For a long time, my bid to take control of lunch was to make my meal the cheapest and speediest possible, nutrition be damned. I’d save the Alison Roman recipes for dinner and the homemade egg sandwiches for the weekends; lunch came courtesy of the Trader Joe’s frozen aisle. A stash of frozen veggie-burger patties in various flavors—Indian masala, Californian green pea, and my favorite, mealy-but-virtuous Quinoa Cowboy—lived in my D.C. office’s kitchen freezer. I’d microwave the soggy patties and slap them on a tortilla, sometimes garnished with Swiss cheese and hot sauce or wasabi mayo. On more ambitious days, I’d jiggle a soup out from a can or duck down to the subterranean deli to buy one. Then I moved to San Francisco and started working out of a WeWork, land of free snacks and bountiful booze.

There was one problem: I couldn’t find any freezers. If I left my frozen burgers in the office fridge, the patties would thaw into a shapeless veggie mass by noon. I emailed WeWork to ask why it had no freezers, and if there were any freezers anywhere. Instead of an answer, I received a note that said: “Thank you for reaching out. We will politely have to decline comment at this time. Appreciate your understanding.”

It’s possible the company had other priorities at this time, but the “no comment” response obsessed me briefly; I became convinced that I’d stumbled onto a conspiracy that revealed something larger about late capitalism. By depriving its office tenants of freezers to store their own microwaveable lunchtime larder, WeWork was essentially colluding with the Sweetgreens and MealPals of the world, I reasoned; perhaps this was part of the company’s unorthodox path to profitability.

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Eventually, I stopped trying to fight and embraced the future: I signed up for MealPal. (It had a first-time-user promotion where all the lunches were $3.89!) Every day it prompts me to order the Eggplant Plate from Sababa or the Arugula Grain Power Bowl from Le Boulangerie. Beaten down by its persistence, I comply, and feel healthy and productive.

When lunch has been so thoroughly optimized for time and value, though, the delicious vagaries of consumer choice are left out. What if, in the hours between 5 p.m. Monday and 1 p.m. Tuesday, I change my mind and decide I really want a 32-ounce lentil soup? What if the WeWork announces a free avocado-toast bar and I wish I had just not ordered anything at all? Too bad: I’m locked into the Power Bowl.

And while my lunch is fast, actually getting the food is not truly frictionless. To pick up the falafel platter I recently ordered from a Middle Eastern place near my office, I first have to respectfully decline the business of another meal-optimizing start-up whose representative is waiting by the door of the shop, offering me a discount. Ducking in front of the regular line-waiters, avoiding their angry looks, I try to find the QR code I’m supposed to scan, but it’s sandwiched between a half-dozen other signs advertising Ritual and JoyRun and Caviar. When I’ve finally shown the glowing QR screen to the cashier, I’m directed around a corner, where two safe-like boxes sit. Inside are lukewarm falafel bowls, ready for the taking. (I could grab three at a time and it’s unclear whether anyone would notice: It’s a falafel-lifters paradise.)