There are many ways a D&D session can fall apart. Combat can drag. Plot threads can dangle and tangle. Someone can make a joke so cursed it derails the table for ten minutes. But nothing (nothing) destroys momentum like the moment someone says:
“Should we order food?”
Because this is the point where the party stops being a cohesive adventuring unit and reverts to its natural state: a collection of incompatible dietary philosophies loosely held together by dice.
The real boss fight isn’t the lich. It’s the takeaway.
The Cleric With Dietary Restrictions
They’re not difficult. They’re not demanding. They’re simply the only person at the table who has ever met a doctor.
They can’t have gluten. They can’t have dairy. They can’t have anything fried in the same oil as something that once thought about dairy.
They apologise constantly, which somehow makes everyone feel worse. The group scrolls through menus like archaeologists searching for a lost civilisation. Every option is a trap. Every cuisine is a betrayal.
The cleric says, “Honestly, I can just bring something from home,” which is the food‑ordering equivalent of throwing yourself on a grenade.
The Rogue Who Is Suddenly Vegan
You could have sworn they weren’t vegan last week. You’re willing to bet they won’t be vegan next week. But tonight, they are a disciple of the plant‑based path, and they will not compromise.
They reject every suggestion with the serene moral superiority of someone who has discovered a new identity and intends to wield it like a shortsword.
Pizza? No. Chinese? No. Indian? Maybe, but only if the place uses separate pans and ethically sourced cumin.
They’re not trying to be difficult; that takes no effort for them. They’re trying to be better.
The Barbarian Who Wants Meat and Only Meat
Every group has one.
They don’t care what cuisine you choose as long as it contains protein in quantities that would alarm a doctor. They want something primal. Something that once had a heartbeat. Something that can be eaten with the hands and regretted later.
Suggest salad, and they look at you like you’ve proposed cannibalism.
They’re not inflexible. They’re just hungry in a way that transcends (predates?) language.
The Wizard Who Brought Tupperware
This is the person who meal‑prepped. They have quinoa. They have roasted vegetables. They have a sauce they made themselves and will describe in detail if you let them.
They’re not participating in the group order. They’re simply observing it, like a scientist watching a doomed experiment unfold. They offer no opinions. They offer no solutions. They simply sit there, fork in hand, radiating the smug glow of someone who has conquered both time and hunger.
Everyone hates them a little. Some of us hate them a lot.
The DM Who Just Wants to Play
They don’t care what you order. They don’t care when it arrives. They don’t care if it’s cold, late, or actively on fire. They just want to get through the dungeon before midnight. Please.
Every minute spent debating food is a minute the DM watches their prep evaporate like mist. They try to nudge the group toward consensus. They fail. They try again. They fail harder. Eventually, they slump back in their chair, defeated, as the party begins arguing about whether chips count as a side or a meal.
The DM is not hungry. He moved past hunger some time ago. No, the DM is grieving.
The Party Meltdown
Let’s map out the timeline, shall we?
- Ten minutes in: optimism.
- Twenty minutes in: frustration.
- Thirty minutes in: someone says “I don’t mind, you choose,” which is a lie.
- Forty minutes in: someone else says “We had that last week,” which is irrelevant.
- Fifty minutes in: the barbarian threatens to eat the wizard’s Tupperware.
- Sixty minutes in: the group orders from the same place they always do.
That’s not even the end of it! That’s just placing the order. We’ve not even got to the point when the food arrives halfway through combat. Then, everyone forgets what they ordered and someone’s chips go missing.
It gets worse when the cleric’s gluten‑free option is wrong. The rogue, after swearing his allegiance to the gods of veganism, steals something cheese-based. The barbarian does end up eating the rest of the wizard’s packed lunch. The wizard sighs.
The session never recovers.
D&D is a game about collective decision‑making, and ordering food is the purest, most distilled form of that challenge. There are no dice to hide behind. No characters to blame. No mechanics to lean on.
It’s just you, your friends, and the crushing realisation that none of you have compatible taste buds.
D&D sucks because it requires cooperation. Food ordering sucks because it reveals how little of that you actually have.