By Marco Shalma

Walk the South Bronx with your eyes open and the story tells itself. You don’t need a spreadsheet. You don’t need a city report. You don’t need a consultant with a tote bag saying “equity.” Look at the storefronts. Look at what opened. Look at what closed. The new food spots pushing in aren’t the Dominican counters, the Mexican kitchens, the Jamaican windows, the West African stews, the Yemeni bakeries, the Puerto Rican rotisseries — the places that actually feed people. What’s coming in are chains. Franchises. Fast-casual clones wearing local colors like camouflage.

Developers and agencies promised something else. They showed up with full theatrics — renderings that looked like a Whole Foods got dropped on a block that never asked for one, plus smiling crowds, perfect lighting, and a story about “fresh food access.” They spoke like they were rescuing the neighborhood. They talked about opportunity, entrepreneurship, space for local cooks. Everyone nodded. Everyone clapped. Everyone bought the pitch.

Then the leases got signed, and you saw who the winners were. Not the guys running a grill on 138th for twenty years. Not the family who’s been seasoning the same pot on Prospect Ave since the Bush presidency. Not the Yemeni baker who opens before sunrise. Not the woman making pastelitos so good people double-park for them. The winners were the chains with the legal teams, the franchise networks, the corporate guarantees, the deeper pockets, the “brand alignment.” The storefronts that were supposed to become community kitchens turned into burger spots, chicken spots, bowl spots, salad spots — interchangeable, copy-and-paste, algorithm-friendly tenants.

The South Bronx didn’t get reinvestment. It got substitution.