Kal
Raustiala, a professor at UCLA Law School and the UCLA
International Institute; and Chris
Sprigman, a professor at the University of Virginia Law
School, are experts in counterfeiting
and intellectual property. They have been guest-blogging
for us about copyright issues. Today, they write about copyright in the
food industry.
Who Owns the Korean Taco?
By Kal Raustiala and Chris Sprigman
Walking home one night in Los Angeles with his sister-in law, Mark
Manguera, who worked in food services at a hotel at the time,
had an epiphany. What if he stuffed a tortilla with Korean barbecued
short ribs? This was the birth of the now-famous “Korean taco,” a
concept that fused two of L.A.’s favorite cuisines—both associated with
abundant alcohol and good times—into one delicious combination. Within a
month Manguera had teamed up with his friend Roy Choi,
an accomplished chef, who took the idea and made it work. Together,
they launched a business selling Korean tacos out of a truck. They
called it Kogi, a play on the Korean word for meat.
In L.A., food trucks are a common sight, but for decades they were
dominated by basic Mexican fare aimed at construction workers and
residents of poorer neighborhoods. Kogi’s insight was to take the
concept of a taco truck and twist it. It was a flash of gastronomic
inspiration to combine Korean BBQ with tacos, but it was also a flash of
marketing inspiration to offer a more upscale and lively truck
experience, one that would appeal to an entirely new demographic.
In the beginning, even though the Kogi truck was parked in a busy
part of West Hollywood, the team couldn’t give tacos away. But
eventually L.A.’s adventurous eaters spread the word, and within months
Kogi was a huge hit. The truck would park near offices by day,
residential areas in the evening, and clubs and bars at night. Lines
were long, and Kogi became a darling of the food press. Part of Kogi’s
success stemmed from its technological savvy, such as its extensive use
of Twitter, which helped
followers know where the truck was at all times. But the overwhelming
reason for its success was the creativity of the Kogi team, who for the
first time combined two great tastes that had existed cheek-by-jowl in
L.A. for decades, and, moreover, chose to “upscale” the plebian food
truck rather than start a bricks-and-mortar restaurant.
The rest is food history. Roy Choi was just listed as one of Food
& Wine Magazine’s 10 best new chefs, and today there
are hundreds of gourmet food trucks in L.A., offering everything from
banana pudding to sushi. Of course, there are also many trucks offerings
knockoffs of the Kogi taco. Even Baja Fresh, the fast food Mexican
chain, began offering a Kogi taco, though it quickly changed the name to
“Gogi.”
The birth of the Korean taco raises a big question about creativity
in cuisine. Why do chefs continue to invent new dishes when others are
free to copy them? In a series of earlier
guest
posts, we wrote about fashion and knockoffs—and how designers
continue to innovate despite the absence of copyright protection for
their designs.
From a copyright perspective, cuisine is a lot like fashion. Recipes
are unprotected by copyright, and so anyone can copy another’s recipe.
Actual dishes—the “built food” you order in a restaurant—can also be
copied freely. And as anyone who has eaten a molten chocolate cake or
miso-glazed black cod knows, popular and innovative dishes do seem to
migrate from restaurant to restaurant. The bottom line is that almost
anything creative a chef does—short of writing the menu, which is
protected by law—can be copied by another chef.
As readers of our past posts know, the conventional wisdom says that
in a system like this no one should innovate. Copyright’s raison d’etre
is to promote creativity by protecting creators from pirates. But in the
food world, pirates are everywhere. By this logic, we ought to be
consigned to uninspired and traditional food choices. In short, the
Korean taco should not exist.
But the real world does not follow this logic. In fact, we live in a
golden age of cuisine. Thousands of new dishes are created every year in
the nation’s restaurants. The quality of American cuisine is very high.
The so-called molecular gastronomy movement has innovated in myriad
(and often bizarre) ways that have filtered down to more modest
restaurants all over the world. Television shows such as Top Chef
and Iron Chef challenge contestants to mix and match
improbable combinations of ingredients with little warning or time. Our
contemporary food culture, in short, not only offers creativity; it
increasingly worships creativity—and many of us worship it right back.
Why does creativity thrive in the culinary world despite the rampant
copying that takes place? A few reasons jump out.
For one, copying the Korean taco is not like copying the latest Lady
Gaga download. Cooking is a decidedly analog technology. There
is no such thing as an exact copy of a dish. Indeed, the same
restaurant will turn out differing versions of a signature recipe
depending on who’s behind the stove, how busy they are, and how good the
ingredients are that day. Copies are inherently imperfect.
Second, food is enjoyed in a context. When we eat at a restaurant—or
at a truck–we are purchasing more than just the cuisine: the ambience,
the scene, the service and so forth all combine to make the experience.
Copies of a dish, no matter how good, cannot reproduce that overall
bundle of goods. (And the law of “trade dress,” a version of trademark,
protects the distinctive appearance of a restaurant’s décor.) A
successful restaurant’s revenue stream, in short, draws from many
tributaries.
Third, chefs, particularly at the high end, appear to have certain
norms about what kinds of copies are acceptable. In a fascinating
paper, two professors looked at top chefs in Paris. They found that
a system of social norms existed that constrained copying and enforced
rules about attribution. How robust this system is, and how widespread,
is a matter for future research, but our own interviews with elite chefs
in the U.S. suggest there are at least some professional costs to
copying. To some degree, this keeps copying in check, though as the Kogi
story shows, there are many exceptions.
There is clearly a lot more to be said about creativity in the
kitchen. But the key point is that culinary creativity is flourishing,
and it doesn’t depend on copyright. Like fashion, food challenges our
preconceptions about the economics of innovation—and perhaps should
challenge our legal rules as well.
Image Via.
