The ultra-expensive luxury food retailer somehow hooked its claws into people across Los Angeles.
By Paige Ganim
Living in Los Angeles in 2023 equates to existing in the crux of wellness culture. Aesthetician offices that perform vampire facials are at your disposal, a discourse of detox cleanses and one’s macrobiotics intake is ubiquitous, and there is no shortage of organic nail salons and hot pilates studios. Nestled into the land of overpriced juiceries and paleo food joints is Erewhon, an LA-exclusive organic retail chain.
Despite its exorbitant prices, more and more people are flocking to Erewhon. In recent years, Erewhon has become a staple in Angelenos’ pantries and lifestyles to the point where it is a core part of many people’s identities. It raises the question of whether its macro-scale attraction is a consequence of the behemoth’s online trendiness, people’s indoctrination into LA’s “clean” culture, or something else entirely.
In 1966, Michio and Aveline Kushi originally founded it as a “hippie health-food store,” complementing the counterculture in the 70s that intersected newfound values of peace and spirituality with people’s eating habits. Preservatives and additives made their way out of Americans’ diets, and vegetarianism and organic foods became salable.
Despite its efforts to gain a foothold in the food retail industry, the company did not gain significant traction until 2011 when Tony and Josephine Antoci bought Erewhon and transformed it into the luxury-wellness hotspot it is today. It was the perfect time for the rebrand: smack in the middle of the digital age and the beginnings of the influencer revolution.
Since opening, it has wielded social media and partnerships (with high-profile public figures like Hailey Bieber, Kourtney Kardashian and Bella Hadid) to expand its notoriety beyond the Los Angeles landscape.
The remarkably puzzling piece of their success is how it managed to grow in popularity despite its costliness. What could possess someone to willingly spend $39.99 on a 16-ounce jar of Neptune blue sea moss gel or $21 for an 11-ounce container of vegan pesto? While this paradox could be attributed to people’s indoctrination into wellness culture, the attraction to Erewhon goes deeper than that.
Erewhon goods have become a Veblen good. People aren’t blind to the high prices; rather the reason why it is so appealing is because of the prices. While this might seem irrational, this conduct is due to individuals’ desire to convey a veneer of wealth and status.
Erewhon is an anagram of the word nowhere, which is fitting considering the reason many people shop there. Their position in the social hierarchy is immobile, so they try to emulate the upper class by shopping at a place that is Kardashian-approved – a concept known as affordable affluence.
It is what entices consumers to cough up $18 to purchase Hailey Bieber’s Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie. They might not magically metamorph into Hailey Bieber by drinking it, but they’ll gladly grow $18 poorer in exchange for the social clout that comes with being an Erewhon shopper. Shopping at Erewhon is their own badge of honor.
Ironically, the Kushis named the health joint after Samuel Butler’s novel “Erewhon,” satirically describing a bad utopian society where the government criminalized sickness and treated offenders as ill. However, the company markets itself as a dreamscape from both contaminated food and a mundane lifestyle and that promotion worked.
The Cut published an article interviewing people working three jobs to afford Erewhon because of its atmosphere akin to luxury living.
“I love to take Erewhon when I’m flying, ’cause I freakin’ fly economy, I’m not private-jetting anywhere,” one shopper told The Cut. “To just be in a comfortable sweat suit or a Lulu ’fit and then have Erewhon? I feel like I’m worth a billion dollars.”
To an outsider, this behavior might appear to be a reaction to one too many hallucinogens. A different shopper bought salmon just for their dog. Another tasted the same green juice again that disgusted her moments earlier to show her TikTok followers because who cares if the products are actually appalling? She is still an Erewhon customer.
Why would someone pay $24.50 per pound for Erewhon’s beloved orange chicken when they could find a cheaper version at Trader Joe's? It is partly the virtual hype, somewhat the impact of wellness culture, but very likely the values of the shoppers themselves.
Regardless, don’t be surprised when Netflix releases a multi-part document in the coming years exploring the cult-like entrapment of Erewhon.