10 things new money pretend are beneath them but still secretly enjoy

Money changes the menu, not the tastebuds.

I’ve watched friends “make it” and swear off anything that hints of their before-life—then smile like kids when no one’s watching and the thing they “don’t do anymore” shows up.

Social climbing isn’t just about what you buy; it’s about what you pretend you’ve outgrown. The truth? Most of us still love the same small comforts. We just get louder about the new stuff.

Here are 10 things new rich people often act like they’re above but secretly still enjoy—and what that says about being human.

1. Drive-through breakfast sandwiches

Public stance: “I only do artisanal brunch or a protein smoothie.”

Private behavior: It’s 7:10 a.m., the Range Rover is in the lane, and someone is ordering a hash brown that could patch drywall.

Why it sticks: It’s not the food; it’s the ritual—hot, salty, handheld competence before a day of meetings. Success makes your calendar fancier, not your dopamine different. The stealthy move you’ll see: a “just coffee” order announced at the speaker… plus one extra bag passed quietly at the window.

How to own it: Stop performing purity. Eat the sandwich. Tip the person at the window. Then go lead your offsite with a warm brain.

2. Big-box store treasure hunts

Public stance: “I’m all about curated boutiques and direct-to-consumer brands.”

Private behavior: Saturday morning membership card scan, a 24-pack of paper towels, and a gleam in the eye when the sample cart appears.

Why it sticks: Abundance at scale flips the same switch as a luxury showroom—only cheaper and more democratic. There’s also a primal joy in the hunt (Is that a Dutch oven for $59?). “Beneath me” dies the second you find the exact storage bins your closet needed.

A tiny truth: Pallets make certain personalities happier than pedestals.

3. Airline miles hacking

Public stance: “I just book business and forget it.”

Private behavior: Meticulously timing transfers, checking award charts, and bragging—quietly—about the unicorn redemption like it’s a heist.

Why it sticks: It’s a game with points, rules, and upside. Rich or not, our brains love squeezing value from a system. The irony is delicious: the more you can pay, the more fun it feels to pay with miles. Watch for the tells: “I’d never fly economy… unless it’s Singapore’s A350 on the right seat map. Row 43 is elite.”

4. Chain-restaurant comfort hits

Public stance: “We prefer chef-driven concepts.”

Private behavior: A road-trip detour for the exact salad, the exact fries, the exact dipping sauce that tastes like Little League and pay-day Fridays.

Why it sticks: Consistency is a luxury too. After a week of “What’s your spice progression?” at $180 tasting menus, predictability lands like a hug. I’m vegan now and still get the giddy calm of knowing exactly what’s on the plate and how it will taste anywhere in the country.

A founder friend once insisted we “eat like adults” in a new city. We walked past three Michelin notables and ended up at… a mall chain he swore he’d “aged out of.”

He inhaled the breadsticks with the focus of a monk. On the way out he said, soft, “My mom brought me here when things were good.” That’s the thing about “beneath me”—it’s usually just “protect me.”

5. Coupons, promo codes, and clearance racks

Public stance: “Time is money; I don’t do coupons.”
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rivate behavior: Honey and Rakuten extensions humming; a private Notes app with “sale” links; elbows deep in a “take an extra 50% off” end-cap at 8:45 p.m.

Why it sticks: The thrill of “I beat the system” doesn’t scale away with income.

New rich folks will refuse a $12 service fee on principle while paying for the upgraded car—because the car is status, but the fee feels like a tax on their intelligence.

Watch their eyes light up when a luxury brand quietly does a sample sale: “It would be irresponsible not to.”

6. Cheap seats with loud fans

Public stance: “We have a suite; it’s easier for clients.”

Private behavior: A suspicious number of photos from the nosebleeds, where the chants start and the nachos are worse and therefore better.

Why it sticks: Suites are networking. Upper decks are sports. Emotion has a better view from row Z. The richest person in the building is often dressed like a civilian one night a season, beer in hand, yelling with strangers whose names they’ll never know and never forget.

Pro tip: If someone “above it all” turns into a statistician of foul calls from the cheap seats, believe that version. That’s the fan, not the brand.

7. Reality TV with zero nutrients

Public stance: “We don’t even own a TV.”

Private behavior: Knows every cast member’s astrological chart and can summarize three seasons of chaos in under a minute.

Why it sticks: Success work burns the brain. Low-stakes drama rinses it. Reality TV is a communal soap opera for people who spend their days inside spreadsheets. Shame-watching is just watching with extra steps.

How to own it: Trade pretense for curation. “I watch garbage. This is the best garbage.” Parties get better when someone admits they love mess.

8. Dive bars and sticky tables

Public stance: “Natural wine bar?”

Private behavior: “Actually… can we go somewhere with a jukebox and fries?” The barstools have seen things; the bartender remembers your friend’s breakup from 2019 and pours empathy as a double.

Why it sticks: Dive bars reward presence, not polish. No velvet rope, no reservation app, no “we’re full for walk-ins.” Just a room that will take you as you are and feed you salt and stories. Money buys many things; it rarely buys genuine ease.

I once watched a newly minted millionaire take clients to a glittering rooftop. Everyone performed networking. Forty-five minutes later, we migrated to a corner dive because the sax player outside sounded fun.

Deals got better in that noisy room. So did the humans. The check was smaller; the tips were larger.

9. Free hotel lobby snacks and amenities

Public stance: “We only stay where breakfast is an experience.”

Private behavior: Pocketing apples and tiny waters like a famine is coming; gleefully raiding the 4 p.m. cookie tray; doing laundry in the guest machines because $12 per sock is a crime.

Why it sticks: Free + slightly illicit feels like victory. Also, scarcity habits stick around longer than bank balances. Economists call it path dependence; I call it “I will always love a lobby lemon water like it’s champagne.”

Small etiquette note: enjoy the freebies; leave them for others too. Quiet wealth is abundance without hoarding.

10. Public parks, people-watching, and car-picnics

Public stance: “Private clubs have everything we need.”

Private behavior: A blanket, a book, a bodega sandwich, and the very un-private joy of sitting in a city and letting it happen around you.

Why it sticks: Clubs curate; parks surprise. Money can edit the world until it’s safe and small. A bench makes it big again—skateboarders, grandparents, dogs with jobs they take seriously, teenagers failing beautifully at fashion. A car-picnic in a parking lot hits the same—no reservation, no dress code, just the luxury of not being important for an hour.

Why the performance happens (and how to drop it)

New money is a costume. You try it on, check mirrors, and wait for approval.

The easiest way to signal “I belong here” is to declare certain things passé: chain restaurants, coupons, nosebleeds, office chairs that swivel (kidding, kind of).

It’s theater designed to soothe an old fear: If they see where I came from, will they eject me?

But loyalty to old joys doesn’t cancel new standards. You can love tasting menus and drive-through hash browns. You can fund the arts and watch reality TV. You can have a sommelier’s number in your phone and still ask for a frosty beer in a can.

Wealth that’s comfortable with itself doesn’t need to erase earlier versions of you to validate the current one.

The psychology under the hood

• Familiarity is a regulation tool. When life scales up, your nervous system craves predictable hits. Chain fries and junk TV are emotional Advil.

• Value extraction is sticky. The thrill of a deal (miles, codes) hits the same reward pathways regardless of income. “More for less” is a game, not a tax bracket.

• Status fatigue is real. Always choosing the “best” choice is exhausting. Dive bars and cheap seats remove the performance tax.

• Memory flavors food. A breadstick can carry a decade of “we were okay” in its gluten. You’re not eating starch; you’re eating safety.

If you recognize yourself (hi, welcome)

Try these small experiments:

• Celebrate the overlap. Make a night that mixes “high” and “low”: start with a park picnic, end with a jazz set. Call it a range check.

• Be the first to admit the “low.” Say, “I love this garbage TV,” or “I will never outgrow grocery-store donuts.” You’ll notice other people relax—and admit theirs.

• Tip like you’re rich when you play “low.” Drive-through, dive bar, chain restaurant, big-box store—generosity is the only flex worth keeping.

• Keep one ritual from before. A big-box run with a friend. A nosebleed game a season. A Saturday morning lobby coffee raid. Rituals tether you to personhood, not performance.

• Tell the real story. If something you “shouldn’t” love is actually a thread to someone you miss, say that. It turns a guilty pleasure into a portable altar.

The quiet flex that replaces pretending

The loudest status move is disavowal: “I don’t do that anymore.” The quiet one is range: “I can enjoy a tasting menu on Friday and a drive-through hash brown at 7:10 a.m. on Monday—and be kind to everyone in both rooms.” Range reads richer than rejection.

Money can buy access, comfort, and plenty of sparkle. What it can’t buy is the ease of someone who doesn’t need to stage a life. That ease comes from telling the truth about what still makes you grin, even if a younger you would be embarrassed, and an older you is supposed to be over it.

Confession: the first time I hit a true adult win, I celebrated with… a grocery-store donut and a walk in the park. Not because I lack taste. Because the frosting tastes like childhood Saturdays and the park reminds me the world is bigger than any inbox. Success didn’t change that. It just gave me better shoes for the walk.

If you’re newly flush and rehearsing lines about what’s “beneath” you, consider this a permission slip to drop the act. Enjoy the cheap seats, the chain breadsticks, the lobby lemon water. Then go sign the nice check for the community fundraiser and schedule your tasting menu. You’re allowed to be a person with a wide appetite and a long memory.

The secret most “arrived” people eventually discover is simple: you can keep the good stuff from before without losing the good stuff you have now. In fact, that’s the best part of having more—being able to choose from a bigger menu and mean it when you say, “I’ll have both.”