The Momofuku Brand and the Genesis of a Pantry War
To understand why everyone lost their minds over a jar of spicy oil, you have to look at Momofuku’s trajectory. David Chang didn't just build a restaurant; he built a monolith of cool that shifted the American palate toward bold, MSG-friendly, East Asian flavors. By 2020, they transitioned into the consumer packaged goods (CPG) market, launching their Chili Crunch, a variant of the traditional Chinese chiu chow oil or lao gan ma. But the thing is, "crunch" has been the descriptor for these textures since forever. Momofuku didn't invent the texture; they just marketed it exceptionally well to a demographic that shops at Whole Foods. The issue remains that as they scaled, the scrappy underdog persona that Chang cultivated started to feel like a corporate mask. When they acquired the trademark for "chili crunch" from Chile Colonial in 2023, they weren't just buying a name. They were buying a weapon. And honestly, it’s unclear why they thought the internet wouldn't notice them swinging it at businesses that looked exactly like the one Chang started in a tiny noodle shop years ago.
From Noodle Bar to Intellectual Property Powerhouse
The brand's evolution into a legal entity capable of filing trademark infringement notices against brands like Homiah and MìLà is where it gets tricky. Momofuku’s legal team claimed they had a fiduciary duty to protect their assets—standard corporate talk—but that changes everything when the asset in question is a generic linguistic term. How do you trademark "crunch"? Because it’s a sensory experience, not a proprietary invention. I find it fascinating that a brand built on the democratization of "authentic" flavors would pivot so hard into gatekeeping them. This isn't just about legal precedents; it's about the optics of a multi-million dollar company bullying a Malaysian immigrant-owned brand over a two-word descriptor.
The Technical Mechanics of the Trademark Dispute
Let’s get into the weeds of the United States Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO) filings because that's where the real friction lives. Momofuku holds a trademark for "chili crunch" on the Principal Register, which provides nationwide constructive notice of ownership. But here’s the catch: the term is arguably descriptive. In trademark law, if a term simply describes the product—like "cold beer" or "salty chips"—it shouldn't be eligible for exclusive protection unless it has acquired secondary meaning. Does the average consumer hear "chili crunch" and think exclusively of Momofuku? Probably not. Yet, by purchasing the existing trademark from a company that had held it since 2008, Momofuku bypassed the usual scrutiny applied to new applications. As a result: they inherited a "grandfathered" legal status that gave them the leverage to send out those infamous letters in early 2024. But people don't think about this enough: a trademark is only as strong as your willingness to alienate your entire customer base to defend it.
Descriptive vs. Suggestive: The Legal Gray Zone
The core of the technical argument rests on whether the phrase is "merely descriptive" or "suggestive." If it’s descriptive, it belongs to the public. If it’s suggestive, it’s a brand. Momofuku’s legal counsel argued that their specific combination of words had become synonymous with their specific jars of spicy, savory oil. Except that dozens of other brands were already using it. There were at least 15 to 20 prominent Asian-American-owned companies using "crunch" or "crisp" on their labels long before Momofuku decided to go to war. Which explains why the backlash was so instantaneous—it felt like a colonizing of language. If you can trademark "Chili Crunch," what stops someone from trademarking "Hard Cider" or "Sparkling Water"? The irony is that the USPTO had previously rejected Momofuku's attempt to trademark "Chili Crisp" because it was too generic, so they doubled down on "Crunch" instead.
The Impact of the Cease and Desist Letters
Imagine being a small business owner—let's take Michelle Tew of Homiah as a concrete example—receiving a letter from a legal firm representing a celebrity chef you probably once admired. The letter gave her 90 days to stop selling her Sambal Chili Crunch. For a small brand, rebranding isn't just about changing a font; it's about destroying thousands of dollars in packaging, losing SEO ranking, and confusing a hard-earned customer base. It is a financial death sentence disguised as a polite legal request. And that is exactly why the community revolted. We're far from a simple misunderstanding here; this was a strategic move to clear the shelf of competition by using legal fees as a cudgel. But Momofuku underestimated the social capital of the very community they claimed to represent. The backlash wasn't just a few tweets; it was a fundamental rejection of the idea that cultural heritage could be trademarked by the highest bidder.
Why "Crunch" is Different from "Crisp" and the Lao Gan Ma Factor
To really see the nuances, we have to look at the giant in the room: Lao Gan Ma. Founded by Tao Huabi in 1997, this brand popularized the term "chili crisp" globally. When Momofuku tried to trademark "chili crisp" and failed, it was because the USPTO recognized it as a generic category—essentially the "ketchup" of the spicy oil world. So, they pivoted to "crunch." Is there a technical difference between a crisp and a crunch? In the culinary world, it’s a distinction without a difference. Yet, in the eyes of the law, that one-word change created a loophole. Trademarks are designed to prevent consumer confusion, but in this case, the trademark itself was the source of the confusion. It forced brands to use clunkier terms like "chili oil with bits" or "spicy crunchy topping," which sounds more like a chemical byproduct than a delicious condiment. The strategy was clear: if you can't own the category, you rename the category and then claim you own the name. It was brilliant, in a cold, Machiavellian sort of way, until the PR disaster started cooking.
The Comparison to the "Taco Tuesday" Legal Battle
This isn't the first time a common phrase was held hostage by a corporation. Think back to Taco John's and their decades-long grip on the phrase "Taco Tuesday." It took a massive campaign by Taco Bell—hardly an underdog, but still—to finally liberate that phrase for public use in 2023. The Momofuku situation is an accelerated version of that, played out on social media in real-time. But whereas Taco John's was seen as an old-school relic, Momofuku was supposed to be the "new guard." That’s the sting. When you position yourself as a disruptor of the status quo, you don't get to use the status quo's most boring, predatory legal tactics without looking like a hypocrite. Experts disagree on whether Momofuku would have actually won in court, but the thing is, they never intended to go to court. They intended to win by intimidation, which is a much cheaper way to gain market share than actually out-competing people on flavor.
Common mistakes and misconceptions about the chili crunch saga
The loudest voices in the digital colosseum often mistake legal standard operating procedures for a personal vendetta. One massive misconception is that Momofuku was trying to own the concept of spicy oil itself. That is not how trademark law functions. David Chang and his team were specifically targeting the use of the exact phrase Chili Crunch, not the liquid gold inside the jars. The problem is that many casual observers conflate a specific product name with an entire culinary category that has existed for centuries in China as chiu chow oil or lao gan ma. We see this confusion everywhere. People assume Momofuku invented the heat. They did not. But in the eyes of the United States Patent and Trademark Office, generic terms and descriptive terms live on a very thin, very blurry line. And if you think this is unique to the culinary world, you haven't been paying attention to how corporate entities guard their boundaries.
The David vs. Goliath narrative trap
Another error in the public discourse involves the scale of the companies involved. Critics painted this as a billionaire crushing mom-and-pop shops. Except that some of the brands receiving cease-and-desist letters, while smaller than Momofuku, were backed by significant venture capital. It was a clash of emerging CPG titans rather than a simple bully story. But why does the internet love a villain? Because it simplifies a messy, bureaucratic process into a morality play. The issue remains that Momofuku had actually acquired the trademark from a company called Chile Colonial, which had held it since 2011. They didn't just manifest this legal right out of thin air to be mean. They bought a pre-existing legal asset. Let's be clear: Momofuku was following the standard playbook for brand protection in a hyper-competitive market where "crunch" variants have seen a 400 percent increase in shelf space over three years.
The myth of the trademark bully
Wait, do we really believe that silence equals safety in the world of intellectual property? If a company does not defend its trademark, it risks losing it to genericide. That is the cold, hard reality of the American legal system. While the optics were undeniably a disaster, the intent was to prevent the name from becoming as common as "aspirin" or "thermos." Yet, the blowback was so visceral because Momofuku built its entire identity on cultural authenticity and supporting the AAPI community. When they pivoted to "enforcement mode," it felt like a betrayal of that very ethos. Is it possible to be both a community leader and a ruthless capitalist? In short, the public said no.
The hidden reality of co-packing and scaling
What few experts discuss is the immense pressure of the consumer packaged goods (CPG) pipeline. When Momofuku moved from 15-seat noodle bars to the aisles of Whole Foods and Target, the stakes changed. The controversy with Momofuku isn't just about a name; it is about the industrialization of craft. To get a product into 2,000 stores, you need ironclad contracts and protected assets. You cannot scale a vibe. You scale a trademarked SKU. Many small-batch producers make better oil, but they don't have the supply chain infrastructure to survive a legal challenge or a distribution war. Expert advice for any brand in this space is simple: differentiate your nomenclature early. Don't name your product what it is; name it what it feels like. If you name your product "Spicy Water," don't be shocked when a hundred other "Spicy Waters" appear. Momofuku’s mistake was not the legal filing itself, but the failure to realize that in 2024, brand equity is tied to perceived kindness as much as it is to flavor profiles.
The cost of a public pivot
Momofuku eventually announced they would not enforce the trademark. This was a rare, total retreat. It happened because the reputational damage outweighed the value of the "Chili Crunch" name. Data suggests that brand sentiment for Momofuku dropped by over 60 percent during the peak of the Twitter firestorm. This suggests that for modern food brands, the court of public opinion is far more dangerous than any federal judge. Because you can win the legal right to a name and lose the customer who actually buys the jar. It was a pyrrhic victory of the highest order.
Frequently Asked Questions
Is Momofuku still trying to own the name Chili Crunch?
No, the company officially announced a reversal of its enforcement strategy after the massive public outcry. While they technically still hold the trademark rights acquired from Chile Colonial, they have publicly committed to not using those rights to litigate against other AAPI-owned businesses or competitors. This decision followed a week of intense scrutiny and calls for boycotts across social media platforms. Statistics from market analysts showed a noticeable spike in searches for competitor chili oils like Fly By Jing and Boon during the controversy. Momofuku chose to prioritize its community standing over its intellectual property portfolio. The trademark exists, but it is effectively a dormant asset now.
Who actually invented chili crunch or chili oil?
No single person or brand can claim the invention of chili oil, as it has been a staple of Chinese cuisine for centuries, specifically within Sichuan and Chiu Chow traditions. The modern commercialization of the "crunch" style was largely popularized by Lao Gan Ma, which was founded by Tao Huabi in 1997 and now sells over 600 million bottles annually. Momofuku’s version, launched in 2020, was an attempt to bring a premium, chef-driven version to a Western audience. The controversy with Momofuku highlighted the tension between traditional heritage and modern branding. Most culinary historians agree that the "crunch" texture comes from fried garlic, shallots, and fermented soybeans. It is a collective cultural invention, not a corporate one.
Why did the internet get so angry at David Chang specifically?
David Chang has long been a polarizing figure who positioned himself as a disruptor of the fine-dining establishment. Because he built a brand based on "ugly delicious" authenticity and supporting underrepresented cuisines, the trademark move felt hypocritical to his fans. The anger was amplified by the fact that many of the companies receiving letters were small, woman-owned businesses with significantly less capital. Social media engagement data showed that posts criticizing the move received 10 times more interaction than Momofuku’s initial defensive statements. This discrepancy forced a public apology on Chang’s podcast. People felt he had become the very "Goliath" he used to criticize. It was a classic case of a brand outgrowing its indie roots and suffering the consequences.
The final verdict on the crunch crisis
The controversy with Momofuku serves as a stark warning that legal rights do not trump cultural vibes in the creator economy. We must accept that a trademark is a tool, but when that tool is used to partition a shared heritage, it becomes a weapon that can backfire. Momofuku attempted to apply legacy corporate tactics to a community-driven marketplace and paid the price in brand equity. But let's be honest: we demand that our food founders be both ruthless CEOs and saintly community leaders, which is a structural impossibility. The chili oil market is now more crowded than ever, yet the most valuable takeaway is that you cannot trademark a feeling. Ultimately, the consumers won this round, proving that collective noise can stop a corporate engine in its tracks. It is a messy, spicy, and necessary lesson in modern food ethics.