FOOD & DRINK | OCTOBER 2026 | OPINION & COMMENTARY

An irreverent look at restaurant closures, trendy cocktails, overpriced caffeine, comfort food, and the beautiful absurdity of America's dining culture.

Source inspiration: Monthly Digest: Summary of Food & Drink for October 2026 by Alyssa Buckley, published October 29, 2026, in Smile Politely. The original digest covers Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, including Manolo's closure, new restaurant and café openings, plant-based dining, barbecue, cocktails, and seasonal drinks. This is an original opinion piece inspired by that local reporting, not a firsthand restaurant review.

Champaign-Urbana's Culture Magazine

October 2026 Food & Drink: Restaurants Are Closing, Coffee Is Getting Ridiculous, and Apparently We Need a Mortgage to Eat Lunch

By Tony Hicks | October 30, 2026

Welcome to the Food Industry, Where Everything Is Artisanal Except the Paychecks

I have reached a point in my life where reading the monthly food and drink news feels less like checking out restaurant recommendations and more like watching a reality show in which everybody is fighting over a $17 sandwich. Restaurants are opening, restaurants are closing, somebody has invented another way to put cinnamon in coffee, and apparently ordering a cheeseburger now requires the financial planning skills of a certified accountant. Welcome to October 2026, where the food is increasingly creative, the beverages have developed personality disorders, and the average consumer is just trying to eat something without having to refinance the house.

This month's food and drink digest from Smile Politely, covering Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, captures the beautiful absurdity of modern dining perfectly. We have beloved local establishments disappearing, ambitious new businesses entering the market, elaborate cocktails, premium pizza, plant-based creations, and enough specialty coffee to keep an entire university awake until the heat death of the universe. It is a fascinating snapshot of an industry that simultaneously represents human creativity and our collective inability to leave perfectly good food alone.

I genuinely love restaurants. I love discovering places where somebody has spent years perfecting a recipe, where the owner knows the regular customers, and where the food tastes like someone actually cares whether I come back. What I don't love is the increasingly theatrical nonsense surrounding the simple act of eating. Somewhere along the way, we decided that a sandwich needed a backstory, a cocktail needed a biography, and a cup of coffee needed an ingredient list longer than the warranty paperwork for a refrigerator.

Yet beneath the amusing excesses, something genuinely important is happening. Small restaurants are struggling to survive in an unforgiving business, consumers are becoming more demanding, and independent operators are competing for attention in a world where people will photograph their dinner for ten minutes before remembering that food is supposed to be eaten.

Let's examine the October highlights, because the restaurant industry has once again provided enough material to make me question both our economic priorities and our collective sanity.

Goodbye, Manolo's: Another Reminder That Good Restaurants Don't Live Forever

The closure of Manolo's Pizza & Empanadas was one of the biggest pieces of local food news this month, and I find these announcements considerably more depressing than I probably should.

Not because I've personally eaten there. I haven't, and I'm not going to invent a touching memory of sitting in a restaurant I've never visited just to make this article sound more emotional. What bothers me is the broader pattern. Every time an established local restaurant closes, a community loses something that cannot necessarily be replaced by the next business that moves into the building.

A neighborhood restaurant is more than a commercial kitchen with tables. It becomes part of people's routines. Somebody had a first date there. Somebody ordered takeout after a terrible day. Somebody discovered a favorite dish and subsequently refused to order anything else for seven consecutive years. These places accumulate little pieces of people's lives, even when nobody notices it happening.

Then one day, they're gone.

Naturally, the internet responds with the familiar chorus of people declaring that the restaurant was their absolute favorite and that they cannot believe it closed. Sometimes I wonder where all these passionate supporters were during regular business hours. Supporting local restaurants is a lovely sentiment, but heartfelt social media tributes are notoriously difficult to deposit into a business checking account.

That observation isn't an accusation against Manolo's customers, and I don't know the circumstances behind its closure. It's simply a larger truth about the restaurant business. Affection and commercial survival are not the same thing.

If I owned a restaurant, I would probably develop an unhealthy obsession with how many people told me they loved my food compared with how many actually purchased it. A standing ovation is wonderful, but suppliers tend to prefer money.

The lesson I take from these closures is simple: if there's a local restaurant you genuinely love, visit it while it's still open. Don't wait until the farewell announcement to discover that you have been meaning to go back for three years.

New Restaurants Keep Opening Because Apparently Hope Is Still Legal

While one establishment closes, another opens. October brought several new developments around Champaign-Urbana, including The Cosmo bar in Lincoln Square Mall, Ting Tea on Sixth, Str8 Drip at The Yard, and the return of The Old Sipyard.

I have to admire anyone willing to open a food or beverage business in today's environment. It requires a combination of entrepreneurial ambition, personal optimism, and a willingness to surrender your evenings, weekends, holidays, and possibly the last remaining fragments of your nervous system.

Restaurant ownership sounds glamorous when people describe it in interviews. You get to create an atmosphere, share your culinary vision, build relationships with customers, and become part of the community.

What they don't emphasize quite as enthusiastically is that refrigerators break, employees get sick, deliveries arrive late, utilities cost money, and customers occasionally behave as though ordering lunch entitles them to a personal audience with the governor.

Still, new businesses matter. They create jobs, bring people into neighborhoods, fill vacant spaces, and introduce fresh ideas. A new café can turn a neglected corner into a gathering place. A new bar can give people somewhere to spend an evening. A new restaurant can introduce a community to dishes it might never otherwise encounter.

The challenge is standing out without becoming ridiculous.

I don't need a restaurant to reinvent the wheel. I need it to make good food, treat its employees properly, maintain a reasonable level of cleanliness, and occasionally remember that I ordered water twenty minutes ago.

If the business accomplishes those things, I'll be impressed. If it also offers a clever concept, beautiful interior, and a thoughtful menu, even better.

But please don't tell me your establishment is revolutionizing the dining experience because you serve French fries in a miniature shopping cart.

We've had fries for quite some time. Civilization survived perfectly well when they arrived on plates.

Specialty Coffee Has Officially Become Performance Art

October's beverage coverage might be my favorite part of the entire digest, mostly because coffee culture continues to evolve in ways that suggest ordinary coffee offended somebody personally.

One featured drink was the miel quemada at Avionics Flying Machine Coffee, combining espresso with honey, clove, cinnamon, and orange. Another was the Beetlejuice at Hopscotch Bakery, a matcha latte incorporating brown sugar, cinnamon, and pear syrup. Then there was the s'mores latte at Original Pancake House, complete with chocolate, marshmallow cold foam, roasted miniature marshmallows, and graham crackers.

At this point, I am reasonably certain that someone will eventually serve an espresso topped with a freshly baked apple pie, three toasted marshmallows, and a handwritten letter from the farmer who harvested the cinnamon.

And people will buy it.

To be clear, these drinks actually sound delicious. I enjoy creative flavors, and I appreciate businesses trying new ideas. But I cannot help laughing at how complicated a beverage can become when the original purpose was simply to wake somebody up.

Coffee used to be the thing people drank while complaining about having to work. Now it is an entire recreational activity with seasonal themes, decorative toppings, and enough culinary ambition to qualify as a dessert competition.

The Avionics drink was listed at $7.20 in its original October coverage. That isn't an invented price or an estimate; it was the reported price for that particular latte. And while I understand that specialty ingredients, labor, rent, and equipment all cost money, there is still something slightly comical about paying over seven dollars for a beverage that I will finish before I've located my car keys.

I have no objection to an occasional indulgence. What fascinates me is how efficiently indulgence becomes routine.

People who would debate a twenty-dollar increase in their monthly utility bill sometimes purchase specialty coffee five mornings a week without giving the cumulative expense a second thought.

Coffee shops understand something extraordinary about human psychology. If you convince someone that their purchase represents a tiny moment of happiness, the price becomes secondary.

And maybe that's perfectly fine. Life is difficult, and a cinnamon-pear matcha might genuinely improve someone's day.

I just reserve the right to laugh when my morning beverage starts arriving with architectural features.

The Great Almond Milk Latte Crawl: We Have Officially Run Out of Things to Compete Over

One of October's featured articles examined almond milk lattes around Champaign-Urbana, which represents exactly the kind of culinary investigation that could only exist in a society with an astonishing amount of coffee enthusiasm.

Think about that for a moment. We have reached the stage of civilization where comparing variations of espresso and almond milk is a legitimate editorial assignment.

And I would probably read the entire thing.

That is what makes contemporary food culture so entertaining. We recognize the absurdity while participating in it enthusiastically.

Alternative milk has become an enormous part of modern café culture, and there are perfectly sensible reasons for that. Some customers avoid dairy, some prefer plant-based products, and others simply enjoy the taste. A good café should offer options that accommodate different preferences.

But the sheer intensity of coffee discourse can be remarkable.

People will evaluate the texture of foam as though reviewing the structural integrity of a suspension bridge. They will debate roast characteristics, milk temperatures, sweetness, acidity, and whether the barista properly respected the natural personality of the espresso.

Meanwhile, I'm standing behind them wondering whether I can order something that contains caffeine without enrolling in a seminar.

Still, there is value in thoughtful criticism. When writers compare local establishments, they help consumers discover businesses that deserve attention. They also encourage café owners to improve their products.

My only request is that we maintain some perspective.

A mediocre latte is disappointing. It is not an existential betrayal.

Unless, of course, it cost nine dollars. Then I reserve the right to hold a small press conference.

Plant-Based Food Is Growing Up, and Some People Still Can't Handle It

Another featured story highlighted five plant-based dishes available around Champaign-Urbana, including tofu with chilis at Golden Harbor.

I find the cultural debate surrounding plant-based food endlessly amusing because people sometimes treat the decision to eat vegetables as a declaration of war.

Someone orders tofu, and suddenly another person feels compelled to explain that humans have canine teeth and that their grandfather lived to ninety while eating bacon every morning.

Congratulations. I'm sure the tofu is devastated.

Personally, I believe food should be judged primarily on whether it tastes good. That may sound radical in an era when lunch choices have apparently become extensions of personal identity, but I remain committed to this controversial position.

A well-prepared vegetable dish can be incredible. So can barbecue, seafood, pizza, and a properly cooked steak. Appreciating one does not require declaring the others morally or culturally unacceptable.

What interests me about plant-based cooking is the creativity involved. When chefs stop treating vegetables as obligatory side dishes and start giving them the attention traditionally reserved for meat, interesting things happen.

Flavor develops through roasting, fermentation, spices, sauces, and textures. Mushrooms become rich and savory. Eggplant can become wonderfully complex. Tofu, when prepared well, absorbs seasonings and develops textures that surprise people who remember only the bland versions they encountered years ago.

The food industry benefits when chefs experiment.

It does not benefit when every menu decision becomes a cultural referendum.

If someone enjoys a plate of spicy tofu, let them eat it. Nobody is coming to confiscate your cheeseburger.

Although, considering what restaurants charge for premium burgers these days, perhaps somebody should investigate where the money is going.

The Burger Has Become a Financial Instrument

October also delivered coverage of Legends Bar & Grill, Oskee's Sports Pub, and the newer Smith Burger Co location in Mahomet.

I appreciate a good burger. In fact, I consider the cheeseburger one of humanity's more convincing arguments that civilization has accomplished something worthwhile.

But modern burger culture can be exhausting.

We've developed an extraordinary vocabulary for describing what is essentially ground beef placed between bread.

Smashburger. Gourmet burger. Craft burger. Signature burger. Elevated burger. Premium burger.

The burger itself remains remarkably unconcerned about these distinctions.

What matters to me is whether the meat is seasoned properly, the bun holds together, the toppings complement one another, and the entire thing tastes good.

I don't need an inspirational origin story explaining how the chef discovered the spiritual significance of caramelized onions during a summer spent in Tuscany.

Just make the burger.

One of the most amusing trends is the growing tendency to construct burgers so tall that consuming them becomes an engineering problem.

If I need to dislocate my jaw to take the first bite, your restaurant has confused quantity with quality.

A great burger shouldn't require a strategy meeting.

And I would love for restaurants to stop assuming that adding bacon, three sauces, six pickles, two kinds of cheese, and a decorative knife automatically improves the experience.

Sometimes the best burger is the simplest one.

A well-made cheeseburger with fries can be more satisfying than a complicated culinary monument that collapses onto my shirt halfway through lunch.

Barbecue: Proof That Humanity Occasionally Gets Something Right

The October digest also featured Po' Boys, whose menu coverage included a barbecue sampler, chocolate pie, and a variety of other comfort-food offerings.

Now we're talking.

Barbecue is one of those foods that reminds me why restaurants deserve to exist in the first place. Good barbecue requires patience, skill, attention, and a willingness to let the cooking process take the time it needs.

You can't convince a tough piece of meat to become tender by developing a clever marketing campaign.

You have to cook it properly.

There is something wonderfully straightforward about that.

In a world obsessed with shortcuts, automation, and branding, barbecue remains stubbornly dependent on execution.

The smoke has to work. The seasoning has to work. The texture has to work. And if everything comes together, the result is something people will remember long after they've forgotten the restaurant's logo.

Of course, barbecue culture has its own peculiarities.

People argue about regional styles as though negotiating international borders. Sauce becomes a matter of principle. Someone mentions putting ketchup in a recipe, and half the room responds as though they've witnessed a serious constitutional violation.

I admire the passion, even when it becomes ridiculous.

What I appreciate most is that barbecue rarely needs theatrical presentation. A tray of properly prepared meat, a few sides, and a good sauce can accomplish more than an elaborate menu filled with adjectives.

And chocolate pie afterward?

That's not a dining concept. That's a public service.

Cocktails Are Now Small, Expensive Science Experiments

October's beverage coverage also included Bentley's Pub, Parcadia Tavern, and the Champaign Whiskey Fest.

The drinks sounded interesting. Bentley's featured a Sazerac incorporating rye whiskey, brandy, bitters, lemon zest, and other elements. Parcadia's Hedge Knight included tequila, fruit flavors, and raspberries garnished with rosemary.

I genuinely appreciate thoughtful mixology. A skilled bartender understands balance, aroma, temperature, dilution, and presentation. There is real craftsmanship involved in making a memorable cocktail.

But the modern cocktail menu sometimes reads like someone challenged a chemistry professor to write poetry while mildly intoxicated.

Every drink has a name suggesting it was discovered in an ancient temple.

Every ingredient has a story.

Every garnish looks like it was arranged using surgical instruments.

And eventually a bartender places a beautiful glass in front of you containing approximately four actual sips of liquid.

I understand that ingredients and labor cost money. Still, sometimes I look at elaborate cocktails and wonder whether the garnish has a higher operating budget than the beverage.

The whiskey festival coverage offered a more encouraging message: you don't need to be an expert to enjoy the experience.

I love that idea.

Some enthusiasts approach whiskey as though tasting it requires a graduate degree in barrel aging. They describe notes of leather, tobacco, oak, vanilla, caramel, dried fruit, and occasionally things that sound suspiciously like the interior of an antique furniture store.

Meanwhile, a newcomer might simply think, "That's pretty good."

Both reactions are valid.

Food and drink should invite curiosity rather than intimidate people into pretending they understand something they don't.

Nobody should feel obligated to identify seventeen flavor notes to justify enjoying a beverage.

Premium Pizza Is Fine, but Pizza Doesn't Need a Public Relations Department

October's coverage also included Pizzeria Antica in Champaign, reminding me of another culinary category that has become increasingly elaborate.

Pizza.

The dish that once represented affordable, uncomplicated happiness has evolved into a battlefield of culinary philosophies.

Thin crust versus thick crust. Wood-fired versus conventional ovens. Traditional toppings versus unconventional combinations. Authenticity versus innovation.

People will argue about pizza for hours while completely ignoring the fact that almost every participant would happily eat a slice if someone placed it in front of them.

I'm not opposed to premium pizza. High-quality ingredients and skilled preparation deserve recognition. A properly made crust can be extraordinary, and the difference between thoughtful cooking and mass-produced mediocrity is real.

But I sometimes think restaurants become overly invested in explaining why their pizza deserves to be taken seriously.

It's pizza.

We already take it seriously.

Few foods enjoy such widespread affection.

The best pizza establishments understand that craftsmanship doesn't require pretension. They focus on dough, sauce, cheese, temperature, and consistency.

If those elements are right, customers will notice.

You don't need to describe every tomato as though it graduated with honors.

The Seasonal Menu Has Become an Annual Personality Change

October naturally brought autumn-inspired foods and drinks, and this is where the restaurant industry demonstrates its extraordinary ability to turn the calendar into a marketing strategy.

The temperature drops fifteen degrees, and suddenly everything contains cinnamon, apple, pumpkin, maple, brown sugar, or some combination of ingredients designed to make customers feel as though they're wearing a sweater inside a picturesque cabin.

I enjoy autumn flavors. I genuinely do.

But the seasonal menu cycle has become wonderfully predictable.

Summer is for lemonade and fruit.

Autumn is for pumpkin and cinnamon.

Winter is for peppermint and chocolate.

Spring is for flowers and the annual discovery that strawberries exist.

Restaurants reinvent themselves every few months using ingredients we've known about for centuries.

And consumers respond as though cinnamon has just been discovered in an archaeological excavation.

The remarkable thing is that it works.

Seasonal menus give customers a reason to return, offer businesses opportunities to test new products, and create anticipation around limited-time offerings.

From a business perspective, it's smart.

From a consumer perspective, it's occasionally hilarious.

I don't need everything to taste like October.

Sometimes I would like a perfectly ordinary cup of coffee without being informed that it captures the comforting essence of falling leaves.

Leaves belong on trees. Coffee belongs in cups.

Let's try to maintain some boundaries.

Local Food Journalism Is More Important Than People Realize

Beneath all my joking, I want to acknowledge something genuinely valuable about Smile Politely's October digest.

It documents the local food economy in a way that national headlines rarely do.

Most major food industry coverage focuses on enormous corporations, celebrity chefs, acquisitions, expansion plans, and dramatic trends.

Those subjects matter, but they don't tell the entire story.

The restaurant down the street matters, too.

The family that opens a café matters.

The bartender developing a new drink matters.

The farmers bringing produce to Urbana's Market at the Square matter.

And the writers who take the time to visit these places, photograph the food, interview the people, and explain what's happening are performing a useful public service.

Without local journalism, communities lose an important way of understanding themselves.

A restaurant closure becomes another empty storefront rather than a story about a business and the people connected to it.

A new opening becomes a sign in a window rather than an opportunity to learn about someone's ambition.

A food festival becomes an event that happened rather than a shared community experience.

That matters to me.

I can make jokes about expensive coffee and aggressively decorated cocktails all day, but I recognize that behind these businesses are actual people trying to make a living doing something difficult.

They deserve attention beyond the occasional angry online review from someone whose French fries arrived six minutes later than expected.

The Customer Is Always Right, Except When the Customer Is Completely Wrong

Let's talk about customers, because restaurants aren't solely responsible for the absurdity of modern dining.

We contribute plenty.

Somewhere along the way, people developed the belief that purchasing a meal grants them temporary authority over another human being's dignity.

A server makes a mistake, and certain customers behave as though the Geneva Conventions have been suspended.

A restaurant runs out of an item, and somebody demands to speak with three managers, the owner, and possibly the president.

A dish arrives slightly differently than expected, and suddenly the internet needs a detailed account of this historic injustice.

I have never understood the impulse to humiliate restaurant employees.

If my food is wrong, I can ask politely for it to be corrected.

If the service is disappointing, I can decide whether to return.

If the restaurant is consistently terrible, I can spend my money somewhere else.

These are options available to functioning adults.

Yet some customers seem determined to transform every minor inconvenience into a public performance.

The irony is that many of these same people complain about poor service while treating service workers in ways that would make anyone question their career choices.

Restaurants need accountability. Customers deserve fair prices, accurate orders, cleanliness, and reasonable treatment.

But employees deserve respect, too.

A person carrying plates for a living is not your emotional punching bag.

And no, leaving a large tip does not purchase the right to behave like a medieval landlord.

The Real Problem Isn't Fancy Food. It's Losing Sight of Value.

After examining October's food news, I keep returning to one central question: what exactly are we paying for when we go out to eat?

Sometimes we're paying for ingredients and preparation.

Sometimes we're paying for convenience.

Sometimes we're paying for atmosphere, service, entertainment, and the pleasure of being somewhere other than our own kitchens.

All of those things can have value.

But restaurants occasionally confuse higher prices with higher quality, and customers sometimes confuse elaborate presentation with a superior experience.

A beautifully photographed dish isn't automatically delicious.

A fashionable restaurant isn't automatically welcoming.

A complicated cocktail isn't automatically balanced.

And an expensive burger isn't automatically better than the one served at a neighborhood diner that hasn't changed its recipe in thirty years.

What matters is whether the experience justifies what the customer spends.

That's an individual judgment, of course. One person might happily pay extra for a distinctive tasting menu, while another finds greater satisfaction in a generous plate of comfort food.

Neither is inherently wrong.

The problem begins when businesses assume that clever branding can permanently substitute for genuine value.

Eventually, customers notice.

They may tolerate novelty once. They may pay for the social media moment. They may try the limited-edition drink because everyone is talking about it.

But if the food disappoints, the service frustrates them, or the price feels unreasonable, the novelty wears off.

A restaurant cannot survive indefinitely on adjectives.

October's Biggest Lesson: The Best Food Businesses Still Understand People

What strikes me most about the October 2026 food and drink roundup is the contrast between loss and possibility.

Manolo's closed, while new establishments opened their doors. Restaurants introduced new dishes, cafés experimented with seasonal flavors, and writers documented everything from plant-based food to barbecue and elaborate beverages.

It's a small-scale portrait of an industry constantly changing.

And I think that's worth celebrating, even when some of its excesses deserve a little ridicule.

Food businesses don't exist in isolation. They become part of a community's habits, memories, celebrations, and ordinary days.

A café can become the place where someone writes a book.

A restaurant can become the place where a family gathers after a funeral.

A neighborhood bar can become the setting for friendships that last decades.

A modest diner can become the one familiar place someone visits after an exhausting week.

Those experiences aren't captured by ingredient lists or social media impressions.

They're captured by the way people feel when they walk through the door.

That's why I believe the strongest restaurants don't necessarily need the biggest menus, the fanciest decorations, or the most elaborate marketing campaigns.

They need to make people want to return.

They need consistency.

They need hospitality.

They need food that tastes good.

And they need to remember that the person sitting at the table is a human being, not merely a potential five-star review.

My Final Thoughts: Please Just Feed Me Something Good

So what did I learn from October's food and drink news?

I learned that independent restaurants remain vulnerable, even when people care about them. I learned that entrepreneurs continue opening new businesses despite the challenges. I learned that plant-based cooking offers plenty of creativity, that barbecue remains one of humanity's finest achievements, and that modern coffee shops are one unusual syrup away from putting an entire Thanksgiving dinner into a latte.

I also learned that the restaurant industry continues to reflect our peculiar relationship with money, pleasure, convenience, and identity.

We want affordable food, but we also want innovation. We want authenticity, but we enjoy novelty. We complain about prices, yet line up for limited-time beverages with enough ingredients to stock a small grocery store.

We are complicated creatures.

And restaurants, for better or worse, have figured that out.

I hope the businesses that opened in October find loyal customers. I hope the employees working in kitchens and dining rooms receive the respect they deserve. And I hope the customers who loved Manolo's find another local establishment that becomes part of their lives, even if the original memories cannot be replaced.

Most of all, I hope we remember why we started going to restaurants in the first place.

It wasn't to photograph a drink from six different angles.

It wasn't to listen to a fifteen-minute explanation of how the chef's grandmother inspired a deconstructed potato.

And it certainly wasn't to feel morally inferior because we ordered an ordinary cheeseburger instead of something involving fermented mushrooms and an obscure mountain herb.

We went because we were hungry, because we wanted company, because we wanted to try something delicious, or because cooking dinner sounded like one more responsibility we simply couldn't handle that day.

That's enough.

Give me good food, decent service, reasonable value, and a place where I can enjoy myself without needing to decode the menu like an ancient manuscript.

If you can manage that, I'll come back.

And if your coffee arrives with graham crackers, miniature marshmallows, cinnamon foam, a tiny decorative pumpkin, and a seasonal mission statement, I'll probably try it.

But I reserve the right to make fun of it while drinking every last drop.

Because apparently, in 2026, having a perfectly normal meal is the most rebellious dining experience left.

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Source acknowledgment: This commentary was inspired by Alyssa Buckley's October 29, 2026, Food & Drink monthly digest in Smile Politely, covering the restaurant and café scene in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. The observations and humorous opinions are my own; they are not claims of personal visits to the establishments mentioned.