If it looks too delicious to be true — it probably is.
Ethos’ social media overflows with exquisite images of aesthetically pleasing, ‘gram-worthy dishes, from mouth-watering chicken wing bouquets and delectable honeycomb donuts to intricate croissant creations shaped like dinosaurs and the internet-beloved Moo Deng.
But the seemingly popular Austin, Texas eatery, which boasts nearly 75,000 followers online, is not all it’s cracked up to be.
In fact, it doesn’t even exist.
The pizza featuring Pikachu’s face, loaves of bread baked into the shape of loafers and a house made of waffle slabs are all cooked up by artificial intelligence. There are even fake celebrity appearances, like guest bartender Elon Musk, and AI-generated images of employees.
Ethos’ “unreal” food is part of the punchline, although not everyone appears to be in on the joke.
“Where is this cafe? It doesn’t say on their website,” grumbled one potential customer.
“I love it all, but your address/location is impossible to find anywhere. It isn’t on your social, not on your website, and when I Google Map it, I’m given a consultant company,” complained another. “Love the branding but this seems like an obvious piece of missing information. I want to come visit but have no idea where to go.”
“Literally flying to Texas just for this,” commented someone else.
“Where do I order,” demanded one user.
Potential patrons attempted to make a reservation on Ethos’ official website, where the imaginary restaurant claims they experience “high demand” and recommend securing a table on the first Monday of every month at 4:30 a.m. But when eager foodies went to click on the booking link, they were redirected to a separate joke site.
While disgruntled users wonder if the satirical establishment is “even real” after unsuccessful reservation attempts, others leaned into the bit, calling it their “favorite restaurant in Austin.”
“I don’t know what’s funnier, the dinocroissant or the fact that so many people in the comments think it’s real,” quipped one person.
It isn’t clear who the mastermind behind Ethos is, but the unknown puppeteer is making income despite not serving plates of food.
The company hawks Ethos-branded merchandise — such as “I Dined at Ethos” apparel or shirts emblazoned with the slogan, “Unreal Flavors,” which go for less than $20 — and they work fast. Already, the Grubstreet investigation into the phony restaurant published this week has been turned into a meme and slapped on a tee.
But it’s not clear why, exactly, the anonymous administrator has manufactured an imitation eatery.
When prodded by local channel KXAN about their origins, Ethos declined to comment due to time constraints and directed the reporters to a requisition form that requested standard media inquiry information in addition to a “creative, detailed picture of a food that interests you.”
And when Austin Monthly contacted the company about its mission, Ethos gave a sanitized response: “The vision for Ethos begun with a group of passionate food enthusiasts who aimed to establish a unique dining experience that celebrated the rich diversity of culinary traditions.”
The Post has reached out to Ethos for further comment.
While past research has found that AI-generated images of food look more appetizing than real photos, the Food Institute is concerned that “AI imagery could potentially foster unrealistic expectations about how natural foods should look and potentially harm sustainability efforts such as the promotion of “ugly” fruits and vegetables.”
In response to the images produced by Ethos, the Texas Restaurant Association told KXAN that, while AI can be “a transformative tool,” it also runs the risk of “misuse.”
Ethos, however, is not the first fake fine dining experience.
In 2018, a Vice contributor turned his shed into a dining phenomenon on TripAdvisor through staged photos and fake reviews, and last year, over 100 New Yorkers were duped into believing they had finally scored a table at a historic, downtown steakhouse. Instead, it was an elaborate stunt orchestrated by a troupe of Gen Zers who set up shop in a bathhouse-turned-event space.
