converted into values, both in individual lives and at the level of culture." Many philosophers and ethicists argue that animal rights are a fundamentally moral issue. For some of them, it is non-negotiable, as animals should never be considered meat, while others are more lenient. A small handful of these philosophers (Peter Singer, Tom Regan, etc.) have become famous animal rights activists, touring the world, giving lectures, and writing books. Regan (1983) espouses the view that animals have certain inalienable rights.
People in general are said to have the ability to, on the one hand, care about animals and, on the other, eat meat. This tendency toward cognitive dissonance leads people to avoid thinking about meat as coming from a formerly living animal (Bastian, Loughnan, Haslam, & Radke, 2012).
Beyond the question of moralizing meat consumption, consumers may begin to view the current industrial farm practices as unsustainable and demand change. If a system is no longer perceived as sustainable, it may lose its social license to operate, which can be defined as the approval or acceptance of a company's activities by the people (stakeholders) affected (Wilburn & Wilburn, 2011).
The public perception of sustainability of the current animal welfare practices is highly complex. As already shown, we often find a lack of consensus on what qualifies as animal welfare and a high level of disconnect between people's opinions and intentions and their actions. Beyond this, people are widely ignorant about the current and potential production systems, making it difficult for customers to analyze the potential changes in animal welfare across systems ( Norwood & Lusk, 2011;Souza, Casotti, & Lemme, 2013;Tawse, 2010. However, despite peoples' claims, these preferences or actions oftentimes do not translate into measurable purchasing habits. People have a tendency to proclaim support for high standards of animal welfare while, at the same time, buying animal products with little regard for the system of production employed (Schröder & McEachern, 2004).
One study estimates the potential market size for differentiated animal welfare products as 36.1% of the consumer market (Vanhonacker, Verbeke, Van Poucke, Buijs, & Tuyttens, 2009), while another estimates it at around 50% (Jonge & van Trijp, 2014). Most of these customers face an unmet demand for "compromise products" with animal welfare levels somewhere between those of industrially produced (very low) and organically produced (very high) products (Jonge & van Trijp, 2014).
Another potential risk for the food products industry is the risk of prohibitive legislation. Currently, the EU is considered the leader in FAW legislation with relevant and adequately stringent legislation covering the four main farm animal species (cattle, pigs, laying hens, and broilers) and the various phases of production (housing, transport, and slaughter) (Schmid & Kilchsperger, 2010).
Legislation can lead to higher costs. It primarily affects capital costs, because very often it dictates the use of new production systems entailing high capital expense (Menghi et al., 2011). These costs can be significant. For example, Grethe (2007) estimates such costs to represent as much as 20% increase in current production costs.

METHODOLOGY
The current study examines the risks and opportunities that companies face due to FAW programs and policies, specifically in relation to cattle, pigs, and chicken. These risks and opportunities come from the difference between the companies' and their stakeholders' publicly available information on FAW.
A FAW program or policy not in alignment with the demands of stakeholders is believed to place the company at risk, be it from a damaged reputation, loss of consumers or investors, or other negative outcomes. Likewise, a company with well-aligned FAW programs and policies can enjoy certain unique opportunities.
Some of these opportunities include high-margin niche products, increased brand value, a leadership role in the industry, and the potential to move ahead of future legislation. Since the focus of the study is on the outside perception of the company, it considers only publicly available and easily accessible information.
The first step in this study is to collect and analyze public information on companies' FAW policies and programs. The second step is to collect and analyze the public information on stakeholders' positions on FAW. The companies' aggregate information is then compared with the stakeholders' aggregate information. In case of a significant difference between the aggregate information presented by companies and the stakeholders on a certain subject or issue, this difference is identified as a potential source of risk or opportunity-a risk for the companies that ignore the difference, and an opportunity for the companies that are aligned with the stakeholders. For example, if most stakeholders publish information on cage-free eggs, but most companies do not do so, the issue of cage-free eggs could be a risk or opportunity for the companies-a risk for the companies that ignore the issue, but an opportunity of competitive advantage for the companies that address the issue.
Our goal is to study the global companies involved in the commercialization of animal-derived food products. The population is limited to large, global companies, because companies above a certain size and those with global operations (in at least two countries) are assumed to have more influence on and be more influenced by public discussions surrounding FAW.
A well-known ranking called the Business Benchmark on The result of this analysis was a spreadsheet that allowed for a per-company and per-NGO analysis of the topics in Exhibit 1 that were discussed. From this spreadsheet, we could obtain aggregate information, such as the ranking of topics from the most to the least present. The focus was on the aggregate information related to the list of topics used to identify the potential risks and opportunities related to FAW.
The first analysis of the data consisted of creating a number of tables showing the descriptive statistics of the companies' and NGO's results. Two inferential statistical tests were then performed on this aggregate information. The first test was Fisher's exact test, a test widely used on contingency tables, especially the 2 x 2 contingency tables.
The following were the null and alternative hypotheses considered: H0: The probability of a FAW subject to be present or not present was equal for the NGOs and companies; H1: The probability of a FAW subject to be present or not was different for NGOs and companies.
The test was performed using a 2 x 2 contingency table simulator from Graphpad.com, with a significance level α = 0.05.
The second test performed was Kendall's rank-order correlation coefficient, also known as Kendall's tau. The purpose of the test is to measure the level of correlation between two ordinal variables. It is a non-parametric alternative to the parametric Pearson correlation test and an alternative to the Spearman rankorder correlation coefficient. In general, Kendall's tau functions better on smaller samples that have ties in rankings.
In this case, we used a specific version of Kendall's tau, called Kendall's tau-b. This version of Kendall's tau functions best when there are ties in rankings of the two variables. Kendall's tau-b requires that the data be ordinal or continuous. In this case, the data analyzed was ordinal.
For this study, Kendall's tau compared the results from the companies' sources of information and NGO website analysis. The test used the following null and alternative hypotheses: H0: There is no subject coverage agreement between FAW company sources of information and FAW NGO websites.
H1: There is subject coverage agreement between FAW company sources of information and FAW NGO websites.
The tests were performed using SPSS 21, with a significance level of α = 0.05.

RESULTS
We analyzed information obtained from 80 companies and 13 NGOs. We could find some information on corporate FAW programs and policies for 58 (73%) companies, while 11 (85%) NGOs addressed FAW on their websites.
We found sustainability or annual reports for 67 companies, while 25 (37%) made no mention of FAW. Only 42 companies (53%) of the total sample addressed FAW subjects in their reports, meaning that more than one-third of the companies that did release a sustainability or annual report over this period did not mention FAW even once. This indicates that a large part of the industry does not acknowledge FAW and its importance to their business model and is unaware of the issue.
Of the 80 companies, 46 (58%) showed material relating to FAW on their websites. This means that no information relating to FAW was located on the websites of 34 companies. This appears to confirm that a large part of the industry simply does not publicly discuss or acknowledge FAW.
While 73% of the companies in the sample objectively address or acknowledge FAW in some form, the information could be of poor quality or lacking in quantity. The researcher's qualitative perception of the annual and sustainability reports and the websites is that a significant percentage of these companies presented partial, superficial, overly generic, or otherwise nonideal information on their FAW policies and practices.
Compliance/Monitoring was the most frequently found subject in the companies' website analysis, and, unlike with the annual and sustainability reports, this was seen in more than 50% of the companies' websites. However, the next most commonly found subject, Antibiotics/Hormones, was seen approximately 33% fewer times. The next step was to examine the information obtained from the analyses of NGO websites. A few points become clear from Table 1. First, no topic was found in 100% of the FAW NGO websites, where Free Range/Pasture/Space were the most frequently located topics, found in 85% of the NGO websites.
Second, there is a wide gamut of frequency in topics, with the topic least found appearing in 15% of the NGO websites. Thus, we have sufficient evidence to reject the null hypothesis that the probability of these subjects occurring or not occurring is equal for NGOs and companies. In other words, there is a difference between NGOs and companies as regards the subjects analyzed. As expected, the data show that NGOs give more importance to these issues than companies do. The exception to this is Compliance/Monitoring; while 44% of companies focused on the issue, only 23% of NGOs did so.
For the remaining issues, Compliance/Monitoring, Cull Cow/Male Chick Slaughter, Diet, Natural Light, and Training, the association between the rows and the columns is not statistically significant. Therefore, we fail to reject the null hypothesis of no difference between NGOs and companies as regards the subjects analyzed.
Therefore, both the comparison of percentages and comparison of rankings appear to contain potentially pertinent information. a key stakeholder creates both risks and opportunities.
In this study, we consider risks and opportunities as reciprocal, meaning that any circumstance that generates risks can also generate opportunities, and vice-versa. To help organize the discussion, groups of risks and opportunities are referred to as risk factors. These risk factors are then analyzed for potential consequences. The most immediate industry-wide risk factor is the widespread lack of attention paid to FAW. From the results of this study, the animal-derived food products industry simply does not address FAW as a serious and material issue. If FAW really is a material issue for the animal-derived food product industry's stakeholders, this lack of attention could be a serious risk, with many potential consequences.
One potential consequence is that the entire industry could suffer damage to its reputation, leaving little room for companies to differentiate themselves, thus creating an industrywide association with the issue. This could further lead to an industry-wide dip in reputation and brand value, as well as more tangible costs, such as increased stock volatility and higher risk premiums on debt. Another risk is that it could lead stakeholders to act without input from the industry. If stakeholders feel that the industry is ignoring a material issue, they may attempt to directly address the issue without consulting the industry first.
This could come in the form of new laws, high-profile protests by NGOs, migration by consumers to alternatives, etc.
The opportunity presented by this risk factor is the chance to overcome a material issue. The animal-derived food products industry as a whole could better recognize FAW as a material issue. In addition to the individual players in the industry better addressing FAW, this could also come in the form of increased participation in industry-wide organizations, groups, and forums; industry-wide declarations; and better cooperation in the industry. The benefits of this approach could be a potentially higher industry-wide reputation (or at least the avoidance of an industry wide slip in reputation), a larger role in collaborating with stakeholders to address the issue, and lower costs due to shared standards, technologies, and implementation.
A second industry-wide risk factor is the possibility of misplaced focus on the subject of Compliance/Monitoring. In the analyses of the companies' annual and sustainability reports as well as websites, Compliance/Monitoring is the most cited topic.
In comparison, the NGO analysis found Compliance/Monitoring to be the 11th most-cited topic. This indicates that NGOs appear to place a higher value on other more direct FAW issues (i.e., issues directly related to a certain aspect of the welfare of an animal), whereas the animal-derived food products industry is more concerned with proving that it is monitoring itself and compliant with the law. A large number of the companies' reports deal exclusively with Compliance/Monitoring or may at the most touch one or two other issues.
The possible effects of this risk factor are similar to the first one. This misplaced focus could lead to the perception that the animal-derived food products industry is at best out of touch with its stakeholders or at worst attempting to deliberately mislead stakeholders. Once again, this could lead to an industry-wide drop in reputation and brand value and also raise the potential threat of stakeholders acting without consulting the industry.
Opportunities are also similar to the other industry-wide risk factor, although more specific. Assuming that the industry's concern with regard to Compliance/Monitoring is genuine, there is a real opportunity to take the lead in creating industry-wide standards.
This allows for the industry to play a more active role in framing the issues to other stakeholders. Currently, a large number of companies have their own internal Compliance/Monitoring schemes. The and Compliance/Monitoring sites and more on 10 other issues that the NGO analysis found to be more relevant.
The last industry-wide risk factor identified is the list of FAW topics found to be statistically significantly different in total frequency between the companies' annual and sustainability report analyses and the NGO analyses. While all these topics represent a risk, the ones that are also very differently ranked reports. Therefore, these are the topics most likely to damage the industry's overall reputation and create disconnect between the companies and stakeholders.
Another opportunity in the industry is to create niche FAW products. This opportunity coincides with the risks from the widely ignored topics, such as Breeding and Chronic Diseases/ Conditions. Niche products focusing on specific FAW topics show that the company is aware of the topic and would allow for testing the consumers' willingness to pay (WTP) for higher FAW products.
These niche products, beyond generating a higher margin and reaching new customers, can also elevate the company's brand and reputation. In the future, these niche products could evolve into mainstream or even market leading products, giving the company a first-mover advantage and a potentially lasting competitive advantage within the industry. Many examples of niche products focusing on one specific FAW issue could be found in the companies' reports. The most common ones focused on Cage-Free Eggs, Gestation Crates, or Free Range/Pasture/Space differentiated products. However, some examples of products that focus on generally ignored topics were also found. A good example is the slow-breed chicken marketed by a company in the Retail and Wholesalers sector.

CONCLUSION
This study has provided some evidence that the animal-derived food industry is not addressing FAW as a key material issue. In addition, when the industry does address FAW, the issues do not appear to be the same or have the same relevance as those addressed by one of their key stakeholders, FAW NGOs. Our results suggest that companies need to do more to address this misalignment with key NGOs.
This creates potential risks for the industry that could damage the companies' reputations and brands, spur action by other stakeholders, and ultimately lead to the migration of customers to alternatives to animal-derived food products.
However, the silver lining is that these risks also represent opportunities for companies in the industry. Companies can seize these opportunities and differentiate themselves from their peers in terms of FAW. This differentiation could come in many forms: development of new, innovative product lines that focus on certain FAW issues, early adaptation of new FAW technologies and processes, and increased cooperation within the industry and between the industry and key stakeholders.
Companies that achieve this differentiation stand to gain in reputation and brand value, and may reap more tangible benefits of increased revenue from discerning consumers and new market opportunities, as well as lower costs from potentially more efficient operations. Moreover, the largest benefit may be the ability to build up a reservoir of brand and goodwill to shield them from any potential industry-level fallout over changing stakeholder perceptions on FAW.
While the industry itself is a key target audience of this study, other groups can also benefit from the results and lessons of this study. in Brazil, could work together to create universal standards and expectations, dialoging with stakeholders and the industry to ensure a desirable minimum standard. Investors and funds with a focus on sustainability issues, such as the FTSE4Good and Dow Jones Sustainability Index, could begin to systematically integrate measurements of FAW, such as its potential effect on reputation and brand, into their indexes. Lastly, academics in various fields such as economics, finance, and sociology could better interact and dialogue with biologists, animal welfare scientists, and agricultural scientists to further holistic and interdisciplinary study on the many aspects of FAW.
It is also hoped that this study serves as a wakeup call to companies in the animal-derived food products industry. They should take heed from examples of other industries, such as the textile and tobacco industries, which have historically ignored material issues only to be caught unprepared when a critical mass of stakeholders began to demand change. Brazilian exporters of animal-derived food products, who generally operate large-scale slaughterhouses and export unprocessed or slightly processed products, have to be especially aware of the risks involved in FAW, as they respond to a large number of external stakeholders from other countries and cultures (the EU, developed world consumers, and international FAW NGOs), giving them potentially limited control over the discussions surrounding FAW.
A potential path for future studies could be analyzing other stakeholders' (consumers, governments, etc.) roles, performing case studies with individual companies, or attempting the valuation of FAW as an intangible asset. Regan, T. (1983

ABSTRACT
Brazil represents approximately 29% of the world's coffee exports, with 15% of that being "specialty coffee." Most Brazilian coffee exports are composed of commoditized green beans, influencing the value chain to be grounded on an exchange paradigm. This scenario started to change with the introduction of specialized coffee shops, coffee capsules for home consumption, and demand for a more artisanal product. A paradigm of value creation along the chain drives production processes that aim to differentiate products through superior coffee beans and unique experiences. This study was developed through content analysis of 15 years of news collected from two Brazilian newspapers. Additionally, we interviewed owners of coffee shops, coffee producers, cooperatives, intermediaries, and regulators. We concluded that the value chain faces challenges in reaching higher value-in-use creation for all involved actors.

INTRODUCTION
The origins of coffee as a drink are not clear. It is known that it was originally consumed with butter in Ethiopia. By the end of the XVth century, it was consumed as a drink by Middle Eastern countries -Saudi Arabia and Yemen. This use arrived in Europe in the XVIIth century and caused a relevant increase in consumption and demand for coffee. Alternative sources of coffee bean production became an interesting business opportunity, and most of the production came from African colonies that became coffee producers. By the end of the XVIIIth century, 50% of the world's coffee bean production came from places other than the Middle East and Africa (Lemps, 1998). By 1720, the first seeds and seedlings arrived in Pará, Brazil. The habit of drinking coffee reached the northern area of Brazil, and coffee started to be produced in the Amazon (north) area for local consumption. This internal consumption followed the international trend and evolved. By 1770, coffee started to be produced around the city of Rio de Janeiro, which targeted the internal consumer market. The southeast region was soon recognized as having appropriate conditions for efficient coffee production. Fifty years later, Brazil had already become responsible for 20% of the world's coffee exports (de Siqueira, 2006). With the exponential growth in global consumption and ability to produce at high volumes, Brazil became the world's largest coffee bean exporter, a position that it holds until today, as Brazil is responsible for approximately 29% of the world's coffee exports. This equates to more than 34,000 bags, which corresponds to 5.4 billion US$ of income, and 15% of this volume is "specialty coffee" (Conselho dos Exportadores de Café do Brasil [Cecafé], 2017). The United States and Germany are the main importers. They typically import green coffee beans and process them for local use or export the refined products at higher added value. This positioning and coffee value chain process affects the Brazilian economy, politics, and productive organizations.
The coffee value chain starts from the production of coffee beans to the ways of preparing and consuming of this popular drink. Coffee consumption started as ingestion of a simple and exotic stimulant drink; however, over the decades, coffee has become a much more complex drink that should be appreciated with attention to all its details. New behaviors related to food consumption also had a significant influence on changes in the Brazilian agricultural sector. The world began to demand greater quantity and quality of food. Around the 1990s, coffee producers founded the Brazilian Specialty Coffee Association (BSCA), which was aimed at new business opportunities through investment in coffee quality. In 2002, to describe the evolution of coffee consumption, barista Trish Skeie named the movement "consumption waves" in "The Flamekeeper," a guide of the Specialty Coffee Association of America (Guimarães, de Castro Júnior, & de Andrade, 2016). The coexisting waves have different philosophies and priorities as well as offer different consumption experiences to distinct target consumers. The first wave is characterized by poorer quality coffee, which is the result of exponential increase in consumption associated with commoditized production processes and commercialization focused on large-scale distribution. The second wave is characterized by the introduction of higher quality coffees, such as specialty coffees, and coffees of controlled production origins. There was dissemination of coffee consumption in specialized coffee shops. Starbucks became the icon of this movement in the United States, and Fran's Café can be considered similarly in São Paulo, Brazil. Both offer quality service and products in an enjoyable, standardized environment. At home, customers started to drink coffee from coffee capsules with a significant increase in quality. Nespresso started this movement, and, when the patent expired, there was a propagation of producers focused on better quality coffee. The third wave represents a revolution in specialty coffee consumption through changes in product differentiation and consumption experience. In the third wave, coffee is considered an artisanal product as complex as wine.
Coffee became differentiated by numerous attributes. In the value chain, there is an observed attempt toward approximation between producers and end-consumers. The differentiation goes beyond a superior quality coffee bean and includes limited availability ("microlotes"), specialty varieties, coffee origin and growers' historical methods of harvest and preparation, and environmental and social concerns (Guimarães et al., 2016;Zylbersztajn & Farina, 2001).
In Brazil, the third wave is evolving with the aim to become established. Some producers have already realized that specialty coffee beans can assure higher margins, leading them to become independent of the international commodity prices. They started  , 1997). BSCA also agrees that internal market quality affects the Brazilian coffee's image internationally.
In the third wave, cafeterias and producers adopt a closer relationship aimed at promoting differentiation in the value proposition for end-consumers. For example, the history of coffee production becomes part of this proposition. This article aims to identify how actors involved in the third wave of coffee are organizing themselves to create more value along the value chain to establish a sustainable business in Brazil. The study will discuss how the specialty coffee value chain evolved, considering a service-dominant logic perspective of how value can be created.  In addition, in a value-chain, buyers and suppliers capture value from their relationships, and the relationship is a source of value creation that will affect value appropriation (Miguel et al., 2014;Tescari & Brito, 2016). Relational value is another value category that can be considered when analyzing production and consumption processes. Relational value considers trust and cooperation among buyers, suppliers, and end-consumers that can contribute to an increase in customers' willingness to pay (Tescari & Brito, 2016). Considering a service-dominant logic perspective, value creation has a more holistic perspective and is achieved not only during transaction but also through collaboration within the experiences pre-and post-transaction (Prahalad & Ramaswamy, 2000).

LITERATURE REVIEW
Value creation is fundamental for companies to achieve customers' loyalty and satisfaction and to create a competitive advantage along the value chain. When considering a businessto-business (B2B) relationship, value can be co-created within buyer-supplier relationships with the intention to promote a higher value proposition to end-consumers (Lindgreen & Wynstra, 2005;Vargo & Lusch, 2006). Value-in-use may be appropriated at a different time and be affected by other individuals and contextual circumstances. In the coffee production process, the value chain is composed of coffee bean producers; intermediaries that store, select, and export the beans; and roasting companies that are crucial in defining the end-consumers' value proposition (which depends on the product's final quality and to whom they intend to distribute this product). The process of value creation along the supply chain defines the value proposition to endconsumers and consequently value appropriation for all involved stakeholders.
Intermediaries in the chain, such as cooperatives and roasting companies, define value proposition to end-consumers, deciding if the best-quality coffee beans will be exported instead of being consumed domestically. Then, they are able to appropriate a great part of the economic value created without necessarily generating more value-in-use for producers and endconsumers. When exporting better quality coffee, intermediaries do not promote the possibility of an increase in value-in-use for domestic end-consumers or tourists that may travel to production regions and may end up consuming lower quality coffee (Brenes et al., 1997). Roasting companies that act as intermediaries select the beans from producers, define the blend (percentage of different quality coffee beans in the final coffee), control the roasting process, and determine the distribution to retailers so that the coffee can become available to end-consumers (Claro & Claro, 2004). Economic value is distributed along this chain.
However, actors in the chain may obtain lower value depending on their position. Small producers that have low opportunity costs may transfer their products to intermediaries at a reduced price. Likewise, these producers do not obtain high value-inuse because they do not always develop knowledge about the origin of their coffee beans, which could become a source of differentiation during the consumption experience. Currently, the majority of small producers sell their beans to be processed by intermediaries (such as roasting companies) that retain the knowledge about quality assurance. However, if producers are able to get closer to end-consumers, by acquiring expertise in producing and identifying better quality beans, these producers may be able to increase both their end-customers' willingness to pay by offering better value propositions and their own appropriation of economic value. In terms of valuein-use, approximation of producers to end-consumers may promote valuable contextual experiences for them during the whole process, and these experiences may even affect future transactions.
In B2B, sellers may direct marketing activities straight at buyers and also at subsequent market stages. The goal should be to transform market relationships between the stages into a more collaborative form. Multistage marketing should especially be considered when properties of the primary products are of significance in the use and market success of the goods/services produced from them (Kleinaltenkamp, Rudolph & Classen, 2012).
In the case of coffee production, the best-quality beans can lead to different prices and value propositions, and the final product is completely dependent on bean quality and the production and distribution processes.
The development of a multistage marketing strategy would help producers to develop an unenforced cooperative relationship with buyers, helping to consolidate the niche of specialty coffee. If coffee bean producers employed a pull strategy toward distributors, they would support their distribution strategy (Kleinaltenkamp et al., 2012). The relational value would increase through a cooperative relationship among producers and other stakeholders, but we are unsure if this is occurring in Brazil.
A market in which access to the product is limited and depends on a long-term relationship between producers and roasting companies is an organic coffee market (Claro & Claro, 2004). The value appropriation of high-quality organic coffee depends on both a premium product and the willingness of buyers to focus on a win-win situation (Claro & Claro, 2004).
There are other initiatives in the main coffee-producing countries that especially benefit small producers by generating more value-in-use for them through more economic and social benefits allied to a collaborative environment. In developing countries, incentives for producers that participate in the fairtrade coffee market illustrate how producers can achieve higher income and better quality of life through more economic value and consequently more value-in-use (Arnould, Platina & Ball, 2009;Brenes et al., 1997). Similar to this initiative, organizations encourage the certification process with the aim to develop local communities economically, helping them realize more value-inuse from their best-quality beans. On the other hand, production of the best-quality beans represents higher production costs.
Producers need to acquire equipment for pulping and drying the beans and also develop new distribution strategies, because these beans are sold in smaller lots (Guimarães et al., 2016).
Then, sometimes, the premium price obtained does not seem to compensate for transactions from cooperatives that offer tax advantages or for situations when coffee prices are high.
Developing more long-term strategies should be a focus of specialty coffee producers. Unfortunately, not all of them have a background that favors the abilities needed to develop longterm strategies, as most of them focus on short-term results that can guarantee their subsistence. The above-mentioned initiatives seem to look for an increase in the producers' capacity to develop strategies based on both the bean price in the commodity market and the long-term market position for which they aim.
Producers will probably face resistance to the adoption of multistage marketing, but they can benefit from the fact that their primary product does not "disappear" in the processing chain, since the coffee's origin is usually identified in specialty coffees (Kleinaltenkamp et al., 2012). Thus, we must ask whether these producers are ready to develop a multistage marketing strategy.
Many producers are organized in cooperatives that support them in product distribution and price negotiations.
Brazil has the largest number of self-service cafeterias in the world, most of them independent cafeterias (Euromonitor, 2017).
Moreover, in the third wave, some cafeterias have already started a movement of getting closer to producers, and they aim to guarantee both best-quality coffee (Guimarães et al., 2016) and an experience that is individually valued. However, to improve economic value and value-in-use in the coffee value chain, it is also important that these producers are both technically prepared to adapt their production to guarantee the best-quality coffee and are able to develop relationships with other enterprises of the chain, including end-consumers. For example, Café Britt was founded to produce high-quality coffee for the domestic Costa Rica market, which had been disregarded by local companies focused on exporting the best-quality beans.
The company opened the export market based on domestic recognition of the brand and an excellent relationship with value chain stakeholders; through the touristic experience, it developed a mail-order business targeted at people who had visited Costa Rica (Brenes et al., 1997). This strategy led to more economic value appropriation and value-in-use generation for the organization and end-consumers. Small producers will be able to generate and appropriate more value when they develop better long-term strategies. Even if they are not able to eliminate the intermediaries, they may be more prepared to address them in a cooperative manner.

METHODS
To understand how actors involved in the third wave of coffee are organizing to create more value along the value chain and establish a more sustainable business in Brazil, the researchers employed content analysis of historical documents (Humphreys & Latour, 2013).
Analysis of historical documents is generally used to understand the evolution of a market. This analysis helps researchers understand the construction and modifications in a marketplace. To triangulate the data, the authors interviewed five owners of third-wave coffee shops; five managers of cooperatives of coffee producers; one director of BSCA; one manager of a public agency of protected designation of origin; one owner and an employee of an intermediary responsible for providing supplies, equipment, and training to baristas of coffee shops; three producers and owners of a specialty coffee brand; one small coffee producer; and one medium producer. All interviewees were from São Paulo or One of the owners of a medium Brazilian specialty coffee brand that works in the whole coffee process

E5b
One of the owners of a specialty coffee brand, responsible for distribution and marketing

E5c
One of the owners of a specialty coffee brand, responsible for marketing

E6
Owner of a cafeteria located at a municipal market in Uberlândia, Minas Gerais

E7
Manager at a cooperative of producers in Monte Carmelo

E8a
Manager at the largest cooperative in Minas Gerais

E8b
Relationship and commercial agent at the largest cooperative in Minas Gerais

E8c
Manager of logistics at the largest cooperative in Minas Gerais

E8d
Manager of coffee acquisition at the largest cooperative in Minas Gerais

E9
Entity that governs, controls, and promotes the designation of origin of the Cerrado, as well as congregates warehouses, certifiers, cooperatives, producers, and others

E10a
Employee at an intermediary in the value chain that provides supplies for coffee shops, has a barista school, consults in roasting, and provides equipment

E10b
Barista/owner at an intermediary in value chain

E11
Small coffee producer that started to produce coffee in 1987 in Minas Gerais (10 hectares)

E13 Director of Brazil Specialty Coffee Association
The researchers analyzed the data from each journal and the interviews separately using open codification (Corbin & Strauss, 2008). In the second phase of the analysis, the four researchers discussed the codes, crosschecked the data with the theoretical background, and normalized the codes in an intercoder. In case of divergences in codification, the four authors discussed them until reaching a total convergence of the codes.
The results are described in the next section.

RESULTS
In Brazil, the traditional coffee value chain (first wave) started to change with the increase in higher quality coffee consumption during the second wave, leveraged by the consumption of coffee capsules at home. With the third wave of the coffee chain, this scenario is being reinforced through increased demand for specialty coffee coming from specialized coffee shops and consumers who are more particular.
Brazil is one of the largest coffee producers today … But it has only been in the last decade that quality … spread to the country. More carefully managed productions … became more common.
Trained baristas are starting to be recognized.
In the 1980s, Brazilian coffee was associated with an adulterated product.
… green beans were mixed with inferior and deteriorated beans … but in the 90's, with the opening of the market and the creation of certifications and associations, the consumption of gourmet and certified coffees increased Some producers are developing a long-term strategy based on the perceived possibility of increased value along the chain, that is, whether they will sell the high-quality beans or extract this value by selling roasted coffee in capsules instead of green beans.
We In the traditional coffee value chain, there is a large distance between producers and end-consumers, and the process from "bean to cup" is multilayered (Kolk, 2014). It was after the development of the second and third waves in which the coffee consumption experience occurred and demand for better quality beans increased that some producers started to work to reduce the value chain levels.
These producers started to roast and sell their coffee beans themselves, obtaining higher prices for their products and getting higher value-in-use and relational value along the chain. Additionally, by adopting what seems to be close to multistage marketing, producers have developed a more cooperative relationship with value chain actors and entities, such as the BSCA. They support the producers in the process of identifying their best coffee and selling this premium product at higher prices.
In the last 20 years, the quality of Brazilian coffee has improved significantly. In Cerrado Mineiro, Minas Gerais, some initiatives were implemented to reduce these layers, leading producers to identify potential value increases in their chains. Likewise, the initiatives educate end-consumers on better quality coffee and show them the differences in the process and history of that coffee. The In the third wave of coffee, baristas and coffee shops are getting closer to producers, looking for the best coffee selection to offer their customers and to improve production techniques that can be shared. This movement contributes to the development of a more collaborative relationship among intermediaries along the chain, consequently increasing the value appropriation for the producers. When producers are able to decide what percentage of production they will dedicate to higher quality beans, based on the market demand, they realize higher value because they may obtain the best possible value from their land. This increase in value appropriation is likely occurring because these producers are closer to end-consumers, and identifying their consumption preferences may lead to stronger pull strategy when offering specialty coffee (Kleinaltenkamp et al., 2012). Obtaining knowledge about how their production processes can be improved and how they can offer better value propositions to customers is crucial for producers to appropriate more exchange-value and value-in-use.
Nowadays, several producers have invested in the roasting process. They have invested in trying to find out how the consumer drinks that coffee and aims to get the roasting process suitable to the product [the end-consumer] wants at the end. All these changes may lead to opportunities for new professionals. Producers are currently much more concerned with learning about the production process as well as the sector and its evolution.
The new world … will require new professionals. … If we [producers] are not prepared, we will be devoured. … We left [Master's Degree in Coffee Sciences] with the knowledge about the entire coffee sector and not only of production process. (N13)

FINAL DISCUSSION
The coffee market and its respective value chain have experienced many changes derived from new consumer behavior trends and production techniques responding to that demand. The changes in the production process have been aimed at offering a better quality drink and are allied with a change in the market proposition and relationship with consumers that guided the development of new waves of coffee.
In the first wave, coffee was considered a commodity, and producers were not concerned with product quality, differentiation, or understanding of how consumers appropriated value-in-use during their consumption experiences. The first wave's focus was value-in-exchange. The producers were interested in volume. They utilized international prices and very basic quality requirements, which resulted in high volumes and low-quality product. During the second and third waves, the new consumption and production processes left behind a commoditized product and experience.
Producers, boosted by roasters and retail coffee shops, started to investigate how consumers appropriated value during the whole experience of coffee consumption.
The second wave, defined by Starbucks' market entry and Nespresso's coffee capsule distribution, was a milestone in coffee's history. The new consumption habits demanded new products and experiences that required producers to develop capabilities they did not have when their focus was on coffee as a commodity.
Quality became an assumption, and value chain actors focused on increasing value-in-use to all stakeholders through a pull strategy in which retail coffee shops (such as Starbucks and intermediaries such as Illy Coffee) transmitted end-consumers' needs to producers.
The third wave could occur because of the knowledge and relationships some producers developed during the second wave. Producers are now able to get closer to endconsumers, identifying their needs and opportunities so they can be more active during the experience. Producers have been developing capabilities to co-create valuable experiences with intermediaries and end-consumers during the specialty coffee production and consumption processes. Some producers seem to adopt a strategy closer to multistage marketing in which the goal is not to understand the end-consumers' needs but to develop cooperative relationships along the whole value chain (Kleinaltenkamp et al., 2012). Coffee bean quality is not sufficient anymore: Uniqueness and sensorial and emotional experiences that involve customers as active value co-creators are necessary. Producers aim for more cooperation along the value chain by nurturing relationships with other actors in the chain and utilizing the pull drive strategy so they can provide more valuable experiences to end-consumers. The data showed producers getting closer to end-consumers through the reduction in value chain layers. This leads them to appropriate more value-in-use for themselves and allows them to co-create more opportunities to increase value-in-use for end-consumers.
Intermediaries are necessary, especially for distributive and cost efficiency; nevertheless, a more collaborative relationship can be achieved when producers are more knowledgeable about their products and the market is functioning properly.
However, there are still difficulties in small producers achieving capabilities that lead them to develop a more symmetrical power relationship with intermediaries. Small producers do not have the volume to export directly, and it is important that they be prepared to evaluate their product quality and have the tools to promote their product, so that the product does not "disappear" along the chain. The origin and history of specialty coffee may promote unique experiences and value for end-consumers. Producers that cooperate and are active in this process can appropriate more value.
This research investigated the coffee value chain during the development of the third wave. We observe a similar flow as in other agribusiness chains, such as those of cheese, cocoa and chocolate, honey, beer, and wine. It is clear that end-consumers are interested in both higher quality products and unique experiences. Therefore, value chain actors need to focus on developing cooperative relationships along the chain to provide opportunities to increase value-in-use.
The third-wave movement may also represent an opportunity for small and medium producers that do not produce on a large scale and find it difficult to compete in the first and How can a product be legitimated when the legitimation process includes another legitimate product as a barrier? To address this question, we conducted a process theorization through in-depth analysis of interviews and newspaper articles in the context of Brazilian premium cocoa and chocolate markets. We found that the legitimation process involving the interaction of different actors focused on building cultural-cognitive legitimacy was supported, in particular, by normative legitimacy. In this process, media appears as an important market ally in educating consumers. We used institutional theory to show that it is essential to address other legitimate products and the interaction of actors to understand the legitimation process.  Following this concept, we chose the context of Brazilian premium cocoa and chocolate market to illustrate how this process occurs.

KEYWORDS |
We discuss how the legitimation process takes place when there is already a competing legitimacy in the market. Our focus is on understanding the multiple actors involved in this process, as well as their interactions.
We also explore how a legitimation process takes place through the interaction of several actors who share common cultural-cognitive traits regarding an established and institutionalized ethos. Furthermore, our work contributes to explore the development of Brazilian products and ingredients in a market traditionally characterized by a colonialist taste-structure, which tends to reject what is national in favor of what is foreign .
For this purpose, we present a multi-method qualitative study that provides a process theorization of institutional change (Giesler & Thompson, 2016). By exploring the views, actions, and narratives of actors involved in the legitimation process, we showcase the emergence of different types of legitimacy for the given product. The focus of analysis lies in the cocoa and chocolate production mostly in Southern Bahia, where cocoa production is traditional and has deep historical roots.

Legitimacy and market dynamics
Institutions are social structures that represent order and patterns, providing meaning and stability to social life (DiMaggio & Powell, 1991;Scott, 2008), whereas legitimacy is "a generalized perception or assumption that the actions of an entity are desirable, proper or appropriate within some socially constructed system of norms, values, beliefs, and definitions" (Suchman, 1995, p. 574). Legitimacy is a mechanism for social reality construction, since its achievement is a "process in which widely shared cultural beliefs from the surrounding society create strong expectations for what is likely to occur in the local situation" (Johnson, Dowd, & Ridgeway, 2006, p. 7).
Normative legitimacy refers to social obligations (Scott, 2008); it is the degree of consensus within a system of norms and values (Humphreys, 2010b). Cultural-cognitive legitimacy relates to common beliefs and cultural support (Scott, 2008); it is what a community takes for granted (Humphreys, 2010a(Humphreys, , 2010bScott, 2008;Suchman, 1995).
Many consumption studies using institutional theory have approached the legitimacy construction (Humphreys, 2010a(Humphreys, , 2010b(Humphreys, , 2014Kates, 2004;Press & Arnould, 2011;Press et al., 2014;Scaraboto & Fischer, 2013). These works have made room in the field for the use of institutional theory, yet some issues still deserve further investigation. To do so, we will examine some of these works.
Humphreys ( As can be seen, the investigation of contexts related to the food universe can be an excellent material for exploring the issues raised during the legitimation process. Therefore, we examine the context of Brazilian premium cocoa and chocolate market to answer the questions previously raised.

DATA AND ANALYSIS
To achieve our goal, we collected data from newspaper articles, We also conducted seven in-depth interviews (see Exhibit 2) to better understand the actor's participation in the legitimation process. In addition, following Kozinets (2002) (Humphreys, 2010b(Humphreys, , 2014Scaraboto and Fischer, 2013). The data were read and coded, then axially coded (Corbin & Strauss, 2008), wherein each data source had two encoders.

FINDINGS
In this section, we first contextualize the decline of Brazilian cocoa production and the emergence of Belgian chocolate in the country. Then, we discuss the three thematic categories ("emerging as premium," "tree-to-bar production," and "the value of origin") that emerged from our analysis. Within each theme, we discuss the legitimacy construction on how the actors who participated in the process interacted in a way that contributed to the occurrence of the process.

Brazilian cocoa production
The history of cacao in Southern Bahia goes back to the 18 th century when cacao was brought to the region and cultivated in small properties. In the second half of the 19 th century, cacao production attracted families from other areas and countries.
In the 20 th century, a series of events took place in the region, such as plant diseases in 1957, the entry of other countries in the cocoa market, and the financial indebtedness of cocoa farmers. In the late 1980s, Witches' Broom Disease (WBD) devastated the Brazilian cocoa production, which was the second largest in the world at the time. WBD is caused by fungus Crinipellis perniciosa, which attacks the fruits, buds, and flower bulbs of the cacao plant, usually causing its death (Caldas & Perz, 2013). Cacao crops were severely devastated; cocoa farmers went bankrupt, and the country's production collapsed (Miragaia, 2015). Consequently, Brazilian cocoa entered a process of losing force in both international and domestic cocoa markets.
Subsequently, Brazilian production began to increase again only in 2004 (Euromonitor, 2017) after joining CEPLAC's (Comissão Executiva do Plano da Lavoura Cacaueira-a government entity dedicated to the development of cacao production) efforts in creating more resistant crops for cacao producers. Figure 1 displays a timeline of the main events in the history of cacao in the region.

Emerging as premium: The search for legitimation in a growing market segment
During the process of recovering from the crisis, cocoa farmers started investing in premium cocoa production, following a recommendation from CEPLAC. The quotes below show that CEPLAC's decision was based on the price difference between premium and commodity cocoa; it was also based on the fact that the premium segment presents an increasing demand. In the first quote, a former CEPLAC member describes the institution's position regarding the cocoa farmer's recovery, while, in the second one, a cocoa farmer discusses the increasing demand for premium products.
[When] I was at CEPLAC, they argued that Brazil should produce special cocoa to sell it for a special price. You would sell only well-selected, and well-fermented cocoa with a high-quality standard and the company will pay you for it. Therefore, the premium market sets an opportunity to leverage the entire value chain, which refers to the integrated system of production and distribution of a given product (Gereffi, Humphrey, & Sturgeon, 2005) (Boni, 2014) Therefore The excerpt shows how the media endorses an important Brazilian cocoa producer that has a product recognized worldwide for its high quality. The phrase "the inferiority complex is over" introduces the fact that, now, there is a Brazilian premium product that is as good as the foreign one. The fact that the article mentions the producer's success inside and outside the country relates to the legitimating process of the Brazilian product in comparison to a foreign one. Therefore, the media is using the foreign product's legitimacy as an indicator to attest the high quality of the Brazilian product.
The media connects cocoa and chocolate so that the idea consumers have about the former can influence the image building of the latter, which implies that if Brazilian cocoa achieves legitimacy as premium cocoa, then it will be able to benefit from its image. Therefore, the interaction between media and producers contributes to the construction of cultural-cognitive legitimacy of Brazilian cacao and chocolate in the premium segment, and simultaneously fights the Belgian chocolate legitimacy.

Tree-to-bar production: Cacao processing as an element of legitimacy
The relation between cocoa quality and chocolate quality used in the latter's production is a major theme in the data regarding legitimation. The following example from a newspaper article shows the media's effort to point out the importance of processing for the quality of a product-even though the description is not accurate. The excerpt is about Diego Badaró and Frederick Schilling, owners of the AMMA (a premium organic chocolate brand), and how they produce high-quality cacao and chocolate by focusing on mastering the production process. comes out ready to be packed after the tempering and the crystallization process. (Bertolino, 2010) From the above excerpt, it is evident that the relation between cocoa and chocolate quality in every stage of production is critical. The media highlights specific process requirements as a standard for premium chocolate: there is no regulation for what is considered to be premium chocolate; it has just instructions on how to produce it, which configures a normative legitimacy.
In line with the emphasis on the processing presented by the media, the following quote of a small premium chocolate producer shows how important these technical aspects are to the quality of the final product.
The bean processing really matters. If it is well fermented, the way it is cut, if the fruit is broken in the right direction.
[…] It is something really technical. If it is stirred up every hour in order to be able to have a uniform fermentation.
(Interview 6) Thus, carrying out an excellent processing of a good cacao bean is critical when producing premium chocolate. In this context, we introduce and highlight the concept of "beanto-bar," which is a method of chocolate production in which the chocolate maker has control over the entire production chain.
The producers are responsible for almost up to the final stage of production-transforming raw material into chocolate in an artisanal way.
When emphasizing the importance of processing, the media approaches the concept of "bean-to-bar" as a consequence of harvesting. The following quote shows the straight relationship between quality and processing in the bean-to-bar method. and European countries must buy the beans from producing countries. That is precisely why this process is called "bean-tobar": the chocolate makers do not own the farms, but they seek to buy quality cocoa beans of specific farmers from producing countries.
In an attempt to leverage the cocoa and chocolate production in Brazil, producers started to follow the bean-tobar practices. It was possible because of the country's favorable conditions mentioned in the previous section, which gave the opportunity to Brazilian chocolate producers to create their analogous concept, called "tree-to-bar." Following this concept, the chocolate maker owns the cacao farm as well as the chocolate production, as reported below by a cocoa farmer: We had a bold posture because copying what is done in California did not satisfy us. Our case is not "bean-to-bar," it is "tree-to-bar;" we had the trees, we had the cacao in our land. We had some knowledge about our cocoa. (Interview 5) The quote shows that Brazilian producers are trying to build their product's legitimacy by combining two strategies: (1) associating the product with a highly valued production process, and (2) crafting a new concept to define a process that better matches the unique condition of the Brazilian production chain.
The development of this combination is an attempt to add the cultural-cognitive legitimacy to a characteristic that is already related to the normative legitimacy, since it is a signification that is being socially constructed (Scott, 2008). The media enters this equation, once again, as a way of connecting the general public to what producers are doing. Therefore, to legitimate Brazilian chocolate within the premium sector, media and producers have been associating it with a particular processing connected to a high-quality notion.
Moreover, it is important to highlight that the media does not associate Belgian chocolate to "bean-to-bar" production; it just mentions that consumers in Brazil see it as a premium product of great value. Therefore, the legitimation process involves ascribing meaning to Brazilian chocolate that are unrelated to Belgian chocolate in a mixture of normative and cultural-cognitive legitimacy.

Value of origin: The provenience of the ingredient as a synonym for quality
In the last two sections, we saw how Brazilian cocoa and Brazilian chocolate search for legitimation on a premium market dominated by common sense that "Belgian chocolate" is a synonym for "chocolate of high quality." In this process, media appears as an ally to premium cacao and chocolate producers by showing its audience the existence of high-quality products from Brazil (both cacao and chocolate) and by connecting cocoa processing (a premium product feature) and chocolate to those Brazilian products. In line with these two platforms for building legitimacy, there is a search for certifications that attests the origin of the product.
Origin (the place where a product comes from) is a feature that can be used to designate quality. In the premium chocolate market, it can be seen in "Belgian chocolate" and "Swiss chocolate." Accordingly, actors seek a certification that attests the origin of the Brazilian product. However, in this case, origin certification is being pursued not for the chocolate, but for the cocoa. Obtaining this certification could contribute to the building of a good image for Brazilian cocoa, as the following quote states: "The government also seeks to obtain, in 2014, the registration of the product's geographical indication (GI) in Southern Bahia. The document guarantees identity, reputation, and value to cocoa" (Borlina Filho, 2012).
The main difference is that the actors seek to obtain a cocoa certification-in this case, GI, a certification used to identify the origin of products or services from a place that presents a particular characteristic or quality due to its origin (INPI, 2017), instead of a chocolate certification. Since the former is the main ingredient to produce the latter, a cacao with the quality approved insures legitimacy to the chocolate.
The purpose of obtaining a cacao certification instead of a chocolate certification is directly related to the development of the Brazilian cocoa production, which is still recovering from the crisis caused by WBD. Thus, achieving cocoa legitimation by attesting its quality through origin certification can boost both cocoa and chocolate production, leveraging the entire value chain through normative legitimacy.
Certifications and accreditations relate to the normative legitimacy construction (Scott, 2008); they state how things should be, creating a standard. The origin certification imposes a norm that producers must follow so that their products are considered high-quality products. Thus, the certification influences Brazilian chocolate legitimacy by associating it with cocoa from a high-quality origin, directly confronting the notion associated with Belgian chocolate.
Although the origin certification pursued is not for the "Brazilian" cacao, but for cacao from specific regions of the country (such as Southern Bahia), it still represents a conflict with Belgian chocolate in the domestic market.
One characteristic that is related to this certification of quality is the tradition of a producing region. In Brazil, some products have already had their quality recognized according to its origin. The quote below illustrates this situation. As the quote shows, recognition is related to a cultural aspect. Thus, normative legitimacy is associated with the culturalcognitive legitimacy once the tradition in crafting the product becomes a symbol that shapes the meaning attributed to the product. Therefore, while the place of origin grants culturalcognitive legitimacy, the certification allows, mainly, normative legitimacy.
In the search for the accreditation, the associations of producers are the leading actors. These associations, besides supporting the producers' development, also push to legitimate Brazilian cocoa and chocolate. Its actions are closely related to the achievement of normative legitimacy, and the struggle to obtain the cacao origin certification is an example of that. The quote below illustrates how associations act to guarantee a production with high-quality standards. Considering the connection between the Brazilian premium chocolate production and premium cacao production, even though the interviewee mentions only chocolate consumption, it is considered as the result of the premium cacao production.
If you come from another place and buy a chocolate that you like, you'll buy it again, but if you buy a chocolate and you hate it, you think "Geez, I won't buy it anymore." Then you already generalize. "I bought this one, this is my impression of the Southern Bahia chocolate, and it is awful." That's why they are trying to join efforts so the Association will be able to define: what are the quality standards? (Interview 3) As illustrated above, the association is the actor concerned about the standardization of the regional production to guarantee the required quality to the cacao and, consequently, to the premium chocolate produced after it. In this context, the certification appears as a way to make this connection clear to the market, by associating the origin of a certified premium cacao with the quality of the premium chocolate. The quote below exemplifies this connection by emphasizing that cacao must achieve some quality standards to be certified. regulate the quality specifications that the product must contain. This example shows that there is also a regulatory structure behind the process of validating the certification.
As in the case of the emergence as a premium product and the connection of the "tree-to-bar" to quality, the media also plays a significant role in disseminating information about the certification of origin, its importance, and its relation to the quality of a product. The quote below (from media) highlights how the certification of origin is associated to quality.
In practice, [GI certification] means that the whole agro-food chain tends to improve. The explanation is simple: in the process to obtain the certification, producers are obliged to become members (GI is granted only to companies) and end up enhancing the processes and improving the quality of the final product. (Orenstein, 2014) As the quote shows, media is acting in line with producers and associations by educating consumers on the Brazilian product to legitimize it. The achievement of the cacao's certification of origin connects to the construction of a differentiation trait for the Brazilian product (both premium cacao and chocolate). It aims to associate the origin of the ingredients to quality through cultural status and standard regulations. The purpose of highlighting the certification to the consumer is to attest the association between the origin and the quality.
Thus, similar to what happens in the case of the "treeto-bar" process, the link that the associations and the media are trying to consolidate-between the origin certification and the quality-also contributes to the legitimation process by creating new meanings associated with cacao and chocolate.
The difference is that Belgian chocolate is recognized by its origin, which leads to a confrontation of meaning and symbolism of the legitimation process. Therefore, due to the battle of meanings, the media, more than ever, plays a crucial role in consumer education.
Again, the process comprises a blend of normative and culturalcognitive legitimacy, except this time, it is supported by regulative standards that validate the normative pillar.

DISCUSSION
In this study, we examined how the legitimation process occurs when a concurrent legitimacy appears as a cultural barrier. We In addition, by highlighting cultural aspects, the process platform indicates a mix of cultural-cognitive and normative legitimacy. The interaction between producers and media promotes the association between Brazilian chocolate quality to its production process. Producers attempt to connect normative legitimacy to the construction of cultural-cognitive legitimacy by promoting the processing as an important aspect to quality and by creating their own concept to differentiate their product: "tree-to-bar." Similar to what happens in the market platform, the media appears as an ally that strives to educate consumers about the importance of processing in order to achieve quality. In addition, it associates this distinguished processing with Brazilian chocolate, creating meanings that relate to its high quality but does not relate to Belgian chocolate. Thus, as the media contributes to the construction of symbolical practices (Humphreys, 2010b), which are portrayed in association with the Brazilian product, it promotes cultural-cognitive legitimacy, and ends up boosting the reach of the producers' discourses by focusing on the characteristics of Brazilian products. This process occurs simultaneously as "the tree-to-bar" chocolate production is being developed in Southern Bahia, being an important tool to leverage the product's image to the consumers. Moreover, the process creates connoisseurship, since it is related to the consumers' symbolic and cultural capital acquisition (Quintão & Brito, 2016) when educated by the media on the importance of processing for the quality of the product.
In the certification platform, there is an interaction between the associations, the media, and the regulative institutions. The associations in this context are very similar to the producers on the other platforms; however, it represents a corpus of producers that outline guidelines for the community to standardize the production. Furthermore, the three types of legitimacy reinforce each other. When associations seek certification, they seek normative legitimacy because their purpose is to link expectations (Scott, 2008) between origin and quality. Although the certifications are related to norms, the certification of origin, in particular, is also related to the cultural-cognitive and regulative types of legitimacy. In the first case, it happens because this certification involves the tradition and the recognition of the cultural environment, which contribute to the production of high-quality products. Thus, as it acquires the certification and consumers see it as legitimate, not only the accreditation is associated, but also the cultural symbolism that exists around the product's origin. In the second case, the regulative aspect emanates because, as in many certifications, it presents technical requirements that must be attested by an institution. Therefore, the recognition system that regulates high-quality products supports normative legitimacy. Media appears as the meeting point for associations, as the consumer and its educating role also remains intact: in all situations, the media explains the concepts, processes, and what should be valued. Therefore, those three actors' interaction contribute to the promotion of the three types of legitimacy; it emphasizes Brazilian cocoa and chocolate for having a unique feature, which significantly contributes to the legitimacy construction against Belgian chocolate.
The concomitant and constant leverage of these three platforms contribute to the construction of the Brazilian cocoa and chocolate legitimacy against its foreign competitors. As they interact, we can see that the main focus is on achieving cultural-cognitive legitimacy, as that is where the notion of acceptance is built. As Belgian chocolate is seen as a common symbol for quality, normative legitimacy appears to support the cultural-cognitive legitimacy construction. Similar to Humphreys (2010b), these are the two main legitimacy types that emerge within the legitimation process. However, while in Humphreys (2010b) normative legitimacy seems to be supported because of cultural-cognitive and regulatory legitimacy, in this case it is cultural-cognitive legitimacy that is supported by normative and regulatory legitimacy.
In Brazil, a food market is being created for premium chocolate. The legitimacy of Belgian chocolate is built mainly because it comes from abroad, and thus being valued more than the domestic products . To fight against that notion, the cultural-cognitive legitimacy is being pursued based mainly on the "raw" quality of premium Brazilian cocoa as an ingredient and other features that emerge from it, such as processing and certification. Different from what happens in the case of organic agriculture (Press et al., 2014), legitimacy is not being built based on a niche, but on the change of the legitimacy "pillars" of the same niche. In contrast, similar to this case, the motivation to build legitimacy is more financial and less ideological. Although the food market in Brazil is highly dispersed , the main objective seems to be leveraging the product so that it can help farmers recover from its former losses, and not to fight against the foreign foods that are dominating the domestic market.
Finally, ideas such as sustainability and "locavorism" (Johnston & Baumann, 2010) are not present within the efforts to build legitimacy. As highlighted before, the main focus seems to be on emphasizing quality as an intrinsic feature of Brazilian cocoa and its importance for the chocolate production, while legitimacy for Belgian chocolate comes from symbolism, tradition, and colonization.

CONCLUSION
We have contributed to the literature of market creation and market development by analyzing how a product can build its legitimacy while confronting another. We argued that, in this process, the main focus is on achieving cultural-cognitive legitimacy. That is, when the process involves overcoming another type of legitimacy, achieving cultural-cognitive legitimacy is essential, since it is related to the idea of something that is taken-for-granted. However, the pursuit for cultural-cognitive legitimacy is greatly supported by normative legitimacy, which sometimes is reinforced by regulative legitimacy.
These findings suggest some practical implications.
First, within this setting, producers and associations appear to be heavily dependent on the media's role as an ally to reach consumers. However, they could explore opportunities to have a more direct connection with them in order to have more control over the message that is being disseminated. Thus, they would be less vulnerable to possible changes in media's actions. Second, cocoa and chocolate productions still depend on initiatives to develop themselves. In their search for legitimation, producers and associations look mainly for cultural-cognitive and normative legitimacy platforms. They could also benefit from regulatory characteristics, which prevail as legitimate due to the support of the three types of legitimacy in stable social systems (Scott, 2008). Therefore, there is still space for a greater government interaction with the other platforms so that Brazilian cocoa and chocolate can be fully legitimized.
Our study presents some limitations that provide insights for future studies. Some of the questions that could be addressed are as follows: Who is the consumer in the middle of this process?
How is he responding to it? It would be also interesting to verify the interference of cultural valorization related to nationality: When is the domestic product valued? When is the foreign product valued? A second line of research, more connected to food studies, could be used to better understand the circumstances and mechanisms that made possible the legitimation of the Belgian chocolate in the premium market segment in Brazil. Finally, future studies could also approach contexts in which the government has a stronger influence on the market: How does it take part in this process and how can a structure with stronger regulatory legitimacy facilitate (or hinder) this process? Understanding the questions addressed in this study and these other questions is very important to have a holistic view of the legitimation process, accessing it in many different ways.  (Polanyi, 2001), food activism seeks instead to support an alternative, "green" form by purchasing products from local organic farmers and vendors of cooked and value-added products.
Rather than confronting the industrial food system, this offers a kind of revolution through attrition in which activists can attempt to secede from the industrial food system through their consumption choices (Alkon, 2012;Meyers & Sbicca, 2016). Food justice activists, who deploy alternative food systems as a means to create grassroots economic opportunities and address health disparities in low-income communities of color (Alkon & Agyeman, 2010), have also adopted this strategy, calling for support for local food entrepreneurs who are people of color.
In the past several years, gentrification has presented a significant challenge to the food justice movement. Through this analysis, I emphasize the inextricability of political projects, such as resistance to gentrification, from my respondents' symbolic work trumpeting the presence and contributions of a community threatened with displacement to both the city's culture writ large and to its foodways. Displacement, then, becomes not only expulsion from the city but also erasure, and resistance to gentrification becomes not only about staying but also being seen.

Food movements and entrepreneurship
Though there are earlier antecedents, particularly among indigenous peoples and those farmers and gardeners who could not afford chemical inputs, Waren Belasco (1993) traces the contemporary movement to reform and transform the food system to the growth of the counterculture in the 1960s. Young, countercultural types went "back to the land" in search of a more organic lifestyle, forming communes and homesteads. Many of these were short lived, but those that remain today have become successful businesses (Meyers, 2005). Early adherents hoped that as the movement grew, these alternative food systems would replace the dominant, industrial model (Alkon, 2012;Meyers & Sbicca, 2016). However, the relationship between big and small food has become far more complex. Food is big business. Total retail and food service sales in the US topped 5 trillion dollars in 2015 (Statista, 2015). The organic foods industry grew at 11 percent in 2015, far outstripping the food industry's overall rate of 3 percent (McNeil, 2016). In the food industry as a whole, and the organic subsector, large "legacy" brands dominate. Natural food stores were the primary distributor of organics in the 1990s, but by 2008, nearly half of this food was purchased in chain supermarkets like Wal-Mart and Safeway (Dimitri & Oberholtzer, 2009). Scholars call this process conventionalization; large brands have entered the organic market and employed the same practices they do in conventional agriculture and industrial food processing (Buck, Getz & Guthman 1997). This has led to the rise of organic brands like Muir Glenn tomato sauce (General Mills) and Odwalla smoothies (Coca-Cola) that are household names.
But these are also promising times for small food entrepreneurs. The food movement has created a growing distrust of large brands, and a trend towards small, local, and artisanal foods. A recent NY Times article profiled several food entrepreneurs that have been backed by venture capitalists and Silicon Valley-style "accelerators" eager to finance and support independent food businesses (Strom, 2015). This investment, along with the maturation of the millennials and health concerns of baby boomers, has caused large brands to increasingly lose market share to smaller ones (Jefferies, 2012). Food entrepreneurs of color are less likely to be able to draw on family resources to start their businesses, and are less likely to receive traditional loans and equity investments (Fairlie & Robb, 2008). Moreover, white farmers and food entrepreneurs tend to benefit from disproportionate publicity within the food movement's rhetoric and writing, even when there are people of color doing similar work (Cohen & Reynolds, 2016). Recognizing these disparities, food justice activists seek to create support for farmers and entrepreneurs of color, while addressing food insecurity and diet-related health disparities in their communities (Alkon & Agyeman, 2010). Linking marginalized farmers and food entrepreneurs to food insecure communities is depicted as a winwin--a source of profits for the former and food for the latter (Alkon & Guthman, 2017). It also draws on communities of colors' long-standing traditions of food entrepreneurship; they have often turned to small-scale, culturally-rooted food provisioning due to barriers in the traditional labor market Forson, 2006;Abarca, 2006). However, food justice activists have struggled to draw in significant numbers of low-income customers. Despite intentions to the contrary, their customers tend to be middle-class, white, and often relatively new to the neighborhood. This is in part because the food justice movement has laid some of its deepest roots in cities and neighborhoods that are rapidly gentrifying. (Alkon & Cadji, 2015). Gentrification is a process through which working-class urban neighborhoods become inhabited by wealthier residents, displacing long-term inhabitants and changing the nature of cities (Slater, 2006;Lees et al., 2007;Quastel, 2009). Though it is commonly talked about in terms of the consumer preferences of new residents, gentrification is fundamentally a structural process. Through gentrification, capital expands through the reproduction of urban space, as guided by city and regional policy (Smith, 2008;Hackworth & Smith, 2001). It is also a racialized process, predicated on the previous divestment from the urban core that characterized segregation and redlining (Shaw, 2007;Lees et al., 2007).
Displacement and violence are two of its core features; lowincome communities of color are increasingly subject to police scrutiny at the behest of new residents (Ospina, 2015;Shaw, 2015), and are pushed out of their homes, at best resettling in less expensive areas and at worst becoming homeless (Slater, 2006;Applied Survey Research, 2015).
And yet, urban developers appeal to consumer preferences, to promote gentrifying neighborhoods. Food, particularly organic and ethnic cuisine, has long been on the list of amenities that drew early waves of artists and other cultural creatives to lowincome communities (Zukin, 1995). Cafes are often the first businesses that new residents open in their new neighborhoods, creating gathering spaces for early gentrifiers (Sullivan & Shaw, 2011). Food is also important to the later stages of gentrification as counterculture is joined and sometimes displaced by largescale development (Lees et al., 2007). In today's food-focused popular culture, thriving restaurants and urban farms are essential element of cities' efforts to brand themselves as hip, creative, green, and attractive (Burnett, 2014;Hyde, 2014). Investors search for this sort of food retail as a signal that a neighborhood is ripe for redevelopment. According to Stan Humphries, chief economist for the online real estate marketplace Zillow, "The entry of a coffee shop into a location provides a signaling function to other types of investors […] that this neighborhood has now arrived and is open for business in a way that it was not before" (quoted in Kohli, 2015). Understanding this, a group of Harlem real estate agents have banded together to open ground floor coffee shops and eateries so that they can raise the prices of residential units above (Clarke, 2014). Similarly, the fruits of food justice activists' labor, including farmer's markets, community gardens, and healthy food retail, are at times among the amenities that realtors and other urban boosters reference as selling points (Alkon & Cadji, 2012).
Gentrification brings both opportunities and challenges to food justice organizations. While food justice activists improve the neighborhoods in which they work, they create spaces palatable to new residents already interested in local and organic food. These new residents support food justice entrepreneurs by purchasing food, volunteering, and donating funds. Indeed, for many of the food justice organizations I spoke with in Oakland, the customer support of these new residents is crucial to the organizations' fundraising goals, as well as their ability to garner profits for small farmers and food entrepreneurs. These benefits, however, are tenuous. The displacement of long-term residents from the neighborhoods where food justice projects operate makes it impossible for activists to pursue their missions. Ironically, as food justice activists improve food access in historically marginalized neighborhoods, the food insecure communities they seek to serve are forced out. Broadly motivated by an analysis emphasizing the need for racial, economic, and environmental justice; food justice activists have recognized that gentrification brings violence to their communities (Crouch, 2012;Markham, 2014;Massey, 2017), and are working to counter it in a variety of ways. They argue that because food is so deeply embedded in gentrification, it provides an important lens through which to develop resistance against displacement. Their primary strategy is grassroots economic development by providing jobs and entrepreneurial opportunities to long-term community members. In doing so, they increase both the resources and visibility of these groups. However, such opportunities are not entirely able to counter displacement pressures. For this reason, I also describe policy approaches that can complement entrepreneurial strategies. Recognizing that other food justice organizations experienced similar dynamics, I then conducted 30 interviews with a variety of Oaklanders dedicated to food justice, including employees of non-profit organizations, restauranteurs, and social entrepreneurs. Interviews generally lasted 1-2 hours and were recorded using an iPhone app, and then transcribed. I used a snowball sample, beginning with community-based non-profits doing work similar to the one Josh worked with. My access was eased by Josh's reputation as a dedicated activist, as well as by contacts from previous research. Following that, I widened my scope to include for-profit social enterprises and food businesses that were either mentioned by the non-profits as like-minded or who explicitly described their work as dedicated to food justice and/or community empowerment. I stopped when I reached "saturation," meaning that the collection of new data failed to yield additional insights (Glaser & Strauss, 1999 I coded the data by hand using Microsoft Word, reading and re-reading transcripts in order to search for emergent patterns in a way that ensured that our data gave rise to our analysis (ibid). Support for entrepreneurship was a common theme, as it was the primary way that both non-profit and for-profit organizations sought to channel their opposition to gentrification. Within that category, I coded for kinds of support, including jobs, ownership, and race representation. These became the primary nodes around which this analysis coalesced.

The Green Collar Economy: How One Solution Can Fix Our Two
Biggest Problems. This widely-acclaimed NY Times bestselling book argued for a "green new deal" that would create thousands of jobs in alternative energy and resource conservation. Because these jobs could not be outsourced, Jones argued that they could help marginalized communities to "lift themselves out of poverty," ensuring that "the "approaching green wave lifts all boats." Jones' vision of a green-collar economy quickly rose and fell from popular discourse. Jones himself was hired by the Obama administration as a "green jobs advisor," but resigned amidst demonization by the political right for what can only be seen as minor and irrelevant infractions. But his concept of green jobs has taken hold among the sustainable food sector in his hometown of Oakland.

Non-profit settings
One of the largest non-profits working for a just and sustainable food system in Oakland is Planting Justice. Providing employment is a part of the organization's mission, along with democratizing access to affordable food and ensuring environmental sustainability. Planting Justice runs several social-enterprise businesses that raise money for the organization, including a landscaping company and a commercial nursery. According to co-founder Gavin Raiders, living wage employment is a central part of transforming food systems, as well as broader systems of inequality: [Our goal is to create] business plans that work, that generate enough revenue to create living wage jobs that aren't grant-dependent. When Another food justice non-profit that views the creation of jobs for long-term Oakland residents as essential to its mission is Mandela Marketplace. For Mandela, the goal is not just living wage jobs, but the ownership of community food assets. Mandela Marketplace is a non-profit food hub whose centerpiece is the for- The reason we established ourselves as a nonprofit to support and incubate Mandela Foods was because worker-owners from West Oakland didn't have the credit or the networks or the access to the kind of financing they would need to build out something that was going to cost $750,000, whereas a non-profit has the kind of skills necessary to network through grants or to provide guarantees to help them get that financing.
Notably, all the worker-owners of Mandela Foods Co-op are African-American, while the non-profit staff is racially diverse.
The worker-owners share the organization's profits while the nonprofit can fundraise to cover any losses. Thus, the non-profit serves as a kind of angel investor in the coop. The coop broke even for the first time in 2012, one year ahead of their business plan, and earned profits for the first time in 2014. Decision-making power for the grocery lies primarily with the worker-owners, each of whom have a vote on workplace policies. The non-profit collectively has one vote as well, which allows them input but not control.
Customers at the co-op, however, are predominantly white, and even the customers of color are often new to the neighborhood. Mariela explains how essential the support of new residents is to the co-op's profits: [The co-op's] end goal is to make healthy food accessible to community residents and by that, change the health indicators and dynamics of this community. And so, making sure that the healthy produce and the bulk goods like beans and grains are affordable is important to them.
But they're also going to want to cater to the people who can make it profitable. So, they're also going sell a fancy cheese or free-range chicken or a ten-dollar bottle of honey.
Long accustomed to seeing businesses in their area owned by non-Blacks, these neighbors are particularly excited to learn that those working at the store also own it. Worker-owner James Burke, who grew up in West Oakland, described how impressed long-term residents are when they realize this. "They say, 'Oh yeah, you all own this store?' And they'll tell their kids, "Oh they own this store." Another worker-owner, Adrionna Fike, expands on the reasons that Black ownership matters: Mandela may feature "fancy cheese or free-range chicken" to please new, more affluent neighborhood residents, but they also proclaim their identity as a Black-owned business dedicated to supporting producers of color.
Gentrification has long been on the minds of Mandela's employees, both at the co-op and the non-profit. One important strategy through which they push back against this force is by providing an opportunity for community ownership of a business that admittedly benefits from the influx of new residents. Again,

Mariela explains:
We've talked a lot about gentrification, and what that means in West Oakland. We're a cooperative, but we're working in a capitalist system. What this enables us to do is to make sure that community residents who have been part of the history of West Oakland can own the economy so that they can stay in it and profit from the people who are coming in who have higher levels of income.
[Gentrification] is a dynamic that we don't want to happen to them. We want them to be a part

For-profit settings
There are also a growing number of social enterprise restaurants and food businesses that strive to create green jobs and entrepreneurial opportunities for long-term community members.
Perhaps the most prominent of these is Red Bay Coffee. Although, neither founder was raised in Oakland, the city provides not only the company's mission, but an important aspect of its branding, as "the town" has long been a nickname for Oakland, distinguishing it from "the city" of San Francisco. This Newer business owners like Keba at Red Bay and Sabrina at the Town Kitchen hope that their employees will be also be able to stay in the city. But Sabrina reports that for at least some of the youth she works with, it is already too late. Their families have been displaced, and they commute to The Town from suburbs as far as an hour away. That speaks to the quality of their job, but also the inability of even good, green jobs to combat gentrification as real estate pressures continue to intensify.

DISCUSSION
Despite much popular support, creating green food jobs is a limited approach to pushing back against displacement. It can help long-term communities see themselves reflected in Oakland's thriving food scene, but there is no guarantee that even these wages can withstand the city's housing market. Given that middle-income communities are also facing displacement pressures, it seems unlikely that long-term residents can be supported in navigating the current landscape. If displacement is to be avoided, the landscape itself must be shifted. Several city policies have recently been initiated to begin this work.
Oakland is no stranger to activism opposing gentrification.
One prominent recent campaign involved a one-acre, cityowned lot in the East Lake neighborhood. When the city council attempted to sell this lot to be developed as a luxury apartment tower, protests erupted, shutting down city council meetings.
Due to community opposition, the developer agreed to build affordable units on site. Another important recent campaign resulted in the passage of measure JJ in 2016, which expands the city's affordable housing and rent control measures and limits rent increases. As individual community members, many food justice activists and entrepreneurs participated in these struggles, but the organizations themselves were largely absent. It's supposed to be an upstream public health tool that would identify potentially negative health impacts of proposed developments before they're approved. We found ourselves always on the other side of the fight. The city has already approved the project, why didn't the community have a say? Now we're going to fight against it, we're going to have a lawsuit. Guess what, it's too late because you didn't show up at the public meetings that they never told us about. This is something that happens time and time again. What we are hearing from our members is we actually need something earlier on in the approval process. We're not going to count on the city to always let us know when public comment is, when is the time we engage? They just don't do that well. There needs to be some kind of check in place. They're not oriented in thinking about "How will this development proposal that I'm getting at the permit desk impact the health of this community?" That's not how they're trained. They actually need a tool that will walk them [through this process]. It looks at impact on housing, transportation, food, space, arts, and culture. It's very broad and comprehensive.
The Healthy Development guidelines take a comprehensive approach, including recommendations on environmental health, economic opportunity, community culture and safety, healthy food, transportation, housing, and recreation. With regard to food, the guidelines advocate that the city requires or incentivizes developers to support an edible parks program, to increase neighborhood access to healthy food through the farmers markets, produce stands, or grocery stores; and to dedicate space for permanent and visible gardens. The guidelines also advocate for enhanced access to affordable housing, particularly for vulnerable populations. Strategies include a Jobs/Housing Impact Fee, support for maintenance of existing affordable housing, the institution of preferences in city-assisted, affordable housing projects for people who already live or work in Oakland, those who have been displaced, and homeless and very low-income families, and an inclusionary zoning policy for development projects that support long-term, affordable ownership opportunities for local residents. It also includes support for some of the entrepreneurship programs described above, such as living wage jobs and the incubation of locally owned businesses.
If and when they are adopted, the Healthy Development guidelines will be an important tool to create development that meets the needs of current Oakland residents while minimizing displacement. But its creators recognize that it will be controversial and that elected officials have favored recruiting tech firms and upscale housing developments. For now, they are beginning by emphasizing the guidelines that do not require new laws. Some of these are more superficial, such as requiring trash receptacles on development sites. Others alert the Planning Department to existing city and state housing laws that were not previously on their radar, an omission that some developers used to their advantage. At the same time, the Planning Department is pursuing additional guidelines, beginning with those that are less controversial to build support toward those whose adoption may be more complicated. If and when they are adopted, the Healthy Development guidelines are the kinds of policies that can help prevent displacement of low and middle-income Oakland residents, even as wealthier residents increasingly share the city, and businesses-food and otherwise-cater to newcomers' needs.

CONCLUSION
Since its re-emergence in the 1960s, food activism has evolved from its anti-capitalist roots to promoting the production and consumption of local and organic commodities. Advocates for food justice, while systemically highlighting the ways that both industrial and alternative food systems reproduce racial inequalities, also pursue their goals through support for entrepreneurs. They promote food entrepreneurs of color by featuring their products at farmer's markets and health food stores, and by providing green jobs in marginalized communities. When faced with the challenges brought by gentrification, food justice activists continue to highlight entrepreneurship. They argue that creating living-wage green jobs and ownership opportunities for communities threatened by displacement garners material benefits for these groups, enabling them to stay in the city, while highlighting their visibility and contributions to their cities' food cultures. This brings the cultural work of representation together with the material objective of improving the distribution of resources.
However, these entrepreneurial strategies reinforce neoliberal notions of business development and market-based solutions to social problems such as racism and environmental injustice. Neoliberalism is a political and economic philosophy that asserts that human well-being can best be achieved if the so-called "free" market is allowed to function free of intervention from the state (Harvey, 2005, p. 2). Prominent social scientists have argued that current modes of food activism may explicitly oppose this philosophy, but have nevertheless tended to embrace neoliberal forms of governance, including reliance on markets to pursue change (Allen, Fitzsimmons, Goodman, & Warner, 2003;Allen, 2008;Brown & Getz, 2008;Guthman, 2008b;Harrison, 2008). Food justice advocates call attention to decades of institutionally racist development patterns (McClintock, 2011).
But rather than demanding government investment in these areas, they argue that communities can create grassroots development through local food systems. This approach suggests that everyday people can work together to solve social problems. While this certainly can be empowering, the lack of a role for government policy helps to relieve the state of its responsibility to provide environmental protection and a social safety net, a responsibility that is particularly important in light of the state's role in pursuing and permitting the destruction of communities and environments in the first place.
In addition to their overt political work, social movements such as food justice help shape a sense of proper selfhood and citizenship. Many food activists unreflexively espouse and perpetuate ideas compatible with neoliberal notions of good citizenship through their emphasis on self-responsibility, individualism, and entrepreneurialism (Bondi & Laurie, 2005;Dean, 1999;Rose, 1999;Larner & Craig, 2005). Support for local food entrepreneurs not only upholds individual responsibility for one's own economic fortunes, but also concedes decreasing political support for entitlement programs often derided as handouts (Allen, 1999). Moreover, they neglect that small businesses are competitive and often fail, making them a poor substitute for direct assistance.
While non-profit food justice organizations seek to shore up entrepreneurial venues through fundraising, the provision of technical assistance, incubation, and other support; they are nonetheless unable to ensure that the entrepreneurs they work with are able to withstand displacement. To be sure, these social entrepreneurial strategies and ventures are relatively recent and cannot yet be studied systematically, but the homelessness of several Planting Justice employees and the displacement of some of The Town Kitchen's workforce speaks to the challenge of keeping long-term, low-income residents in Oakland, even with jobs that pay $20 per hour. A recent study by the non-profit Policy Link (2016) found that the number of Oakland units affordable to both minimum wage workers and entry-level teachers are the same: zero.
Of course, living-wage job and entrepreneurial opportunities are important for communities who have withstood decades of segregation, redlining, urban renewal, and general disinvestment, even if they cannot withstand the current speculative real-estate boom. However, food justice activists seeking to fight gentrification would do well to add additional strategies to their lexicon. At its root, gentrification is a political-economic process through which developers and other boosters increase their profits with the help of city policy. And while city policy is often used to lure developers, it can also be deployed to make demands of them. The Healthy Development guidelines described above are a clear and comprehensive example of this, and some food activists have been involved in the process of shaping them. Food justice activists would do well to promote these guidelines among their supporters, including both the long-term community members they seek to support and the newer, wealthier residents who can act as politically powerful allies. In this way, food justice activists can use their entrepreneurial approaches not only to buy and sell food and to signify the remaining presence of longterm communities, but also to build power toward affecting broader policy changes.

ABSTRACT
The hawker center is an icon of contemporary Singapore and an essential element of national identity, but one that has undergone multiple reinventions. Most recently hawking has repeatedly been presented as approaching crisis, prompted by an aging hawker population. The response of the Singapore government has been to begin another historic transformation of the hawker, focusing on the hawker entrepreneur -the hawkerpreneur. Ahead of reinvention, codification of knowledge about hawking was required and provided by museum exhibitions and cultural celebrations in media. The hawker became romanticized, a figure of history, distanced from an emergent next generation.  Singapore is a small, densely populated island nation connected by a causeway to Johore in Malaysia.  (Velayutham, 2017).
Singapore's transition from a British East India Company trading post to an independent "Asian Tiger economy," has been accompanied by massive economic growth facilitated by its status as a free port and consequent access to complex networks of peoples, goods, and trade. Those complex networks also created flows in labor and demand for cheap food to feed workers, many of whom had no access to cooking facilities, or to the labor of family members to cook for them. That demand was met by hawkers, itinerant street vendors selling simple meals, cooked and uncooked foods, snacks, and beverages (Warren, 1986). Singapore, an important free port, was a transit zone.
Hawkers, moving through these transient populations, were at the center of anxiety about the spread of disease. As a port city, Singapore was particularly vulnerable. It was not just a node in an imperial network; it was part of other networks, The riot was thus considered as a matter of colonial government concern, as opposed to a local police matter.
How hawking was central to the riot is less clear. As historian Melissa Macauley has shown, the riots were connected with rural pacification in China. Chinese witnesses to the riot testified that events in Chaozhou underpinned the riot. Chinese merchants "insisted that the hawkers themselves had played little role in the violence, and that most of the rioters had been samsengs (fighting men) not hawkers who took advantage of resentment amongst the hawkers" (Macauley, 2016, p. 770). For the administrators on the ground, rioting hawkers, whether or not they were hijacked by samsengs, needed to be controlled, as well as pacified. The system of itinerant hawking, always popular with residents, was unpopular with colonial officials, despite its acknowledged utility.
As useful as hawking was, it could undermine public health and was subject to regulation. Diseases, including cholera and typhoid, were particular concerns. Contaminated water used by stalls was a source of water-borne diseases, whether the water was dispersed on the ground or used in mixed drinks. Diseases also spread through inadequately cleaned hands and utensils. Hawkers were understood to be carriers of gastroenteritis, enteric fever (typhoid), dysentery, cholera, and parasitic infections, such as hookworm and roundworm. Food waste from stalls drew insects and rodents, and the tropical conditions of Singapore increased the rate of decay and spread of contamination. Itinerancy itself was also a problem (Tarulevicz, 2015, p. 6), making hawkers a vector for the spread of disease through their own movement and through the movement of their waste across multiple areas.
Itinerancy made regulations about cleanliness and attempts to clean public spaces a Sisyphean task. Streets could spontaneously become night markets if enough hawkers congregated. Certain areas would regularly attract these informal night markets. During these periods of occupation, tasks such as street cleaning became more difficult. Town cleaning laborers consequently avoided these areas. If they did not, they clashed with the hawkers. The legal status of hawking varied, with certain practices (such as congregating) being a continual source of tension between authorities and the public. Schumpeter (1942) identified the process of "creative destruction" as an "essential fact about capitalism" that "incessantly revolutionizes the economic structure from within, incessantly destroying the old one, incessantly creating a new one" (p. 83). In the dying days of the British colonization of Singapore, getting rid of the itinerancy component of hawking was the main objective, the creative destruction. In destroying the form (street food), the cuisine itself was preserved. A key component of this creative destruction shifted the focus from the practice of hawking on to individual hawkers. The strategies for regulation also shifted toward individual embodied strategies, much more akin to other public health strategies.
The 1950 Hawker Inquiry Commission reflected this shift, noting that "the presence of any hawkers makes it difficult to keep streets clean, but it is chiefly the hawkers of food and drink that do the harm" (Hawker Inquiry Commission, 1950, p. 2).
Hawking became a matter of public health, and the commission sought advice from the Municipal Health Department. Out of this consultation, the commission recommended that all hawkers be compulsorily inoculated against typhoid, and that as a condition of holding a license, hawkers be required to submit to a medical inspection by municipal health inspectors. The commission also suggested the introduction of straws to raise the standard of hygiene and recommended they be made available, even if doing so required a subsidy. In removing a potential point of contact with dirty bodies and equipment, the commission evoked a mechanism for bringing about better health outcomes.
The Hawker Inquiry Commission both destroyed and preserved hawking in Singapore. It played a major role in the eradication of itinerant hawkers, although a systematic regulatory regime was not introduced until Singapore was fully independent. The commission also acknowledged the centrality of hawking to the Singaporean way of life, and, as geographer Kong (2007, p. 19) suggested, the decision to regulate rather than prohibit hawkers was a major shift in colonial administrative thinking. By laying the foundation for moving hawkers into controllable spaces, the commission actually preserved it, albeit in a modified form.

Hawkers 2.0: Hawker Centers, 1968-2016
In the first decades of Singaporean independence, hawking was transformed from chaotic to ordered, and the itinerant sellers who walked the streets came under increased regulation in indoor spaces. The first hawker centers were relatively basic, purpose-built structures that had running water, electricity, and a roof, but were open at the sides, pavilion style. Sited predominantly in residential areas and in the city, the centers aimed to replace the services provided by itinerant vendors and housed permanent stalls, as many as 60. These stalls, like their cart predecessors, specialized in specific dishes or cuisines and sold a limited range of items. Over the years, some hawker centers have become more elaborate spaces or food centers, often integrated with malls (Chua, 2016, p. 24). Contemporary hawker and food centers might be recognizable as a cousin of food courts, a tastier and less corporate cousin, but still related.
As infrastructure, the transformation from itinerancy to hawker centers required a bureaucracy (an army of inspectors), a legal apparatus (empowering police and inspectors), and a shift in popular knowledge. Certain gustatory changes accompanied this movement (Duruz, 2016, p. 144). Satay cooked indoors, for example, might actually be safer than that cooked at a hawker cart, but the taste and eating experience (a sea breeze versus air-conditioning) has changed, and satay is now understood as street food even when not cooked or eaten on the street.
The regulation of food provision and the remaking of public space can be seen across the food sector. Hawkers, once seen as unseemly, dirty, and visceral, were cleaned up, their hands washed, their cooking equipment inspected and standardized. The places where they plied their trade were eradicated, repurposed or replaced with "ordered" spaces -hawker centers. In turn, these spaces were increasingly policed, made cleaner and orderly at every turn. Duruz and Khoo (2015) describe Singapore's hawker centers as existing at the "intersection of charm and safety" (p. 99). Such ordered spaces produce cleaner and safer foods, reinvented for a new era and expectations.

The vanishing hawker
The most recent transformation of hawkers relates to their status.
Having built up hawkers and hawker centers as quintessential to Singaporean culture, a crisis is now being staged about their future. A 2015 article asked, "Is Singapore's hawker culture faltering?" (Malay Mail Online, 2015). The problem was articulated as "the street food culture here is in danger of fading into the sunset. Why? Because older hawkers are retiring or passing away, and there is not enough new blood to take their place,". Hawking is repeatedly represented as being in crisis and common themes emerge around age and desirability of the career. Tan Hsueh Yun, a Straits Times journalist, sums up the crisis and argues that it must evolve in order to survive: The median age of hawkers here is 59 years […] Scores of them have retired and many more continue to do so every year. Young people make more money blogging or writing listicles about hawker food than they ever will running a hawker stall. Why slave in a cramped and hot hawker stall when you can make pronouncements on the five best Hokkien mee stalls in Singapore on a laptop? (Straits Times, 2016).
Generational change and expectations about profit and the nature of work are common themes in the hawking crisis. A desire amongst younger hawkers to do new things, such as making fusion foods, also arises; the crisis is in part about keeping the hawker culture traditional but simultaneously allowing it to evolve.
Peter Mok, a new hawker, laments that "(Old-style) hawkers are dinosaurs, society will evolve and they will no longer be found.
The hawker culture will change with the changing tastes of the newer generation" (Malay Mail Online, 2015).
In The eulogy aspect is further emphasized with a quotation from Saint Augustine: "No eulogy is due to him who simply does his duty and nothing more" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 19). These hawkers are due a eulogy. They are being celebrated for having done more than their duty and for being extraordinary.
But they are relegated to history, their time passed into the past. Following this opening section of the book, are 45 pages of captioned photographs.
Portraits of hawkers and their stalls are interspersed with images of culinary objects reiterating the past, such as a fullpage photograph of a washed metal pot with strainers entitled: "A pot emptied of its broth" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p.54).
The portraits capture place and people, almost conflating the two, with the stall and the hawker inseparable. Many of the images are bleak, such as the one of Tan Huang Khiang (II), framed by hanging meat and looking exhausted in his beef noodles stall. We are told that at age 13, he started helping his father and that before they had a stall they had a pushcart. His exhaustion is underscored by a quotation: "I'll work until I can't carry on. I'm getting slower every day because of my age" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 37).
For Singaporeans, this is a historical narrative. References to age and slowing down, when read in tandem with the physical signs of tiredness (and in black and white) cast this as historical.
Since most Singaporeans were born after independence (post-1965, when itinerant hawking was outlawed), a hawker who began his working life selling food from a pushcart is describing a moment known only through the narrative forms of history.
Further references to past practices reinforce the message.
Phoon Hon Sun, who runs a roasted duck and meats stall, started out in 1969 and shares memories of practices very different from contemporary Singapore: "I remember watching over our food carts through the night for fear of raids by health inspectors" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 22). This implied relationship between hawking, crime, and the Singaporean state sounds unworldly and alien, locating this hawker in a culturally distant past.
Having killed and buried hawking in the past, the remaining chapters of Not for Sale begin to hint at a resurrection. "Fables & Tales," for example, works to separate hawkers from the now by emphasizing that traditions are vanishing and techniques becoming lost. For example, Nai Kim Siong, a drinks hawker, is quoted: "We are fast losing our coffee traditions. We used to roast our own beans and toast our bread over charcoal grills" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 82). Yet the level of detail -roasting and toasting -positions the work as skilled and thus artisanal, foreshadowing themes directed at the next generation of hawkers. Handmade food is emphasized too, as in Koh Jee Kok: "Our curry puffs are fresh and they are handmade.
Handmade food comes with a special attachment" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 94). Handmade, literally made by hand rather than machinery, works like artisanal to give food a high status and oppositional to mass-produced, industrial foods (Blundel and Smith, 2013). Handmade signifies skilled labor, not just labor, which is a way of celebrating these hawkers and signaling to the next generation that although this career is hard work, it is skilled, not manual work.
Similarly, the autonomy associated with hawking both emphasizes the past and hints at the future. Prawn noodle hawker Lau Fook Wah, for example, says: "My father's thinking was always better to be your own boss than an employee, even if you were a 'kachang puteh' seller, you would still be better off" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 84). (Kachang Puteh, a snack food of steamed and fried nuts, spiced or sweetened, was sold by itinerant sellers, packaged in paper cones traditionally made from newspaper.) Sim Han Boo, a fishball noodle stallholder, illustrates the hawking promise of economic autonomy: "I first started out in this trade as a stall assistant before running my own stall to earn my living" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 109). Emphasizing autonomy, progress, and skilled artisan labor again foreshadows the reinvention of the hawkerpreneur.
Siblings Loh Choon Huay and Loh Kai Mong explain why they took over their mother's stall: "… we wanted to keep our mother's craft and taste alive" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 180). Fixing taste, while not possible, has a certain appeal in Singapore, a nation in which change has been both rapid and profound. Haley (2012) reminds us that it is hard to capture the taste of the past because "it is not just our minds that play tricks with us, but also our bodies. Food is familiar and history often is not. Like kids at the candy store window, we can almost taste the past" (p. 78). Instead, as Fitzgerald and Petrick (2008) note, we use historical imagination to "approximate the nature of taste historically" (pp. 392-393). Yet it is impossible, as Amy Bentley (2014) reminds us, to "return to a historical moment and sample food as it existed at the time, or to recreate a product's taste as it was experienced within a particular historical and cultural milieu" (p. 82). When the Lee brothers say of their roast duck and meats stall, "there are no changes to the way we prepare our food, if we change then it is not our food anymore" (National Heritage Board, 2013, p. 235), we cannot assume that the taste is fixed. After all, when their grandfather started the stall almost 60 years ago, the conditions of production of ducks was quite different from today. Promoting timelessness in a sea of change provides comfort, roots the practice in the past, and does some of the same work as emphasizing craft: it elevates manual labour to artisanal labour.
Not for Sale ends with "Afterthoughts" and an image of two exhausted male hawkers resting, heads on the plastic hawker center table, feet up, shoes off and on the seats, mugs of beer untouched. A blank page entitled "My personal memories" implicates the reader -here is where memories should be noted.
The reader has worn out the hawkers and must take some responsibility. Singaporeans are familiar with such appeals. The National Archives have encouraged Singaporeans to "grab their tape-recorders" and capture memories of their elders "before it is too late" and deposit the recordings (National Archives, 2002, p. 1). Food writer Oon (1998, p. 7) echoed this approach and said she wished to inspire Singaporeans to "reach out for pen and paper" to capture family recipes and find "their own cultural soul." Memory-making is both personal and national work in Singapore (Tarulevicz, 2013, p. 110). Ang Soo Kwang, a second-generation hawker, is identified as encapsulating "the whole essence of being a hawker," when he says "… I feel that the most important thing is to cook with sincerity. When you feel good and cook with all your heart, this emotion will be conveyed to the customers who eat your food" (Eat, 2016, p. 109). Casting vanishing hawkers as symbols of the past both romanticizes hawker virtues and emphasizes the idea that that their replacement is part of wider historical processes, which works to affirm what Slotkin (1973) would see as narratives of progress. With practices and aesthetics codified and richly described, the vanishing hawker was ripe for reinvention.

Hawkers 3.0: Hawkerpreneurs
Food vendors may share characteristics reflective of the constraints and appeal of the business of selling food. Broadly speaking, food vending has been open to the marginal and has historically reflected migration patterns, ethnic and racial makeup, and social and economic position (Ray, 2016, p. 12).
Because of specialization and scale, relatively less capital is required for hawkers than other food businesses. By offering a limited range of foods, ingredient, equipment, and labor costs are lower. These structural aspects of hawking -accessibility, smaller financial and cultural capital requirements, employment without a boss -all work to make this a field ripe for innovation, driven by changes in image and status.
The academic concept of an "entrepreneur" has a notably tangled history. In a classic article, Gartner (1988) insists that entrepreneurs create organizations, but he is less interested in the study of entrepreneurial traits. In the Singaporean context, the emergent and distinctive figure of the hawkerpreneur is popularly associated with little else but the personal characteristics of the next generation. Entrepreneurs have played a critical role in the national story of Singapore as they have in many consumer capitalist countries. Culinary entrepreneurs, however, are especially noted in Singapore. For example, kopitiams (small coffee shops selling drinks and light meals), are important to Singapore's foodscape but also to its entrepreneurial history (Lai, 2012, p. 221).
Ah Koon, a classic example of a kopitiam entrepreneur, started the Ya Kun Kaya Toast brand. As Andrew Tam points out, the narrative "of a hardworking man from humble origins serving homemade toast and coffee […] is crucial to the Ya Kun Kaya Toast brand" (Tam, 2017, p. 50). In a written history of the company, this connection between individual life story and company is repeatedly emphasized (Koh, 2010). Yeo Thian In, the founder of Yeo Hiap Seng soy sauce brand, provides another example of a traditional culinary entrepreneur whose life story of humble beginnings, adversity, and eventual prosperity define the genre (Yeo, 2010). Soy sauce production and coffee shop chains, while different kinds of businesses, share a similar entrepreneurship narrative. What is clear is that hawkerpreneurs are not entrepreneurial hawkers; they are entrepreneurs who have become hawkers. Theirs is not the story of a single, male migrant who worked hard, overcame adversity to build a business from scratch, and the business then became an empire. Rather, it is the story of a successful entrepreneur who turns his or her attention to hawking.
In early 2017, the Hawker Center 3.0 Committee, a team of public servants, citizens, and interested parties chaired by Dr. Amy Khor, Senior Minister of State, Ministry of Environment and Water Resources, submitted its report. Tasked with developing proposals to improve hawker centers and promote trade, the Hawker Centre 3.0 report detailed strategies for the reinvention of the iconographic Singaporean street food cuisine (Government of Singapore, 2017, p. 5). The report made 11 key recommendations to sustain the hawker trade, support new entrants, improve productivity, enhance hawker center spaces, and "promote graciousness." One interesting recommendation of the committee was for greater food curation in hawker centers. Echoing the language of museums and art galleries, this form of curation ensures a good mix of foods is available in all hawker centers and "the retention of traditional hawker food where appropriate" (Government of Singapore, 2017, p. 38). Curation, however, also discourages ethnic enclaves, thus mirroring housing policy where each building must reflect the ratio of ethnic groups in Singapore (Sin, 2002, p. 287). In fact, Tam suggests that hawker centers, as public social spaces, were "deliberately constructed to reverse racial segregation" by facilitating racial integration through the provision of multiracial foods in one place (Tam, 2017, p. 47).
A critical part of the revitalization included the training of potential hawkers. Contemporary Singapore's highly competitive and stratified education system, used to reinforce ideals of Singaporean meritocracy, has emerged as a key industry. The island nation is consciously trying to position itself as the "Boston of the East" with a hub of universities and a current international student body of 75,000, from primary to tertiary (Tan, 2016). It comes as no surprise that hawkers are also the subject of education. One strategy, "an incubation stall programme," allowed aspiring hawkers to experience running a stall for six to 12 months under the guidance of mentors (Government of Singapore, 2017, p. 7). Establishment of a resource center with information about licensing, paperwork, and regulations was also proposed.
Specific training schemes recently gained great popularity: one food management hawkers program, for example, received sixty applications for eighteen places. Private providers also play a role, such as the Singapore Hawker Entrepreneur Program, which runs a 15-hour training program covering matters from selecting a location to food safety certification requirements (Singapore Hawker Entrepreneur Program, n.d.). Thus far, these schemes have not proved successful in the long term. Only five of the 46 trainees, who graduated from Dignity Kitchen's Hawker Master Trainer Pilot Programme, are still in the hawking business one year from graduation (Lee, 2016).
Elevating the status of hawkers is a concern of the report and also of hawkers themselves. The Straits Times quoted Philip Tan, a 59-year-old hawker of fish ball noodles, who suggested a name change: "Instead of using the word hawker, we should use another term, in the same way bus drivers are now called Their stories are here. And they stem from one thing: passion. (Koh, 2016).
The young hawkers have common themes -they were all successful in something else before they chose to become hawkers. What is critical in this narrative is that they had high status positions already (engineers, marketing specialists) and chose to leave those to become hawkers. Joel Chia was a "sharp-suited foreign exchange trader working 'short and sweet' hours at a local bank," who gave that lifestyle up for the long hours and physicality of working in a curry rice stall. Sebastian Kwek's story gives additional culinary gravitas to hawking -he worked in respected European restaurants before taking over his grandmother's pulled noodle stall. Kwek chose a hawker stall over a prestigious restaurant, but the entrepreneur turned hawker also emphasizes the business advantages of this: "if these ideas fail, I will lose just a bit of money […] So, if it works, good. If it doesn't, at least I gave it a try" (Koh, 2016). This 3.0 generation also presents well -a hawkerpreneur is noticeably fashionable. The hawkers represent the three main ethnic groups of Singapore -Chinese, Malay, and Indian -and these are beautiful people, coiffured, suited, and glamorous.
They look like they would be more at home in a fashion shoot than a busy hawker stall. Echoing the images in Not for Sale, the photographs in Peak evoke the past, but a very different, glamorous one, with vintage-tinged design elements hinting at 1930s Shanghai cocktail lounges and classic Bollywood. And, unlike the vanishing hawker, these photographs are sharp and in full color, with the textures of the tweeds clearly visible, and clothing labels carefully noted for fashion-conscious readers.
A hawkerpreneur can be rugged as well as fashionable.
Habib Mohamed, who runs an Indian Rojak (mixed chopped salad) stall, is photographed next to a case of redolent vegetables and fritters, like a Bollywood star in his silver suit. He tells how hard he worked, including covering for a staff member suddenly called away for a number of weeks. In the language of Peak: "But tough times don't last -only tough men do." Hawking is hard work and not for the faint-hearted. Brothers Mohamed Dufail and Almalic Faisal make their popular prata by hand, kneading flour and fat in large batches to make a special bread, crisp on the outside, soft in the center. This is craft, described as "the magic that happens when the dough is tossed by deft hands," inducing customers to queue for 30 minutes or more. That it takes time frustrates some customers, but as Mohamed says, "This isn't McDonald's" (Koh, 2016).
These hawkerpreneurs represent the opposite of industrial-scale food production. Three siblings from the Sai family work at the intersection of traditional methods and modern coffee aesthetics. They make coffee using the traditional sock method but also offer lattes, using traditional kopi techniques and ingredients, such as evaporated milk. Faye Sai notes that some customers expect a latte to come from an espresso machine: "Sometimes, people peek inside our shop when they order a latte and try to look for a machine. And then I'll get very angry. You don't need (machine-pulled) shots to do a latte" (Koh, 2016). This next generation is both innovative and adaptive, able to negotiate tradition and techniques to emphasize old and new craft.

Hawkerpreneurs are both artisans and innovators.
Gwern Khoo and Ben Tham started their first hawker stall with "a premium rendition" of a local staple, wonton noodles.
Making this a high-end dish was initially seen as a novelty, but winning a Bib Gourmand award in 2016 helped "A Noodle Story" to develop a cult following and international status.
With restaurant experience under international chefs, such as Tetsuya, the pair consciously brought fine-dining restaurant techniques to street food, making only 200 bowls a day of "thin springy noodles, tender slices of 36-hour sous vide char siew, wonton made from fresh Indonesian minced pork, and half an egg with a molten yolk" (Koh, 2016). Sous-viding the char siew (Chinese style barbeque pork) immediately locates the dish in a restaurant space. Their customers are cosmopolitans too -not the average Singaporean, who is locally referred to as a heartlander (Goh, 1999). Khoo notes: "[…] our customers are mostly office executives. They are well-travelled, eat more widely, are more receptive to new creations and are willing to pay for quality" (Koh, 2016).
Structural changes in status have been critical to the reimagining of hawking. Singapore was the first Southeast Asian nation to be rated by the Michelin Guide, and in 2016 (the first year of rating) several hawker stalls were awarded Michelin stars (Henderson, 2017) Chan's narrative explains how this transition works: "For us chefs we long for the day we are recognized internationally. It is a form of honor. As if we are in university and now graduating." By casting the award in terms of education and honor, Chan is translating the award into culturally recognizable forms. In a society that emphasizes education and meritocracy (Barr & Skrbiš, 2008, p. 60), this narrative framing especially suits a Singaporean audience. Chan suggests that chefs and hawkers cook as if every plate of food were being tasted by a Michelin inspector (Michelin Guide Singapore, 2016). For hawkers, cooking as if being judged by the world makes the act of food preparation competitive, demanding, and worthy, further working to elevate the status of hawking.

CONCLUSION
Street food is understood in multiple ways, including as a cuisine and byword for local food. In contemporary Singapore, it is also a shorthand for nation. Together, hawking and hawker food do significant cultural and social work in Singapore, in particular around belonging and identity. Spatial reflections of identity, from street food to coffee shops (Lai, 2016, p. 103), have occupied scholars, as has the rise of culinary nostalgia. Hawker centers are the quintessential eating spaces of Singapore, and as Kong (2007, p. 19) suggests in her book on hawker centers, these are places that "have mirrored the changing life and landscape in Singapore over time." Singapore has undergone remarkable transformation with potentially disorienting speed. The island's geographic territory has expanded through land-reclamation and its built environment is subject to perpetual redevelopment with inevitable social and technological changes. Commentator George (2000, p. 193) suggested that the rate and scale of change affects the Singaporean psyche because "even if they stay put, the country moves around them, and Singaporeans find themselves eventually in a new place, clinging only to ghosts". Hawkers are being made into ghosts through redevelopment, codification of the past, and reinvention. But they have been entrepreneurial and reinvented before. Whether the coiffured generation will become the next hawkerpreneurs, time will tell.

ABSTRACT
This essay explores the nationalization of beer in twentieth-century China. Using the theoretical framework of "culinary infrastructure," it shows how the physical facilities and technologies of brewing and marketing interacted with local drinking cultures to shape the understandings of beer in China. It begins by describing how a western consumer good originally marketed to colonial representatives was gradually adopted by the urban Chinese as a symbol of modernity in the first half of the twentieth century. It then reviews the nationalization of foreign-owned breweries and the growth of domestic production in the first decades of Communist rule. The essay concludes that the Chinese acquired a taste for beer as an everyday marker of urban privilege that survived Maoist radicalism and remains to this day a defining feature of Communist China.

INTRODUCTION
China's recent global economic ascendancy has prompted widespread attention to the country's particular version of state capitalism, which the architect of economic reform, Deng Xiaoping, labeled "socialism with Chinese characteristics." As is the case in countless other industries, China is also the world's largest producer of beer, and attempts by international firms to enter the Chinese market since the 1990s have met with limited success. To explain the ability of Chinese brewers to compete with more technically advanced foreign rivals, the economist Junfei Bai and his coauthors emphasized the distinctive nature of the local market, paraphrasing Deng's slogan with "beer" in place of "socialism." They cited Chinese preferences for undifferentiated quality, low price, and unique tastes, such as that for clam-juice beer, as evidence that foreign firms selling premium brands "just do not 'get' the China beer market" (Bai, Huang, Rozelle, & Boswell, 2011, p. 184).
Although local knowledge is unquestionably vital for successful marketing, evaluating the development of the Chinese beer industry from a historical perspective also requires careful attention to chronology. Noting that beer remained a luxury until economic reform began in 1978, Bai and his colleagues pointed to the 1990s as the turning point in Chinese brewing.
This interpretation fits within a broader social science literature emphasizing the transformative nature of consumerism following the privations of the Great Leap Famine (1959-1961) and the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976 (Jun, 2000;Davis, 2000;Latham, Thompson, & Klein, 2006;Gerth, 2010;Li, 2010). But historians have noted important antecedents to contemporary industrial modernity and consumer culture in early-twentiethcentury China (Cochran, 1999;Lu, 1999;Gerth, 2003;Dikötter, 2006). Both social scientists and historians have largely shared the assumption that the growth of Chinese consumerism was temporarily suppressed under the rule of Mao Zedong, who insisted that people be provided with the "necessary" but not the "superfluous" (Hoffmann, 1971). Nevertheless, beer had become enough of a necessity in China that the number of breweries increased more than tenfold between 1949 and 1976. Whereas only about seven firms served a largely foreign clientele on the eve of the Communist revolution, the hundred or more breweries operating at the time of Mao's death set the stage for reform-era growth (Zhu, Qi, & Wu, 1980). One historical study that spans the twentieth century-Zhiguo Yang's exemplary account of the brewery in Qingdao-emphasizes the progressive nationalization of beer in China. Founded in 1903 by German colonists, the brewery adopted the colonial spelling Tsingtau, later Tsingtao, and served a predominantly European clientele. When Japanese forces seized the German concession in Shandong Province during World War I, the new owners sought to market the beer to local consumers; however, sales remained low because the Chinese had not yet acquired much of a taste for beer. After World War II, the Nationalist managers hoped to expand Tsingtao's sales in major cities, such as Shanghai and Nanjing, but made little progress due to the instability caused by the civil war. When the Communists took over, they saw the brewery as a valuable source of foreign revenue, and the beer was not marketed nationally until the 1990s (Yang, 2007). Because of its distinctive origins and export markets, the brewery at Qingdao can offer only limited insights on the wider Chinese beer industry.
Building on Yang's work, this essay explores the nationalization of beer throughout twentieth-century China with a special focus on the Maoist period. It adopts the theoretical framework of "culinary infrastructure" to show how the physical facilities and technologies of brewing and marketing interacted with local drinking cultures to shape the understandings of beer in China Wilson, 2005). The narrative begins by examining how a western consumer good originally marketed to colonial representatives was gradually adopted by urban Chinese as a symbol of modernity in the first half of the twentieth century.
It then outlines the nationalization of foreign-owned breweries and the growth of domestic production in the first decades of Communist rule. The essay concludes that the Chinese acquired a taste for beer as an everyday marker of urban privilege that survived Maoist radicalism and remains to this day a defining feature of Communist China (Eyferth, 2009;Brown, 2012).

MAKING BEER CHINESE
Upon first tasting beer in 1905, a Chinese consumer spat out: "Ugh, what kind of black brew is this? It looks like medicine! And that foam on top! You can't drink it-not on your life!" (Höllmann, 2014, p. 149). Although this particular encounter with dark Russian ale may have been more extreme than the usual reaction to light German lagers, western beer did not gain immediate acceptance among Chinese drinking cultures. The problem was not with alcohol per se, because the Chinese have been making and drinking intoxicating beverages for thousands of years. Nor was it necessarily the bitter taste of beer; few would consider the shots of baijiu (distilled spirits) traditionally consumed during banquets as mild (Smart, 2005;Shen & Wang, 1998). Instead, the association of beer with imperialist powers meant that the appeal of the beverage, which might otherwise have been appreciated by many, was originally limited to progressive, urban Chinese.
These modernists, often writers for western-style newspapers that proliferated around the turn of the century, played a crucial role in the domestication of beer. Together with the brewers themselves, they tried to strike a fine balance between the foreign and the national, emphasizing the allure of modernity while preserving connections with Chinese antiquity (Gerth, 2003).
Westerners introduced beer to China in the nineteenth century, and it remained for some time a source of imperial distinction. Merchants imported beer to the colony of Hong Kong, the "treaty ports" of Shanghai and Tianjin, and even interior provinces, such as Hunan (Parsons, 1900). Japanese had recently defeated the Russian army (Alexander, 2013). A German journalist optimistically declared: "In China, as in Korea, the local population is turning ever more toward a taste for beer" (Globus, 1906, p. 339). Nevertheless, Japanese imports had undercut German brands among Chinese consumers as well as Japanese merchants (Berichte Consularämter, 1908, p. 37).
Dai Nippon's construction of a factory in Shenyang around 1910 and its acquisition of the Tsingtao Brewery in 1916 extended its control over the nascent Chinese market (Smith, 2012).
The This success inspired Chinese entrepreneurs to open breweries at Yantai, Tianjin, and Hangzhou in the 1920s (Woodhead, 1926, pp. 170-171), but it was another decade before China had its first native brewmaster, Zhu Mei (see Figure 1). Although little is known of his background, he studied at the Pasteur Institute in Paris in 1931 and graduate from the Belgian National Brewing Institute in 1935. After a year of practical training at the Brasserie Chasse Royale in Brussels, he returned to China and began work at the Yantai Brewery (Yang, 2007;Xu, 1939a).
Founded in 1921 near Qingdao, the company had originally employed an Austrian brewer, and built strong markets in Shanghai, although financial problems caused it to be taken over by the Bank of China in 1934 (Godley 1986). The Chinese expert saved the company money on spurious foreign expenses charged by the previous brewer, who had pocketed $5,000 annually for chemicals to produce carbonated gas that was actually a natural product of fermentation. Zhu also solved the problem of coldweather turbidity, eliminating winter-time returns from retailers (Zhu, 1991;Zhu, 1939a). Qichao, reputedly loved drinking beer and would order it whenever he went to a restaurant in Shanghai (Xu, 1917). As the historian Mark Swislocki (2009) has observed, such restaurants were an important site for cross-cultural exchange, not only between Chinese and westerners, but also among migrants from different regions of China. By the 1930s, beer had reportedly spread from western restaurants in Shanghai to traditional Chinese dining places in Beijing as well (Xiao, 1937 (1999) has described how manual laborers, students, and clerks gathered at pulou guan (proletarian restaurants) to eat porridge and noodles and to drink beer and Chinese alcohol purchased from nearby wine shops.
When advertisers promoted beer, they emphasized a modern lifestyle and European quality, even while drawing on Chinese cultural references. The historian Norman Smith, in his book Intoxicating Manchuria, has described the way early Japanese beer advertisements displayed their international pedigree by using text in three languages: English, Japanese, and Chinese. The images portrayed men and women in western clothing and modern situations (Smith, 2012). Later on, perhaps responding to nationalist pressure, foreign brewers made more attempts to localize their products. In the early 1940s, the Japanese management at Qingdao created an advertisement recalling the classic Romance of the Three Kingdoms, in which three ancient Chinese folk heroes took an oath of brotherhood while drinking (Yang, 2007).  (Smith, 2012). Only in 1946, after the defeat of the Japanese, did Nationalist Chinese managers at Qingdao adopt the city's iconic harbor lighthouse as the brewery's logo, and even then, they used a simple cartoon at first (see Figure 2). A few years later an artist refined the image with the classic modernist lines that still appear on bottles of Tsingtao to this day (see Figure 3). Other logos used in the 1930s included Yantai's "Immortal Island," "Two-Headed Birds," and "Three Glories"; Shuanghesheng's "Five Star"; and the Guangzhou Brewery's "Five Goats," a beloved local symbol ("Domestically Produced Beer," 1935;Reports of Guangdong, 1937). held up a mug to the camera and challenged the reader: "Twenty bottles of beer, let's empty them!" (Yin, 1944). When women did appear along with beer, they were often associated with production rather than consumption, for example, in an image of female factory workers ("Pijiu gongchang," 1941).  wielding bottle of 'national product beer' and two drinking glasses chase after three bottles of 'foreign beer'" (Gerth, 2003, p. 320).
When the Nationalists took over the Tsingtao Brewery in 1946, their advertisements emphasized the Chinese character of the beer, by highlighting, for example, the quality of Laoshan spring water (Yang, 2007).  (Zhu, 1939b).
On the eve of the Communist Revolution in 1949, western beer had made only limited inroads among Chinese consumers.
Of the dozen or so breweries founded in China during the first half of the twentieth century, only seven were still in operation, mostly in the northeastern part of the country, with the breweries in Shanghai and Guangzhou being exceptions. Even these factories were in poor shape after two decades of foreign invasion and civil war. Total output from the national industry amounted to a mere 7 million liters, and consumption was limited to the urban middle classes, especially intellectuals, and some well-off workers (Zhu & Qi, 1981). Nevertheless, Chinese brewers and modernists had succeeded in localizing the product to such an extent that the Communists sought to revitalize production of beer rather than ban it as a symbol of western imperialism and bourgeois decadence.

Beer and revolution in China
In January 1958, Chairman Mao called for a Great Leap Forward, a massive program of industrial modernization and agricultural collectivization, which was intended to launch China to the top ranks of industrial nations but instead resulted in a famine that killed some 30 million people (Thaxton, 2008;Dikötter, 2010).
Although generally associated with heavy industry, particularly the disastrous attempt to build backyard steel mills, the Great Leap also sought to increase production of consumer goods, including beer. Unlike steel, which could only be effectively produced in In the first years of the revolution, beer was a low priority for the CCP, which did little more than nationalize existing factories. Government ownership of the brewery in Qingdao ensured a smooth transition to Communist management, but the case of Jardine Matheson's Ewo Brewery in Shanghai was more complicated. The Communist regime sought to assert its economic interests, without incurring the cost of outright appropriation, by revoking concessions that had been made to foreign enterprises.
In 1952, Jardine Matheson declared the brewery bankrupt and sold it to the government, which renamed the firm Huaguang (Light of China) (Yang, 2007;Shai, 1989). to hold classes, so I ended up working together with them and taught them through actual practice" (Zhu, 1991, p. 49; see also Yang, 2007;Zhu, Qi, & Wu, 1980).
Marketing beer posed another challenge as the new regime sought to develop socialist alternatives to capitalist commerce.
The Tsingtao Brewery, which began exporting beer in 1954 to overseas Chinese customers in Hong Kong and Southeast Asia to earn much needed foreign currency, fell under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Foreign Trade (Yang, 2007). Within the domestic market, officials recognized that few Chinese people had acquired a taste for beer and most lacked the income to purchase it on a regular basis. Factory output of beer, like other commodities, was distributed under the bureaucratic system of tonggou tongxiao (unified purchase and guaranteed sale) intended to maximize production with little regard for market demand (Solinger, 1984 He concluded: "Most Chinese cities need beer, and they need it urgently" (Kraus, 2015).  1951 1953 1955 1957 1959 1961 1963 1965 1967 Tsingtao Brewery National Production Sources: Zhu & Qi (1981, pp. 41-54); Guo (2006, p. 188 (Zhu, 1990).
Despite the surge in output, the Great Leap did not achieve the stated goal of the Yuquan Conference, and brewing remained concentrated in coastal industrial cities, particularly in the Northeast. Such a geographical distribution fit more with the unstated purpose of the Great Leap, exploiting agriculture to finance industrialization. In 1959 and1960, China exported 6 million tons of grain, even as national production fell by more than 50 million tons (Ash, 2006). Nevertheless, the Tsingtao Brewery remained China's only significant beer exporter at the time, and it accounted for no more than 10% of national production. Admittedly, urban workers also suffered during the Great Famine, although not on the scale of rural starvation (Brown, 2012). Even discounting exaggerated production figures, the Great Leap clearly made beer more available to privileged sectors of society-including party cadres, the military, and workers in strategic industries-at the expense of China's peasantry.
Although beer production declined for the next five years, industrial consolidation set the stage for slow but steady growth throughout the Cultural Revolution (see Graph 2 sought to balance export growth with the demands of domestic breweries in Shanghai and other major cities (Yang, 2007).
Meanwhile, the government consolidated hop production in two remote western provinces of Gansu and Xinjiang, where dry climate made for irrigated and favorable growing conditions, and which freed up periurban agricultural land for more valuable truck farming, since the hops could easily be dried and shipped to breweries (Luo, n.d.).
By the 1970s, beer had become a typical consumer good in socialist China, with all the shortages, inequalities, and imperfections that this entailed. Access to consumer goods was generally determined by workplace, with staple foods distributed at the end of the week or before holidays. The Ministry of Light Industry also maintained a network of stores, where shoppers could make purchases with ration books and coupons, if they could find anything on the shelves (Davis, 2000). Under Chinese socialism, the quality of goods was ranked by "fame" (mingsheng 名声) instead of price. Tsingtao Beer was declared a "famous alcoholic beverage" at the Second National Alcohol Exhibition in 1963, and therefore, qualified for national distribution, although it was mostly reserved for export.
After the launch of economic reforms, production rose from 600 million liters in 1980 to 6 billion in 1990, but industrial structures inherited from the Maoist period persisted into the 1990s and beyond (Guo, 2006). "Literally hundreds of small breweries emerged from the rice paddies," wrote the economist Bai Junfei and his colleagues, with only a measure of hyperbole (Bai, Huang, Rozelle, & Boswell, 2011, p. 268). The decollectivization of agriculture and the growth of farm productivity made it possible to divert grain to brewing, but factories were still mostly inefficient, state-owned enterprises. "A county's beer factory frequently was its status symbol" (Bai, Huang, Rozelle, & Boswell, 2011, p. 268).
Brewing remained concentrated in industrial centers, particularly along the coast, as it does to this day (see Figure 4). Zhejiang alone accounted for more than 100 of the 741 breweries at the peak of the industry's numerical growth in the mid-1990s. Most of these enterprises were unprofitably small in scale, but local Even as Maoist-era shortages were overcome, beer remained the privilege of urban Chinese society. A map of per capita beer consumption correlates strongly with income: Beijing was at the top, followed by industrial centers along the coast, and the impoverished south and west were at the bottom (see Figure 5). But the map also reveals the historical legacy of beer drinking in the Northeast, particularly in the largely rural province of Heilongjiang.
Although quite comfortable financially, in comparison to other agrarian provinces, Northeasterners drink more beer than their counterparts in the far wealthier industrial province of Guangdong, where the tropical heat might seem to call out for cold beer. Per capita averages can conceal wide inequalities within provinces, but a survey of urban consumers at the turn of the millennium found that even among the working poor half of all households consumed beer. Income clearly still mattered, since the highest rates of consumption (72%) was by the richest 5% of the population (Cui & Liu, 2001). Drinking cultures reflected these disparities; while modest urban dwellers might share a beer at domestic family celebrations, the newly rich drank beer regularly in restaurants and nightclubs, such as the brightly lit Taipei-style pijiuwu (beer halls) that became fashionable in Shanghai and Beijing in the 1990s (Farrer & Field, 2015;Gold, 1993). A final legacy of Maoist era brewing was the persistence of low quality, even in the face of global competition. As late as the 1990s, more than half of all breweries reportedly failed quality tests. Shopkeepers and customers alike faced a game of Russian roulette, as by some estimates, roughly one inferior glass bottle in every case exploded before it could be consumed. Wary drinkers learned to fill plastic bags with beer from the kegs displayed prominently in corner stores across urban China (Slocum, 2006;"Beer Too Strong," 1999). But low quality had been a tradeoff that China's original brewmaster, Zhu Mei, was willing to make in order to put beer in the hands of the proletariat. Although capable of brewing full-bodied Munich dark beers, he focused on the cheapest of adjunct lagers, and rather than spend valuable foreign currency on imported pure yeast, he bred his own yeast, overlooking any imperfections that resulted (Zhu 1939b). His plan to build small-scale breweries foundered on the grain shortages of the Great Leap Forward, but he was nevertheless promoted to the rank of senior engineer in the Ministry of Light Industry, where he continued to develop the national industry. By the late 1970s, beer accounted nearly a fourth of all the alcohol produced in China, a figure that has now grown to nearly 90% (Guo, 2006).
Despite Chairman Mao's preference for the potent liquor Maotai, Zhu had the final word with his plan to convert the Chinese from baijiu to beer.

CONCLUSION
The available evidence suggests that brewing was a rather ordinary industry in Mao's China, which is to say autarkic, backward, inefficient, politically fraught, and intensely nationalistic. With its modern, industrial production, beer appealed to the CCP as a mildly alcoholic and more grain-efficient alternative to the hard liquor produced in rustic distilleries throughout the Chinese countryside. But to achieve that promise required significant work, for the handful of factories that existed in China in 1949 had been neglected during two decades of warfare. Zhu Mei and his colleagues rebuilt the national industry with minimal outside assistance, improvising solutions to the myriad technical complications that arose. The failures of agricultural collectivization severely limited the volume of grain that could be brewed into beer, and the best quality product was, in any event, exported to earn foreign currency. Nevertheless, the communally owned enterprises founded during the Maoist period provided a base for the explosive growth of brewing that followed economic reforms in 1978.
The experience of Maoist China also has relevance for the marketing of beer around the world, demonstrating that it was not mass advertising alone that made lager a ubiquitous global commodity. Although promotional campaigns and modernist intellectuals in pre-revolutionary China collaborated to develop a genealogy of beer that made it seem simultaneously patriotically local and alluringly foreign, the taste for beer remained limited to a handful of cities before 1949. The CCP seems to have encouraged a much wider demand for beer through non-market forms of conspicuous consumption. Simply put, beer became a form of urban privilege in a society defined by scarcity. Zhu himself provided oblique evidence for this point when he recalled: "During the great famine, no employees of the beer factory experienced dropsy" (Zhu & Qi, 1981, p. 54).
While intended as a testimony to the health qualities of beer, it provided a more telling statement on the profound inequality of food distribution within Maoist China. The great thirst for beer in the decades that followed was in some ways a response to that era of deprivation.

INTRODUCTION
Culinary tourism features food as the primary attraction or motivation for travel (Boniface, 2003;Hall & Sharples, 2003;Hjalager & Richards, 2002;Long, 1998Long, , 2004Quan & Wang, 2004). It is a highly popular and profitable industry in both international and domestic tourism segments and has a significant impact on food-related businesses. The identification, selection, evaluation, and interpretation of the cuisines and dishes included in such tourism are issues of power, that is, cultural politics. Who gets to make those selections? Whose recipe is used to represent a culture? Whose definition of the cuisine is presented? Who is considered the authority, by whom, and how did they come to be in that position?
Cultural politics become even more complicated when culinary tourism features ethnic foods, that is, cuisines, dishes, ingredients, belonging to a heritage considered outside the foodways of the mainstream culture. Ethnic foods are defined partly by how they differ from the foods of the dominant culture, and their place within that culture reflects a history of being "other.

CULINARY TOURISM
The tourism industry has begun to recognized food as a primary attraction and motivation for travel only since the late 1990s and early 2000s (Hall & Sharples, 2003;Long, 2004;. The United Nations World Tourism Organization (UNWTO), using gastronomic tourism in place of "culinary tourism", defines it as "tourists and visitors who plan their trips partially or to-tally in order to taste the cuisine of the place or to carry out activities related to gastronomy" (WTTC, 2017, p. 7).
As a biological necessity, food has always been an aspect of travel, but it was perceived in most western cultures as more of an amenity and hospitality service than something that would actually drive tourism. This is partly due to Travel to such locations for food, however, was not considered tourism, and might actually be more accurately thought of as pilgrimage, in which the traveler holds an appreciation and respect for the food and are seeking it in its authentic form (Long, 2012). Culinary tourism initially appears to be a highly beneficial industry that can bring money to communities while also affirming their food culture. However, aside from the usual problems with tourism, in general, in its potential harmful impacts on local environments, economies, and societies, cu-linary tourism raises questions about the understanding of food itself (Cohen & Avieli, 2004;Heldke, 2003;Long, 2013). Food becomes valued for its potential to attract tourists, entertain them, and satisfy their aesthetic sensibilities. It is then treated as a source of revenue, as a commodity, rather than as a carrier of memory and identity.
Emotional connections to a dish or ingredient may be threatened or manipulated as the dish is put on display for tourists.
Definitions of the industry tend to emphasize the "exotic" quality of the food neces- These issues of cultural politics can be clarified by applying the original scholarly definition of culinary tourism. (Long, 1998; This humanities-based definition emphasizes that the perceived exoticness of the food is one of the primary motivating factors for tasting it. It draws from tourism scholarship pointing to curiosity as an essential quality in tourism, so a cuisine, dish, ingredient, or other aspect of foodways needs to be different enough to warrant leaving home (Urry, 1990;Hall & Sharples, 2003). Culinary tourism in this sense can be negotiation of exotic and familiar.

ETHNIC FOODS
This leads us to the question of what is meant by "ethnic" within the framework of culinary tourism (Long, 2014). The term is frequently used to refer to a culture other than one's own. For example, Ray (2004) states in his study of Bengali-American foodways, that "ethnic food is other peoples' food." (p. 78) Implicit in that definition is the idea that "ethnic food" is more than just foreign or international food. It reflects a social status of being Other, and of existing within another larger, more dominant culture. It is the foodways of a cultural heritage perceived as not belonging to the mainstream culture. This means that another culture is understood as the normative one, and the ethnic one is evaluated and defined in relation to that culture. A differential identity emerges around the ethnicity in that the characteristics recognized as defining it are those that differ from the dominant one (Lockwood & Lockwood, 1991).
Similarly, foods that seem "different" Just as with restaurants, the existence of a tour organized by members of an ethnic group does not necessarily mean that they speak for all other members and that they will ensure that the community benefits. Cultural politics comes into play again.

FESTIVALS AND "TASTINGS"
This category of culinary tourism takes a variety of forms, ranging from festivals to expos or "taste of the town" events promoting local food businesses to tastingsofferings of samples of food, usually accompanied by discussions of the culture of that food or how to evaluate its aesthetic qualities. Since these events are public and oftentimes commercial ventures, they raise issues similar to other those for other forms over the selection and presentation of dishes as well as the representative image of the ethnic group. These events are frequently fundraisers, so foods are selected partly for their potential to first attract, and then, please visitors. Foods become a commodity, and their experience, a business transaction, although it may also serve other functions.
Food expos and "tastes of the town" events are the most blatantly commercial of these events. Oftentimes organized by local governing or civic organizations, they promote local food businesses, providing a venue for them to show off their specialties. They purport to stimulate local economic development and oftentimes contribute to creating a "brand" for a geographically specified area (neighborhood, town, city, county, or state). That brand or image created is used for mar-keting the area to bring in culinary tourists, as well as new businesses and residents. These events usually promote what the organizers consider to be "the best" of what is available-an idea that automatically brings up cultural politics. Ethnic food businesses might be included in these events, if they exhibit the "best" characteristics, as defined by the organizers. They frequently need to have Americanized their menus, recipes, and settings to an extent that they are not considered too foreign or exotic for mainstream tourists. They also frequently need to address more elitist notions of "good food," catering to individuals interested in fine dining and the culinary arts. Entrance prices for tourists are usually high enough to be prohibitive to many, and these events usually charge a fee from the participating businesses as well, again an obstacle to a full representation of the ethnic foods available in an area. Cooking demonstrations are similar to cooking classes in the issues they raise.
They differ in the participation of the audience, making these events more "touristic" than classes. Tourists are passive viewers, and the lack of hand-on experience with the foods being demonstrated means that their full engagement with that food will depend a great deal on the prior experience and interest they bring to the event.
Depending on the type of culinary tourist in the audience, the authenticity of the dish is oftentimes emphasized.
A different type of food demonstration is intentionally educational and attempts to convey a deeper understanding of the dish itself as well as the cuisine and culture surrounding it. The food is a vehicle for engaging the audience and uses a cultural form considered universal-cooking-so that audiences can then relate the demonstration to their own interests and experiences. While restaurants and food businesses may also offer such demonstrations, they are especially popular in museums, particularly "living history village" and "folk park" types of venues, as well as cultural and educational institutions. The model is frequently presented as a tourist attraction but expects audiences who are motivated by curiosity about that particular or are just curious about the event or venue. The organizers, then, must address a wide range of interests and previous knowledge in the audience.
The Smithsonian Institution, for example, has developed models for such demonstrations at their long-running Folklife Festival (Long, 2015;Long & Belanus, 2011). These demonstrations are given by a "community scholar," an individual considered knowledgeable and representative of their ethnic community. Such individuals can range from home-cooks to restaurant owners to famous chefs who have gained attention from mainstream or "foodie" audiences. The question of who best represents a community is discussed among the organizers and community members, allowing for as many voices to be heard as possible. The same process is used to select the dishes being presented.
The demonstration itself occurs in a public space with a "presenter" who introduces the cook and the food being presented, helps to mediate questions from the audi-ence to the cook, and may fill in with additional information, as needed. The purpose is to give audiences a sense of the historical, contemporary, and personal meanings of that dish. Culinary tourists, individuals motivated by an interest in food or curious about a particular food culture, are frequent audiences to these more educational events, but the events also try to reach audiences who do not hold those motivations. Issues of cultural politics frequently arise in the manner in which these demonstrations are presented, in the selection of individuals representing the community, and in the interactions with diverse audiences. The organizers are frequently scholars from folkloristics, anthropology, or other ethnographic disciplines and tend to be well aware of the presence of these issues and the need to negotiate them. One approach is to explain the issues to the tourists themselves, so that they also have a voice in that negotiation.

CONCLUSIONS
This overview of cultural politics in relation to ethnic food within culinary tourism suggests the complexity of those issues. Culinary tourism industries, ethnic food entrepreneurs, and other providers of food-related hospitality services need to juggle the demands of business with sensitivity to the nature of food and power.
Culinary tourism projects trade in food as more than a commodity. They draw upon the meanings and emotional associations that food has for individuals and cultures.
They emphasize food as carrying identity and history. As such, defining and representing food highlights the variety of interpretations that can be given to those meanings. Selecting interpretations then reflect issues of power, that is, who has the authority to make those decisions and why.
Ethnicity further complicates the issues.
A number of culinary tourism initiatives, organizations, and businesses are aware of cultural politics (Hall & Gossling, 2012;Long, 2013;Parasecoli & Abreu e Lima, 2012). Sustainable tourism offers perspectives and strategies for tourism providers to address some of the issues.
The UNWTO proclaimed 2017 the international year of sustainable tourism for development and included in their 2017 report the following statement: The intangible cultural heritage of gastronomy differs from that of traditional sites and monuments in that it evolves and develops alongside its respective culture. Thus, we must take into account the emergence of new cultures and traditions and recognize gastronomic tradition as a process of continuous evolution. (Perdomo, 2017, p. 14) A first step in addressing cultural politics is recognizing that food itself is complex, intertwined with all aspects of life, and carries multiple meanings (Long, 2015;. A recognition of the complexity of ethnic identities is also needed. Ethnic groups are not homogenous, but made up of individuals with diverse experiences and interpretations of that identity. That diversity carries over to food. Culinary tourism needs to recognize that diversity, enabling the variety of voices to be heard, and have a role in the selection and representation of ethnic foods.

Invited article
Original version DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1590/S0034-759020180314 OF POROTOS AND BEANS Academic studies have tried to bring to light the process of establishing a national narrative on cuisine, focusing mainly on how the clash between the upper class and the popular cuisine is presently affected throughout the construction of a new perception of history (Bornand, 2012).
In general terms, even more homogeneously than it may seem at first glance, there is a prevailing thesis on the formation of Latin-American national cuisines which claims that these are miscegenated entities. It claims, in Brazil's case, that indigenous and African recipes have been assimilated and improved through the adoption of European techniques, creating the national cuisine. Even in the case of excolonies, the highlight is given invariably to the dominance of adoption processes of European techniques, as in a global adaptation of western cuisine itself. Thus, as far as preparation is concerned, native cultures are subjects in a "disappearance" process, only seen by the few marks they leave in the ever-increasing globalization. The importance given to corn in the Americas is a great example, with original techniques of its handling being overshadowed, such as in the case of nixtamalization among the Mexican peoples. This is explainedfundamentally-by the contradictory necessity of the Crioulo elite to trace back its roots to the West, at the same time it links itself to its native culture. A "deaf opposition" between "community" and "society," or Gemeinschaft-Gesellschaft dichotomy as proposed by Tonnies (1961), seems to be the theoretical background that informs the analyses which are accomplices to the nationalistic discourse. Brazilians, for instance, two narratives had been imposed in the 20 th century: the mixture of natives, blacks, and whites (Cascudo, 1997) and the convergence of "regions" around a single national body (Freyre, 1946), with a highlight to the so-called leading and unifying contribution of the Portuguese. Within the studies on "preagricultural agriculture" (Iriarte, 2009), archeology and archaeobotany will help us discover the age of certain American foodstuffs.
Corn, pumpkin, arrowroot, manioc or cassava, yam, sweet corn root, and peanut had already been domesticated in South America. In a similar way, llama and alpacas had already been domesticated in Peru; and, guinea pigs and Muscovy ducks went through the same. In the Peruvian coast and in Ecuador, clay artifacts have been found with traces of corn, pumpkin, peanuts, beans, and pacay (Vigne, 2004, p. 40). There are also recent studies in Brazil highlighting the presence of corn and other foodstuffs in the vast precolonial hinterland, which challenges the monopolistic interpretation based on chronicles from the 16 th to the 18 th century-those who charted a Brazilian eating practice revolving around the manioc.
The classic Handbook of South American Indians (Steward, 1946) Undoubtedly, these species were diffused by contact throughout the precolonial and colonial period, resulting in a common food source among very distinct peoples.
Despite the violence and the so-called process of deculturalization, they had suffered, many species were transformed into culinary ingredients that spread throughout the West (Ribeiro, 1996). Therefore, we were led to distrust any simple explanatory scheme based on the unilateral logic of cultural imposition which other civilizations have followed. The Pre-Columbian cuisine, which shows itself as a great repertoire of adaptation to colonizers, greatly amplified the concept of utility to the West. It presented plenty of reasons for being preserved, instead of destroyed, in a way that the object of study in colonialism should be the global exchanges performed by the Portuguese, and not merely a national cuisine. About this question, see the book A aventura das plantas e os descobrimentos portugueses de Ferrão (2005).
Beyond the national repertoire that came to be regarded as "raw material," it is also paramount to observe the diffusion of techniques in food preparation. At first, many techniques were known to several pre-existing peoples, making it impossible to rank them in the way traditional sociology and historiography do. The most remarkable one is the extensive use of pottery in boiling, ever since men invented the ce- Whoever reads Couty's report (2000) on the charque industry in the south of the continent will notice the variety of processes and adaptations that permeated its structuring, with a highlight on how this product challenged human creativity, resulting in a wide culinary field which not only raised cattle but also looked after preserving the meat so it could endure long dis- Cobo wrote on the highlands of Peru, where "desta cecina que ellos llaman charqui, y de la carne fresca, no sabían hacer más que una suerte de olla o guisado, lhamado locro, con mucho aji, chuño, papas y otras legumbres" (apud Krebs, 2015). Other references point to varying and mandatory ingredients, such as corn or pumpkin, with the "locro limeño" eventually incorporating the pumpkin as the central ingredient of the dish. In a few words, this stew saw its spread associated with dried meats, occasionally incorporating whatever legumes were available.
Locro is now present in several countries, varying in versions which are closer to its original Peruvian roots, being understood and celebrated as an Argentinian "national dish," composed of white beans and corn, as well as other ingredients, fresh meats, and enchidos, with distinct features in each province. In general, the locro Crioulo included soaked and dried corn, soaked and dried white beans, pork ribs in small cuts, cattle meat (hips) in small cubes, pig's trotters in pieces, smoked bacon, onion, common lunch meats with red pepper, yellow pumpkin, and chives. The only exception seems to be in Paraguay, where the class of locros, based on corn, differs from the class of dishes based on beans -the jopara. We can then assume, as a general hypothesis, that the following culinary ingredients "traveled together," to which populations in the new destinations added their own frequent ingredients (see Apart from its precolonial consumption, the presence of corn in the Figure 1 is of great importance since, as we now know it, it spearheaded in Brazil and at the beginning of the 17 th century the formation of ranches and fallows along Bandeiras' routes. It was food to both animals and "negros da terra" ("black of the land," the name given to the enslaved indigenous peoples), it ensured the domestication of pigs and poultry, as well as diversifying and multiplying settlers' recipes and dishes. We can then see in the locro and other similar dishes a traveling "culinary solution" which was able to establish roots in a vast colonial territory in South America, having become a popular dish with several qualities, as a "full meal" or as a unity capable of absorbing into a single legume-based stew a variety of locally produced meat coming from Iberian animals. It is also important to note a similarity to the "olla o guisado," that is, its technical approximation to European cuisine.
Would it be the case of asking ourselves why the charque "traveled" across Brazil without "companions"? And, proba-bility-wise, would it be hard to assume that a similar dish, combining four ingredients or more, might appear far from its historical origin? It is true that in Brazil there is no locro, with the exception of Pantanal, allowing us to speculate on a possible "contamination" via Andes cuisine. However, we do have a similar dish, put together in the countryside of Bahia in the first half of the 20 th century. It is the pintado (Portuguese for "spotted"): "equal parts of beans and crushed corn, salt, black pepper, cumin, garlic and crushed onion, all cooked with bacon in water, to which are added charque, pork and ham hock-thoroughly crushed so no bone marrow is lost" (Dória, 2014, p. 199).
Furthermore, though named differently, it is a relative of the locro family, lacking only pumpkin to be "genuine." It should be noted that the relation between beans and pumpkin in the "Northeastern" or "pernambucana bean stew" is very commonalmost mandatory. In other words, they all belong to the same family of "beans" or "porotos" laid on the table. It is here that the researchers, mainly anthropologists, will have to decide if they are in fact of a "diffusion" or a "parallel invention," things which result in theoretical and methodological paths that are quite diverse. And if the hypothesis of a historical or cultural contact between Bahia's countryside and Peru is discarded-which is not very likely, due to the diffusion of complex elements as in a recipe-the probability of a parallel invention will depend on the assumption that the ingredients which are an integral part of this invention share an equivalent participation (homology) in both culinary clusters. That would already be an interesting question, given that culinary analyses tend to prioritize analogies, not homologies. However, according to Boas' perspective (1966), we would have to find the intermediate types if we wanted to be in accordance with the scientific method.
"It seems to us that the uniformity of ear-ly patterns cannot be proved. By analogy of the phenomena recently mentioned, we may rather infer diversity of early patterns" (Boas, 1996, p. 294).
In Brazil, as is the case in Peru and other countries next to the Andes strip, where domestication was shared even before precolonial times, elements like beans, pumpkin, corn, peanut-all equally domesticated-belonged to several cultures spread across the territory, with limited exchange, before being forced into an undesired and integrating coexistence by colonization.
Thus, we can imagine that the accumulation and association between charque, pumpkin, beans, and corn have been relatively recent if compared to the Andes. Anyhow, charque, beans, corn, and pumpkin have been enshrined as privileged, popular foods in the colonial system, as in a convergence between taste preferences of king and peasant, mainly in the form of a stew. is blatant not only for the botanic features (beans "fertilizing" the soil) but also for cultural ones, as in the association between "cold" ingredients and "warm" ones.
Pumpkin and rice, for instance, are regarded as "cold" food, finding their balance with beans, garlic, and pork fat, which are "warm" ingredients. This classification was European, not native. When it classifies native raw material, a "bridge" is built between colonizer and colonized. Thus, we have the fossilization of all the elements that compose these dishes-locros and pintado-as a food source available to the poor captive populations in the vast colonial system. In colonialism, at least two types of land relations were developed: intensive exploitation of plantations and subsistence agriculture; around the plantations, the poor feed themselves with beans, pumpkin, corn, and dried meat, and sometimes with pork or chicken.
Generally, the use of beans is similar to the use of pasta in Italy: from the ancient lasagna shape (what was known to be the topping of a "pie"), new shapes branched out in different locations, with different cuts and "fillings" ("sauces"), also relative to their locations (Sabban & Serventi, 2002). When the unification of Italy started, this diversity had already been configured and served many times later as a testimony to the cultural vitality of local and regional features. In other words, the Italian pasta is universalized at the same time it is particularized. Among us, many species and hundreds of beans are named after local expressions, seeming to be entirely distinct types, although they only demonstrate the central participation of beans in diets of all corners. Linguistically, it is possible to see how other food components, such as the corn adopted by precolonial guaranis who dwelled across north and south, were seen as diverse in similar functions: canjica, curau, mungunzá, pamonha, quirera/xerém are more than synonyms-they have developed as an expression of isolation where common food solutions came to light throughout the centuries.
Along these lines, would we be willing to recognize the bean-pumpkin association, sometimes with corn, and together with meat, as the staple of our most enduring tradition? Given that the urban popularization of rice only happened after the Portuguese Court came to Brazil in the early 19 th century, would it be even more of a staple than rice and beans? The widespread appeal of beans and pumpkin and the close relations between corn and domestic creations will transform this set of products and popular familiarity into a springboard for related food solutions, in varying combinations and present in large portions of a territory. However, admitting to this also means renouncing the Treaty of Tordesillas, or, more recently, the borders in South American nations, and accepting that the locro, taken as an example here, suggests more of the continuity of this immense territory, rather than its discontinuity. The study of our culinary arts, however, is heavily taxed by "nationalism," blurring the image of the forest where one sees the tree. Exchanges between precolonial peoples are part of an obscure subject in our history and anthropology. Moreover, different food paths based on similar raw materials show that the analysis on the culinary must consider the cultures and history of dish formation, rather than just focusing on the simple study of agriculture as a universalizing force and commodity producer.
Besides the locro, others could be added here to help "measure" the distance which a popular dish may cover throu- In order for a comprehensive perspective to be developed in food anthropology and historiography, it is important to abandon the sociopolitical division of the culinary that opposes regional, national, and international spaces, as if it were the State deciding on the popular food-which it has never done-and not only abandon the symbolism of eating as a "nation" or "region"something which it has frequently done. Everybody who could walk worked long hours every day. While the men cleared and planted, women carried heavy loads of corn for kilometers over difficult trails. Women chopped firewood, hauled water, tended pigs and fowl, and spent hours every day grinding corn for the daily staple of handmade tortillas and tamales. The diet was almost entirely locally based-over fifty kinds of plants grew in their gardens, and the forest provided a steady supply of wild foods, small game, and fish. There were a few small shops in the villages that carried canned goods, kerosene, basic medicines, soft drinks, rum, candy, and snacks, as well as wheat flour, sugar, and salt. While almost everyone had an adequate diet, nobody had much cash, so they could not afford foreign.
A small can of mackerel, a handful of sweets for the kids, a jar of instant coffee-these were occasional treats. People built their own houses entirely from materials gathered in the rain forest. Thinking back to my time there, I realize that I never saw an overweight or obese Q'eqchi' person during the entire year.
When I left southern Belize in 1980, things were already changing. In the more accessible villages, children were getting better education and learning to speak English. Many adults found jobs on nearby farms, and they were starting to earn more cash from selling rice, pigs, and cacaoand, for a short time, marijuana. Metal roofs began to replace thatch, and people bought clothes, radios, and bicycles.
Through the 1980s, I mostly lived and worked in other parts of the country, but I could see that the pace of change was increasing.
The rutted trails I once walked became usable roads traveled by motorbikes and a few trucks; wells, schools and outhouses popped up; and a few villages got potable water systems and electric generators. Young people started to leave, for high school or to seek jobs, and many families moved to new villages founded along the main highway headed north and closer to the capital city, Belmopan.
In 2011, I took a group of nine students to Belize for a food studies field school sponsored by my university. The students spent three weeks living with Maya families in the northern villages on the highway, and then three weeks working in the tourist industry on the nearby coast. The idea was to see if we could find ways to get more local food from Maya farms onto the tourists' plates. One student, a bio-anthropologist, worked in a local health clinic.
What we found in the Maya villages was very similar to what the Times article "How big business got Brazil hooked on junk food" (Jacobs & Richtel, 2017) describes in Brazil. Among the Maya in Belize, many people had unreliable and badly paid jobs in the banana plantations and shrimp farms, while others sold crafts and raised cash crops like citrus and cacao; few people were subsistence farming anymore, and there were huge disparities in housing and living conditions. Some women, especially those in richer families, tended to stay at home, cooking on gas stoves, and did little physical work; they married later and had fewer children, but with improved healthcare, infant mortality rates plummeted. In the 1980s tuberculosis and periodic measles outbreaks killed many children and young people. Cell phones and TVs were everywhere.
Even though there were no fast food outlets and little food advertising, the locals' diet has become obesogenic. Wheat tortillas made from refined imported flour and lard or shortening have displaced corn; Danish or Brazilian canned meat has become common; and sugary soft drinks have replaced corn porridges or homemade cocoa. Cup noodles (high in salt, fat, calories, and preservatives) are a common lunch for busy workers. Overall there is much more meat in the diet-particularly chicken, which is produced at an industrial scale in Belize with subsidized feed. Children pester their parents for small change to buy sweet or salty snacks from the store. With the rise in the salt, sugar, and fat in the diet, overweight and obesity have become common, especially among women, and with them higher rates of diabetes and high blood pressure. Because these people are poor, rural, and poorly served by the health care system, they often cannot get the medications that would prolong their lives and stave off amputations and blindness. This is the notorious "dual burden"-the combination of malnourishment and obesity, stunting and overweight, overeating and vitamin deficiency (Popkin, Adair, & Ng, 2012). The cruelest thing of all is that as people become fatter, they are also more exposed to modern culture's idealized expectations of thinness, as peddled by the beauty and diet industries through television, which is mostly US cable channels. Though there is very little advertising targeted directly toward them, those US channels are rife with ads for fast food and convenience foods, as well as diet foods and diet plans. They watch programs with modelperfect hosts and shows like The Biggest Loser. It is hard to tell what effect these contradictory messages have on their diet, but because so much of their food is now imported, snack foods and empty calories are cheap and always available. Why has their environment become so obesogenic in a relatively short time?

WHO IS TO BLAME?
One of the most fundamental principles of modern capitalism is consumer sovereignty-the right of consumers to buy whatever they can afford-but some people have considerably more choices than others. It does not matter how much people would like to buy organic kale juice if they cannot find it. This is the point of discussions of food deserts, places where healthy foods are not available. The ideology of consumer sovereignty hides the practices that determine our range of choices. Manufacturers tell us that if there is a demand, someone will satisfy it, and that, therefore, they should not be blamed if there are bad health consequences, because they are just giving people what they want.
Faced with food producers who say, "let the buyer beware," it is easy to fall back on the common narrative of the evil corporation, the seduction of the consumer, and the hapless suffering victim, but there are many other parties involved in the story.
Experience has taught us that corporations will sell whatever product is legal (and some that are not) to whomever they can, wherever they can, when they can make a profit or expand their market. They see this as their mission. Expecting corporations to ignore potentially lucrative markets is like asking a river to flow uphill. The only things that can stop giant multinationals from selling junk food to children are willing governments. Only governments can set in place legal constraints that forbid, license, tax, or regulate products in the name of public health. Most countries, for example, have some laws that regulate tobacco advertising and sales, even though many people want to smoke. International agreements and national laws forbid buying and selling many other products that are judged to be dangerous to public health (e.g., melamine) or the natural environment (e.g., DDT). Only public pressure supported by medical science can force governments to regulate a popular and profitable product. In the case of obesity, the need for public support and government action is so urgent that we find normally reserved academics willing to use terms like "epidemic," "crisis," and "emergency." Many governments do not respond to public pressure or medical advice. Particularly in poor countries, wealthy multinational companies wield substantial power and political weight, and they use every legal means to fight local regulations that close or limit their access to consumers. All governments must weigh the financial influence of multinationals against the increasing cost of health services and treating diseases connected with diet and weight. Places where more than 40% of the adult population has diabetes or dangerously high blood pressure truly represent a public health emergency that requires heroic measures. Governments that cannot provide treatment and appropriate medicine for these conditions compound misery and  Galtung (1969) and Farmer (1996) defined as "structural violence," aspects of the political economy that create the conditions of poverty and hunger, and then present the solution as cheap food. I prefer the term used by Indian social economist Naila Kabeer, "structures of constraint" (Kabeer, 1994), which makes it clear that while people may be making choices, they often have no healthy or positive options. This concept pushes us away from easy explanations that tend to blame the victims.
These structures of constraint are largely invisible because initially they do not appear to be about food at all. In many places, inequality in the ownership of property, particularly farmland, is a structure of constraint; if you do not have access to land, you cannot grow food. We have to include the property laws and corruption that often drive people off small farms to create giant cattle pastures, groves of oil palms, banana plantations, shrimp farms, and soybean fields. People who could once choose how to use their land end up as low-paid manual laborers on the plantations and cattle ranches, sometimes on the same land they used to own. On the coast, people who were once independent artisanal fishers are displaced by tourist development, the homes of the rich, and the kind of land development and fishing practices that destroy the resources that people once depended upon. Once-thriving selfsufficient communities disperse into isolated individuals and families who seek work as waiters, maids, janitors, street vendors, or underemployed laborers. To call this a "choice" is a cruel irony.
We also live in a global food economy that is structured by booms and busts, fads and fashions. Van Esterik (2006) found that many of the foods poor people depended upon in rural Laos vanished from their diets after the foods were discovered by foreign gourmets, causing prices to rise. What happens when the boom passes? McDonnell's (2015) work with quinoa farmers in Peru shows that at the peak of the boom, when prices were high, their diet shifted toward eating less nutritious non-indigenous foods. Now that quinoa is no longer a cutting-edge miracle food and is being grown more cheaply in the United States and other countries, its price in Peru has gone down, but the families have had a difficult time switching back to their quinoa-based diet. In many places, ethnicity, class, and status are closely connected to what you eat, and social mobility motivates a change in diet.
When small farmers leave the countryside for the city, they find many new structures that constrain their choices and options for food. Poor urban neighborhoods are often food deserts, located far from both affordable markets and workplaces.
With multiple jobs, parents often depend on highly processed convenience foods, meaning that their children grow up with little appetite for the staples of rural people. And how can we blame them, when impoverished farmers usually have a relatively monotonous diet of porridge, tubers, or bread?
The distribution of retail trade and the proliferation of supermarkets constitute another structure of constraint. The decisions about what goes on supermarket and store shelves are hardly transparent, and they may even be industrial secrets. In the United States, for example, wholesalers and manufacturers of food must pay retail supermarket chains for shelf space; this is called a "placement fee," "slotting fee," or "slotting allowance." The Center for Science in the Public Interest argues that this practice favors large corporations over small and startup companies, reduces innovation, and makes it possible for the purveyors of junk food to place their products in crucial store locations, especially at checkout counters (Rivlin, 2016). You literally cannot shop in most American supermarkets, or any other chain retail store, without going by rack after rack of high-calorie confections and salty snacks.
The structures of constraint also include the rules of international trade, a system that still allows large rich and powerful countries to subsidize cheap food for export, while advocating "free trade." Price supports for corn in the Midwestern United States, for example, keep the price of high fructose corn syrup and corn oil low on the global market, where they displace local products. I will never forget eating grilled turkey tails from a street vendor in Ghana in the 1980s, a cheap export from the United States, where the fatty morsels are considered "waste"; Americans ate the lean cuts and sent the fat abroad. Gewertz and Errington (2010) document the same kind of trade in "meat flaps," fatty sheep bellies from New Zealand and Australia throughout the islands of the Pacific. They also investigated the growth of the instant noodle industry (Errington, Gewertz, & Fujikura, 2013).
Of course, the global food industry takes advantage of these structures of constraint. When people no longer have access to fruit trees or honey, they are happy to buy cheap candy, soft drinks, and snack foods. When they can no longer grow their own corn, they will buy whatever cheap starchy staple is available in the local market, flavor it with salt, and cook it with plenty of fat.
In Belize, local entrepreneurs cannot get their own snack foods, banana chips, or sesame sweets into the supermarkets. They do not have access to the best technology for preservation and packaging, and they lack resources to competitively advertise and distribute their products. Locally bottled coconut water spoils quickly, sesame candies melt, and the chips become rancid.
Locals' snack foods cannot compete with colorful (and eternally unspoiled) tubes of Pringles ® delivered weekly by truck.
The manufacturers of snack foods spend millions of dollars developing ways to dress up and display their products in convenient packages that will attract the eye and the dollar.
They build their own racks and displays and find numerous ways to make it easier to see and buy their products. They are adept at turning out "greenwashed" foods-deceptively marketed and promoted as being environmentally friendly, healthy, or natural. Public health officials have to contend with shelf after shelf of foods that are scientifically designed to contain irresistible combinations of salt, sugar, fat, and enticing artificial flavors (Moss, 2013;Schatzker, 2015). If we accept the sovereignty of the consumer as the basic principle of retail trade, these cheap foods are the ones that people will gravitate toward, and no public health authority can match the advertising budget or political power of a multinational food corporation.

CONCLUSION: WHAT IS TO BE DONE?
Developments in richer countries offer some reason for hope. In the United States, obesity rates have peaked and are starting to decline, and people are eating less beef and more fish. The movement toward whole and organic foods is having a market influence, even in the absence of substantial regulation by the federal government. According to Popkin et al. (2012), over 20 countries have banned sugary beverages from schools, and 12 have banned 100% fruit juice. Nestle's (2017) book on sugary sodas proposes several different strategies for reducing their consumption. Certainly, governments at all levels have many tools they can use to directly improve peoples' diets.
As I argue above, the fundamental causes of obesity and related diseases are structural constraints, but I have omitted several other structural issues such as gender roles and income inequality. If we want to change these constraints, we need to begin with agricultural policy, trade agreements, land tenure, and the system of retail marketing, among other issues. Food is what Mauss (1990) called a "total social fact," which extends into every aspect of human life. Just as food studies requires the participation of many disciplines, food policies cannot just focus on diet and nutrition. We should not center our attention on the Q'eqchi' father who buys his daughter a cold Coke® on a hot day, but instead address the systems that make Coke ® the only option.
The accelerated increase of obesity is due to changes in the dietary pattern of the population, which favors ultra-processed products with high levels of sodium, sugar, and saturated fats instead of eating homemade, fresh, or minimally processed foods (Monteiro & Louzada, 2015). An ultra-processed diet, including sugary beverages and fast foods, contains a high concentration of these critical substances and has high energy density.
There is a robust body of scientific evidence linking the consumption of these products to weight gain. Evidence also points to increasingly early exposure to poor diet in childhood (IBGE, 2015). This situation is not only part of the Brazilian reality, it also happens in other developing countries as the food and beverage industry eyes a promising consumer market in the countries of Latin America, Africa, and Asia. As their sales fall in richer countries, food multinationals are increasing their presence in developing countries and aggressively marketing their products, thus changing traditional local eating habits.
One example is the African country Burkina Faso, where the prevalence of obesity among adults has grown by 1,400%, according to a recent article in The New York Times, "In Kenya, and Across Africa, an Unexpected Epidemic: Obesity." In Ghana, Togo, and Ethiopia, this growth was 500%. According to a survey appearing in the same article, eight of the 20 global nations with the highest rates of obesity increase are in Africa (Gettleman, 2018 (Jacob & Richtel, 2017).
The documentary The Industry of Obesity, produced by the German TV channel ZDF (2018), explores the industry's strategies to induce the low-income population in low-and middle-income countries to consume ultra-processed foods such as cookies, soft drinks, and seasonings. Door-to-door sales are the central strategy of companies such as Nestlé, Unilever, and Danone in the outskirts of major cities, enabling their products to reach those who rarely go to the supermarket or cannot afford to pay cash for food products.

DISCUSSION
Because of this overwhelming issue of obesity and chronic noncommunicable diseases, most of the world's population already lives in countries where more people die from excess weight than from problems related to undernourishment and even urban violence, which is prevalent in developing countries.

An analysis of 27 Latin American countries by the United Nations
Food and Agriculture Organization (UN/FAO) showed that excess weight and obesity account for 300 thousand deaths per year in these nations -compared to 166 thousand people murdered. In 2015, 117 thousand people died because of diseases caused by obesity in Brazil, a figure 2.44 times greater than the number of murders (Berdegué & Aguirre, 2018).
Obesity is a multifactorial problem, and fighting it requires an equally diversified effort. The key ingredient, however, is the role the government plays in establishing effective and innovative policies to combat the obesogenic environment created by the food industry.  (2018). Research by the same institute also showed a reduction in lung cancer mortality among men. Today, the Brazilian antismoking program is considered an international standard.
It is likely that many people who gave up this addiction did so out of personal motivation. However, it was only thanks to broad and deliberate measures that thousands and thousands of smokers stopped smoking. Tobacco-free environment laws (such as for bars and restaurants), raising the price of cigarettes, and warnings printed on packs caused a drastic drop in cigarette consumptionand a huge gain in health and well-being for the whole of society. There is great resistance to dealing with the issue of obesity in the same way as for smoking. It is not a matter of comparing foods, even unhealthy ones, to cigarettes. Yet, both categories of products are associated with deadly diseases that compromise the health and well-being of millions of people, burdening public expenditures, and jeopardizing the future of entire generations.
Like smoking, obesity is a public health issue that must be tackled.
Here are some suggestions.

a) Front of pack nutritional labeling
This is growing in prominence on the international agenda. There is a consensus that consumer decisions need to be simplified by clearly and objectively condensing the nutritional information table and the list of ingredients. These two items are fundamental in guiding healthier choices but are not always seen or understood.
The international recommendation is that relevant information be displayed on the front of the pack so that it can be easily found and assimilated (Branca, Nikogosian, & Lobstein, 2007).
To this end, an innovative approach was tried in Chile, where a new type of warning was implemented. It is a black seal in the upper left corner of packs showing that the product contains high levels of sugar, sodium, total and saturated fat, and calories.
The measure was implemented in 2016 and has been very well accepted by Chileans. In a survey conducted by the government, 92.4% of consumers rated the measure as "good" or "very good," and 37% said that the seal made them change some food choices (Ministerio de Salud -Minsal, 2018). This is the world's first compulsory measure of this nature, a pioneering achievement recognized internationally. It is important to note that the Chilean front of pack labeling mechanism, besides impacting consumers, has also worked as an important stimulus for change in the food industry. About 20% of products that contained one or more black seals in their packages have already been reformulated to become healthier and have the warning seals removed.

b) Restricting children's advertising
A few years ago, IDEC (2012) evaluated the nutritional quality of processed foods directed to children. It analyzed 44 products and the result was impressive, 84% of them had excessive amounts of health-critical nutrients such as sugar, sodium, and fat. Therefore, these products were considered unhealthy foods.
Foods with similar nutritional profiles are now widely marketed to children through advertising. It is estimated that 50% of all advertising aimed at children is for food and, of these, more than 80% is for unhealthy products. According to the American Dietetic Association (ADA), exposing children for only 30 seconds to food commercials can influence their food choices.
There is a great deal of literature on this subject and growing evidence linking unhealthy food consumption to obesity.
The conclusion is that advertising directed at children and children being overweight go hand in hand. Tackling this issue necessarily requires restricting advertising.
This is a consensus that has been built by several sectors of society. In the medical field, the WHO and the Pan American Health Organization (PAHO, 2014) have already stated that efforts must be made to protect children from the impact of unhealthy food marketing and give them the opportunity to grow and develop in a suitable environment.
Recent landmark decisions of the highest levels of the created the first precedent that considers food advertising directly or indirectly aimed at children to be abusive. A year later, another STJ decision followed the same direction. Both legal actions were against multinationals in the food industry advertising ultraprocessed products (IDEC, 2017).

c) School environment protection
In the specific case of children and adolescents, the school environment is considered a priority in the promotion of healthy and appropriate food consumption, because it is characterized as an environment for shaping the development of individuals, where people spend much of their time, live, learn, and work.
It has been proven that health promotion programs at school, such as those aimed at combating obesity, expand knowledge for families and communities, improve populational health, prevent negative health habits, reduce teacher and student absenteeism, improve knowledge about health services, and stimulate educators in their work. Due to their wide scope, schools can do more than other institutions to create healthier habits.
However, research has shown that currently the school environment contributes in a systematic way to the adoption of food practices considered unhealthy, and therefore has an important role in overweight and obesity rates. Most snacks sold and/or prepared at school canteens are low in nutrients and high in sugar, fat, and sodium (Ministério da Saúde, 2007).
The discussion of these issues leads to a debate about legal measures that can transform schools and school catering services into healthy food and meal providers, and encourage the adoption of equally healthy habits inside and outside school.
The regulation of canteens, the restriction of sugary beverages in schools, and the inclusion of nutritional education in the school routine are some of these measures -many of them with a significant history at the municipal and state levels.

d) Taxing sugary beverages
The WHO (2016) already stated that the consumption of sugary beverages is one of the main causes of obesity and diabetes. It is not difficult to understand why. Most sugary beverages have no nutritional value. They contain "empty" calories that cannot be compared to the nutritional calories of other foods. For example, the fiber of an apple makes the person who eats it feel more satisfied and less hungry than someone who drinks a soft drinkeven if both have the same number of calories (Mourao, Bressan, Campbell, & Mattes, 2007).
Regardless of the empty calories in sugary beverages, the sugar they contain alters the body's metabolism, affects insulin and cholesterol levels, and can cause inflammation and high blood pressure.
The WHO recommends consuming up to six teaspoons of sugar a day. A single 355 ml can of soda has about 9.5 teaspoons -this cannot be considered healthy and safe. In addition, studies show that the human body does not respond in the same way to the intake of calories ingested in liquid and solid forms. As a consequence, liquid calories result in more rapid weight gain (DiMeglio & Mattes, 2000).
Evidence shows that raising taxes would help reduce the consumption of sugary beverages as it reduced the consumption of cigarettes. Here in Brazil, a recent survey showed that 74% of the population would decrease their consumption of soft drinks and other products, which would result in an enormous gain in health and well-being (Cancian, 2017).

FINAL CONSIDERATIONS
Obesity is a challenge for Brazil and the world. The paths to a solution are multiple, and isolated actions cannot adequately address the problem. Only integrated and articulated policies can constitute effective engagement.
However, it is well known that these paths will not be easy.
The industry that promotes unhealthy foods and beverages is strong and uses a range of tactics to oppose public welfare.
However, countless countries in Latin America and in the world have resisted, placing public health at the center of discussions and decisions, and adopted measures aimed to ensure a healthier and more appropriate diet for everyone.
It must be acknowledged that Brazil has formally expressed its political will in the signing of international agreements and the design of national plans. However, this is not enough. Intentions and plans need to be put into practice. A History of the World in Seven Cheap Things is extraordinary because it unapologetically links Western capitalism to the ills of the global food system, and shows how the epistemological questions regarding the choices to divide and separate nature from society, natives from colonialists, and men from women are complicit in remaking the world in the image of capitalist values. This is noteworthy for a book intended for a non-academic audience. In contrast to most consumerist critiques of the food system written in the developed world, this book incisively connects global natural destruction and the decimation of indigenous populations to the very logic of capital accumulation by arguing that extractive relationships based upon class, race, and gender are structurally connected to the global First and Third-World division, and thus define the very nature of the Capitalocene (instead of the broader formulation of the Anthropocene). There is no escape from the capitalistic exploitation of nature and culture. There is no room for good capitalism in this book. This is a bracing and necessary argument that is often never made, especially in the United States, where a variety of ameliorative propaganda about values-based capitalism is routinely peddled, even by members of the good-food movement. A History of the World in Seven Cheap Things provides a rare synthesis that theoretically connects the disparate work of critics in culture, economics, politics, and philosophy; in the end, it is an incisive political-ecological critique that accounts for both political-economy and cultural politics. This is successful grand theorization at the highest level.

By
The book begins by discussing cheap nature before burrowing through cheap money, cheap work, cheap care, cheap food, cheap energy, and ending with cheap lives. Cheap Nature opens with the execution of an unnamed "sorceress" of Tlaxcala, New Spain on Sunday, July 18, 1599. This anonymous woman allegedly smashed crosses and incited Chichimec Indians to rebel, but her worst crime was dreaming of a deer riding atop a horse. As a symbol of local Chichimec nature, the deer rode astride the livelihood of the colonizers. It was thus judged to be a seditious challenge to the cosmos of the Conquistador. Killed as a witch, the authors retell the story of this woman, who dreamt of a radically different ecology, as a balm against neglecting alternatives to capitalism's "world-ecology." The hyphenation of "world-ecology" echoes the "World-Systems" analysis of sociologists Wallerstein (2011) andArrighi (2010), who served as central theoretical sources for this book regarding the food-system. The food system in question is one that is world-spanning in origin. The authors argue that it is a system that can only be overthrown by an equally global and internationalist movement. Their regret is that people can easily imagine the end of the world, but not the end of capitalism. This accusation underpins the entire book.
I primarily focus on the Cheap Nature concept in order to convey the scope and depth of the authors' work within the limits of this review. "Our Chichimec woman," they argue "was killed by a civilized society because her natural savagery broke its rules" (p. 45). As recently as 1330, the authors note, savage meant valiant. However, this positive association faded during the fifteenth century. Not coincidentally, the terms nature and society were produced as a binary that required separation so that society's rules could be imposed on nature and anything natural. This was in order to contain indigenous populations, inferior races, women, and nature itself. The authors argue that this classification continues today with analogous consequences.
To understand the ambition and scope of Patel and Moore's work, it is necessary to substantially quote them here: We take for granted that some parts of the world are