People often refer to vegan food as rabbit food, but Veggie Grill's vegan menu is way more delicious and inventive than that. So to give them a modern attitude to match their modern cuisine, we brought in a character that would face the rabbit food stereotype head-on: the modern-day Peter Rabbit. We launched him with this story.

Peter gave Veggie Grill an edgy voice that allowed the company to brag about how amazing their food is without ever talking about themselves. And he fit perfectly in their social channels, inciting conversations, games, and experiences. 




I’m Peter Rabbit. That bunny from that farm. 

That stole some veggies every day til that man tried to take my arm.

I mean I love my greens. And reds. And pinks. But I like spices too.

I wasn’t that mad he chased me out because I wanted to try something new.

So, I escaped and ran off to LA. And the Farmer’s hoe stayed clean.

Sorry. That was just a joke. My humor’s a bit obscene.

But back to the story. You want to know what happened in the city?

I hopped through cars and sand and smog searching for my pretty.

I wasn’t in farmland anymore. I could tell by the lack of plants.

Finding lunch in this crazy town felt like a song and dance.

But then I saw a celebrity. It doesn’t matter who.

The point is she stopped right next to me to pull something off her shoe.

I stopped and stared right past her and saw a place called Veggie Grill.

Yes, I’m literate you judgy human, how else could I rap so ill?

Anyways, being a rabbit, my nose works better than yours.

So, I could smell the concoctions brewing behind those doors.

For sure those were veggies. And I had to get a taste.

I snuck inside and the most amazing smells smacked me in the face.

I ordered one of everything. I was so hungry I could eat a horse

‘s meal, you carnivore. I only eat veggies of course.  

But this is food for everyone. As delicious meals tend to be.

Doesn’t matter if you also like meat or fish or planted trees.

Because these are greens to envy. See what I did there?

They’re crisped.

They’re sauced.

They’re spiced.

They’re grilled. 

They’re the future of veggie fare.

So, sorry Ma. I’m not coming back, I’m staying in LA.

I’ll prance around this city to a new Veggie Grill every day.

And all you social stalkers, you can follow me around.

We can take pics with our food or you can watch me paint the town.

This is a veggie adventure. I’m free and on a quest.

Because I know what nature’s capable of, and these are better than her best.

Excerpt from my travel journal: May 22

I called my camel, “Jiggy,” referring to the punchline of an inappropriate joke I’d heard in broken English. Those chained behind me called me “La Reina” (the Queen), as I, stiff with fear, led the pack. 

Somehow, in all my years Google image searching, I thought the Sahara was flat and peaceful. 

It’s not. 

The wind tosses sand in your face (hence the head and face wraps), the camels continuously slip down the dunes, and it’s worse than a bicycle on your hind parts. Yet, everyone I know who’s visited Morocco braved the camel ride. They all leave with that serene-desktop-image photo, but in the 24 hours I spent on the hump of Jiggy I got more than a picture. 

I got some peace of mind. 

We thought we’d be able to choose our camels, but the men lined us up and assigned us a frothing beast. I got stuck in the front, probably because I was the most nervous. I think they wanted to watch me. Make sure I didn’t cause a scene or break a hip. 

Riding a camel is not like riding a horse. On a horse, there’s a saddle. The reins help you balance. When you’re perched on a hump, things are different. Humps are higher. The handle provides no stability. It’s like being on a small boat on a breezy day. You rock back and forth. I don’t know how this doesn’t worry other people. I was sure I would fall. But after my seventeenth accidental squeal, our guide, with the calmness of Gandhi and skin almost blue from the sun, turned around and politely told me to calm the fuck down. “You don’t relax, you fall. You move with the camel, is easy.” 

The metaphor, although unintentional, was amusingly poignant. Go with the flow dummy, and you might actually enjoy this. 

We were blindly being led, at turtle speed, into a vast furnace with one water bottle each. I tried to relax.

We stopped to sleep at a tarp set up by the locals. (Yes, there are desert dwellers. It surprised me too.) As the sun set, the heat disappeared. We hid from the cold and sand storms under the same blankets we’d used as saddles an hour prior. I told my friends how worried I’d been, but, as usual, they weren’t as concerned as I was. “Sometimes you just have to trust somebody else to get you where you’re going.” 

As I sit here in a BMW taxi circa 1975, surrounded by faux-leopard, relieved to have survived the Sahara, I realize riding a camel might have just unlocked the secrets to happiness: Relax. Sometimes, let other people lead. And don’t share blankets with animals if you don’t want fleas.

Excerpt from my travel journal: May 20

A mosh pit is nothing compared to the markets of Marrakech. A violent sea of strangers, all desperate for a souvenir. It's a little frightening. Then there’s the issue of bargaining. And being American. And a woman. 

Amidst the chaos, we had our first adventure, and by adventure I mean being ambushed by men holding snakes. 

The markets are riddled with snake charmers, straight out of the streets of Agrabah. (Agrabah, if you were wondering, is the setting of the Disney classic Aladdin.) What would any normal person do when face-to-face with a snake charmer? Pose for a photo. But photos, we would learn, don’t come cheap. 

Because Kalene grew up loving the Aladdin video game, she insisted on a picture with the snake charmer. I wanted nothing to do with the situation, so I stepped to the side as Meghan agreed to snap Kalene’s souvenir. But as soon as she held her camera to her eye, a man came at me from my left. He put his arm around me and asked Jonny to take our photo. 

He seemed nice except for a rather long snake he wore around his neck, which quickly found its way around mine.

I don’t mind snakes. Not in a cage. Or even on the ground. But if they are going to be within suffocating distance, I would like some sort of warning. So, there I stood in the turmoil of Marrakech, screaming and attempting to push this snake-man off me, all the time horrified that I’d piss off the snake and be on the next flight back to the States in a brand new casket.

So, I struggled and despite the death grip the man had enforced upon me, I wriggled free. 

The end? If only.

I’d escaped, but I hadn’t paid for this involuntary keepsake. As I walked off, the once-jovial snake charmer got angry. Smiles turned to “Give me money! Give me money!” He chased me through the market. Frantic, I gave him the first coin I could find in my purse. 10 Dirham. An exorbitant price for a Moroccan tourist attraction. 

Finally, we got away. Then we stared at each other laughing the laughter only a near death experience can cause. Over all the panting, we heard Kalene.

 “Why is my shirt wet? I think the snake peed on me.”