The King’s Thai Cuisine had just opened for lunch when Josh Liljenquist approached the counter, stack of cash in hand.

“I have a question for you,” he asked the woman working the register at the Fridley restaurant. “How many egg rolls could I get for $500?”

But the order wasn’t for a party or eating challenge gimmick. Liljenquist explained it would go to “a lot of hungry people” experiencing homelessness.

This is what Liljenquist, 26, does most days: He visits a Twin Cities restaurant, orders hundreds of dollars of food and then gives it away. It’s all on camera, fodder for his TikTok channel’s more than 5 million followers who help his videos routinely garner hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of views.

Liljenquist, of Chaska, and business partners Ronald Wright and Dan Dunareanu of Calgary, Canada, call this their passion project: a philanthropic effort, they say, aimed at helping people in need and inspiring those who watch.

“We’re calling it ‘the Josh Lilj effect,'” Wright said, a reference to Liljenquist’s social media handle. “People see the videos, and they want to support, and we typically show the business’s name or shout them out, and then just let the magic happen.”

This kind of content is effective, in part, because it taps into a softer side of humanity at a time when much media is negative, said Dana Klisanin, a psychologist with ReWilding: Lab who has studied digital altruism.

“When people watch Josh, there’s a part of vicarious living. They are seeing someone else do this and it’s sort of mirroring what they wish they could do, perhaps,” she said. “And just to see somebody doing something good feels good.”

Why film?

Liljenquist has gained recognition since he started making these videos more than a year ago, and that’s complicated matters. It’s harder to tell whether a restaurant is participating solely for social media reputation, he said.

There are also questions about Liljenquist’s motivations, including from those who do similar work without filming it.

“I suspect he has the best of intentions, but it feels like exploiting unhoused people for clout and social media likes,” said Flannery Clark, a volunteer with Supply Depot, a collective that “distributes supplies to our unhoused neighbors,” she said.

“People are in vulnerable situations, and the power dynamic means they may get filmed because they’re desperate for the food and supplies. … And there are a lot of people on the street who don’t want to be found.”

During a video call with Liljenquist and Dunareanu, Wright said part of the reason for filming the philanthropy is financial. The trio, who own a marketing agency, initially contributed $60,000 to the effort, Wright said, but that’s not sustainable on a larger scale.

Posting videos requires a team of about eight. Each video earns about $200 to $400 across TikTok, Facebook and YouTube, Liljenquist said. More views earn more money.

“If you watch from the start of the page, we started with $5 gift cards,” Wright said. “And obviously, as our monetization goes up, which isn’t a ton, but it’s allowing us to do like $200, $300 a video, which is nice if it helps them.”

Liljenquist cut in to explain his reason for sharing the good deeds.

“I was scrolling through a few days ago, and some person was doing public content, he goes behind somebody and just sucker punches him in the back of the head. … That’s the type of stuff that kids are looking at,” he said. “Would you rather have that, inspiring kids to do that? Or by doing good by feeding homeless people?”

Rising ambition

Liljenquist grew up in Fairmont, Minn., a town of about 10,000 near the Iowa border. Altruism was part of his upbringing, he said: His father and grandfather, both veterans, made a habit of helping other veterans. His mother often took in young people who needed a place to stay.

“Giving’s better than receiving,” Liljenquist said. “I figured that out pretty early.”

Liljenquist, Wright and Dunareanu met as TikTok creators four years ago, joined forces and launched the marketing agency that is their main income source. Video revenue goes toward feeding more people and making more videos.

Liljenquist’s extroverted nature made him the obvious face of the project, they said.

“He just has this presence about him where people feel very comfortable around him, so like, everybody opens up to him and feels safe around him,” Wright said.

The videos have evolved from rewarding strangers who agreed to help Liljenquist when he pretended to need food or a blanket to feeding and outfitting people on the street. Someday, Wright said, they want to launch a nonprofit food truck or restaurant where people can eat for free.

“When I first started,” Liljenquist said, “I did not expect anything close to what I’m doing now.”

‘This can’t be real’

Yoom Nguyen remembers the day Liljenquist came into Lotus Restaurant in Minneapolis, which Nguyen’s family has owned since 1984.

The restaurant has always given away food at the end of the night, Nguyen said. So when Liljenquist arrived with his GoPro strapped to his chest, saying he planned to feed homeless people, Nguyen was taken aback.

“I was like, ‘This can’t be real,'” he said. “Because this is what I do, this is not what you do.”

Liljenquist will show up at a restaurant in sweats, confident and full of questions and quick to give hugs. Esrom Negash, 19, follows along with a tiny handheld camera. The two met at a gas station where Negash worked and Liljenquist frequented until Liljenquist offered him a job one day.

At Lotus, Nguyen packed up orders of egg rolls and fried rice and made pho for Liljenquist and his crew. Business boomed after that, and now, Nguyen said, he and Liljenquist talk daily. It was Nguyen’s recommendation that sent Liljenquist to King’s Thai.

Owner Savanh Sihanantharath refused Liljenquist’s offer to pay, and eventually emerged with three trays lined with egg rolls in wax paper bags, plus another bag with cash to give to those in need.

Scratching the surface

Community members who regularly distribute food and supplies to the unhoused community know it’s not as simple as Liljenquist’s videos make it seem.

Lack of coordination can lead to wasted food, said Ron Wetzell, who delivers hot meals and water to encampments, partly in coordination with Community Bridge. In situations where a crowd forms and people worry about food running out, tensions can rise, said Gary Hoffman, who also distributes food in Minneapolis as a Community Bridge volunteer. Burnout among volunteers is common, he said.

“None of this is solving the problem,” Clark said. “We’re keeping people alive.”

On Jan. 11, dozens of people milled around in the bone-deep cold outside Catholic Charities St. Paul Opportunity Center and Dorothy Day Residence. Liljenquist and Negash parked and began to distribute egg rolls and sodas. Liljenquist — who said “not a single person” in the Twin Cities unhoused community doesn’t know him — admitted there were lots of new faces, though he still recognized plenty as a crowd began to form.

“Here comes trouble,” he’d tease when he saw someone he knew.

Jamie Marazzo gave Liljenquist a hug when she saw him. She and her husband had recently met Liljenquist at a WalMart and made a video where he paid for pillows, gloves, socks and food.

“That was awesome,” Marazzo said. “God bless all of you.”

Jermaine Thomas, who lives in the neighborhood, said it’s not just the food Liljenquist brings that makes a difference. It’s also the social interaction.

“He’s good people, and I like that,” Thomas said. “He’s using his platform to do something good for people.”

When the egg rolls had disappeared, Liljenquist and Negash hopped in the car and headed to their next mission: buying cookies to hand out at another shelter, camera in tow.