73 Must-Try Desserts in San Diego

Tokyo unquestionably holds the title as one of the best, if not the best, food cities of the world. But despite the plethora of Michelin-starred kaiseki restaurants and hole-in-the-wall ramen joints, you’d be remiss in walking past glowing signs beckoning you to enter one of the 56,000-plus konbini across the country.

Konbini cafes like Lawson’s, FamilyMart, and 7-Eleven may look like run-of-the-mill convenience stores, but convenience store culture is a completely different animal there. Absent are the sad, floppy hot dogs sizzling sweatily on a rotating wheel of misery. Instead, konbini are stocked with a bevy of hot and cold drinks in every imaginable flavor, meals like tamago sandos (Japanese egg salad sandwiches) and prepacked bento boxes, snacks like onigiri (handheld triangles of rice and seaweed, often filled with fish or pickled plum), and even limited-edition merchandise (not unlike Wawa’s line of merch). 

Soon, Hillcrest will get a taste of konbibi culture. Hako Hako opens in front of Uptown Inn by Vantaggio, next to Ramen Ryoma, in early 2027.

Kenji Blouin-Ito, a half-Japanese, half-French San Diego native grew up eating Japanese food at home and during trips across the Pacific. “I remember looking forward to eating bentos on the train,” he says, grabbing quick items to munch on without sacrificing quality or succumbing to cost. When in France, he saw a rise of appreciation for casual Japanese cuisine, “long before it happened here.” 

So he decided to bring it here. After AB 626 passed in 2018 to allow different jurisdictions to permit Microenterprise Home Kitchen Operations (MEHKOs), Blouin-Ito launched Foodnome, the first legal marketplace for homemade food in the US. Eventually, the national nonprofit The Cook Alliance took over the project, leaving him open to the next new idea but with the experience of running a food-based business. 

“That experience changed how I think about food, not just what makes it good but what makes it work,” he explains. Bento boxes felt affordable in a time of inflation, convenient in a bustling world, and versatile to a variety of palates. When he got the chance to open a konbini himself, he went for it. 

His family runs Uptown Inn, a mix of apartments and hotel rooms that’s seen increased food traffic over the past few years. “We had a small space in front of the building that wasn’t being used, and it just made sense,” he says. Hako means “box” in Japanese, a reference to both bentos and small space from where he’ll sling freshly made bentos, coffee, drinks, pastries, snacks, and a small retail selection.

Hako Hako will initially open for morning and afternoon hours, but you don’t have to wait until next year to get a taste of Japanese culture. Blouin-Ito’s concept is popping up at various coffee shops around San Diego, with a few coming up: Easy Does It on September 19 and Cafe Moto on October 17. Until then, practice the art of gaman: patience with grace. 

Hako Hako opens at 819 University Avenue in Hillcrest in early 2027.

San Diego Restaurant News & Food Events

Beth’s Bites

• Sushi Tadokoro held on to its Michelin star for three years—no mean feat for anyone. But now, the Old Town restaurant is changing things up, eliminating lunch and à la carte service at the end of September before transforming into an omakase-only experience in October. The dining room will close from October 1 through October 22 to make the change, but promises it will be “more intimate. More personal. More focused on each guest and every piece we serve.” Sounds worth the wait.
• Bock brought new life to South Park when the German-inspired beer bar opened after a long construction process by owner Brian Jensen (Vino Carta, Bottlecraft). Now, Bock is getting its own shot in the arm with a new in-house kitchen from the people behind Majorette, Love Letters Pizza, and Scrimshaw Coffee. Kurz, or “quick” in German, is already open, serving European-inspired bites like the requisite currywurst, Bavarian pretzel, and schnitzel, along with some newcomers like a pierogi and famous “Majorette burger.” (I can confirm it’s a damn good burger.) Reminder: Bock and Kurz are 21+, so leave the kinders at home.
• The popular Japanese dessert chain Warabimochi Kamakura already has 70-plus locations in Japan, Australia, China, Thailand, and the U.K. (to name a few), but is finally opening a location in Convoy District at 8322 Clairemont Blvd. After a successful pop-up test run at Asa Bakery, Warabimochi Kamakura will bring its signature warabimochi (a traditional simple, jelly-like dessert), plus tea like matcha and hojicha, as well as soft serve as soon as October, but possibly November. (Although warabimochi is sometimes considered a summer treat, I’m pretty sure I can make an exception for autumn.)

Listen Now: The Latest in San Diego’s Food and Drink Scene

Have breaking news, exciting scoops, or great stories about new San Diego restaurants or the city’s food scene? Send your pitches to [email protected].

No matter your job, it’s helpful to find some sort of joy in it to avoid going completely insane. Some people savor the variety of personalities when dealing with customers. Others find comfort in the predictability of closing a bar after last call, counting tips and wiping counters. Perhaps achieving Inbox Zero really gets your blood pumping, or shipping a new product design sparks joy.

For Heidi Greenwood and Juerie Masters, work doesn’t get better than logistics and operations.

“[We] both love all the unsexy parts of supply chain and backend management,” laughs Greenwood. Tracking outbound orders? Ensuring compliance? Managing inbound freight? Stop me if this is getting too hot for you!

Not enough people think about the unsexy reality of running a business before launch, but effectively and consistently keeping an eye on operations separates successful companies from out-of-business ones. Both Masters and Greenwood already own their own businesses—Greenwood is behind the wine zine Campestre Mag and runs the online wine shop Esquina, and Masters co-owns Clos Wine Shop and Fintastic Provisions in University Heights with her husband Paul. Apparently, these gigs weren’t enough to satisfy their collective yearning for spreadsheets and inventory maintenance. 

September 2, 2026

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So, they decided to start another business together—Sosal Line, a San Diego-based import and distribution company specializing in global pantry items. The pair launched Sosal Line at the beginning of 2025 and currently only sell three brands of tinned fish, but Greenwood says they plan to expand their offerings as they discover other small or family-run businesses that share their values.

“We want to work with brands and with products that really have a sense of place and actually tell a story—not just the product, but the people behind it too,” she says. 

Masters and Greenwood are both Korean-American and named this burgeoning business after Haenyeo, the legendary free-diving women of Jeju Island in South Korea. Traditional Haenyeo equipment and garb include oribal (swim fins), yeoncheol (lead belts to help them sink), and the company’s namesake sosal, a hand-held fishing spear (sometimes called jaksal). 

The average person, if sitting completely still, can stay underwater for up to a minute and a half at most. Haenyeo can hold their breath for up to three minutes while actively foraging, harvesting, and swimming. Scientists say these diving women spend more time underwater than any other group of humans on earth. Not badass enough for you? The average age of Haenyeo is around 70.

“Fishing is a strong heritage for Koreans, and it’s the same here in San Diego with the Portuguese settlers,” Greenwood explains. (We aren’t the tuna capital of the US for no reason.) 

Sosal Line carries 100 percent traceable, wild caught fish from Galicia in Northern Spain and the Pacific Northwest, all family-owned companies who don’t compromise on sustainable practices. Tinned fish has never been more popular—or more debated—but there’s more to it than cute labels designed for maximum Instagram reach. “I want to know who I’m purchasing from,” says Greenwood. One of their suppliers, Craft Fish Co., which is based in San Diego but fishes in the PNW, is run by JJ and Jessica Gerritsen. JJ catches, Jessica packages, and it’s a business relationship on a first-name basis. “You can’t find that when you’re working with some nameless brand.”

San Diegans can find Sosal Line products at local retailers like Clos/Fintastic (obviously), allmine in Oceanside, Always Hungry Grocery & Goods in Carlsbad, J. Brix Wines in San Marcos, Collins & Coupe/Tablespoon in North Park, and Green Acre in La Jolla. They’re also available in select retailers in Northern California, Oregon, Arizona, and strangely enough, South Carolina. Expanding its client base is, of course, a goal. But not at the expense of quality or joy of discovery.

“I would love to see people try food from different cultures and be excited about it,” says Greenwood. “Maybe make them want to travel to experience different areas of the world.” 

San Diego Restaurant News & Events

Manna Coffee Co. Is A Family Affair  

La Mesa: a bucolic, hill-dappled city long regarded as a somewhat frumpy, never quite trendy bridge between the urban cool of Mid-City and the rural sprawls of East County. La Mesa’s population clocks in at around 4 percent of the city of San Diego’s—fewer than Chula Vista, Oceanside, Escondido, Carlsbad, El Cajon, Vista, San Marcos, and Encinitas, in that order. It’s home to a killer Oktoberfest, one of the best charter high schools in the state, and a theatrical mayor who tools around town in a golf cart (and so far, hasn’t cut any arts funding or closed public bathrooms). 

But any area that’s only 20 minutes from downtown San Diego and under 20 miles to Mission Bay will only stay under the radar for so long. Slowly but surely, bits and bobs from San Diego’s cultural tastemakers have been popping up all over town. Dark Horse Coffee and the boutique Small Batch both opened in La Mesa in 2018. Stella Jean’s and Pop Pie are coming later this year. Native Poppy is building its new headquarters and studio this fall. After a year in business, the new owners of JK’s Greek have established themselves as one of the best Greek restaurants in the county. 

Next year, La Mesa will get one of its most ambitious projects yet. Billy and Suzanna Beltz, owners of Lost Cause Meadery and Oddish Wine, are pouring everything they have into renovating a 5,000-square-foot building between the Village and MacArthur Park to open a wine/beer bar, coffee shop, all-day cafe, and wine shop. 

September 2, 2026

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The concept doesn’t have a name (yet), and Bica in Normal Heights will come on as a partner to run the restaurant aspect and coffee program (which also won’t be called Bica. Still lots of naming decisions to be made). But the Beltz’s vision is to create something in La Mesa that doesn’t exist yet—a community gathering space open from morning until night that’s family-friendly, creatively designed, and well… cool. 

The building has been around since the 1940s, first operating as a neighborhood market, then butcher shop, secondhand children’s store, electronics store, dry cleaners, and bike shop. The Beltzses say they plan to keep the “soul and character” of the space as much as possible, highlighting original details like a barrel-shaped wooden roof, brightening up the corner building by utilizing the large front windows, and eventually building an outdoor dining/drinking space and kid-friendly area—a must for the neighborhood’s plethora of young families. They tapped all locals for the design and build: Tecscape Design, design consultant Carly Miller-Chen (who owns Ayi boutique in South Park) to create the space, and local contractor CLTVT. 

Starting in the morning, the space will offer coffee and light breakfast items before transitioning to lunch and dinner menus, plus a full bar that will feature Oddish and Lost Cause products as well as other local wines, beers, ciders, and other beverages alongside an aperitivo program and low-ABV cocktails and spritzes. Food-wise, they plan to install a wood-fired oven and rotisserie, but expect more menu details to be revealed closer to opening. 

There will also be a small retail space focused on natural wines and ciders from places like Raging Cider & Mead in San Marcos and other San Diego and Baja California makers. But don’t expect run-of-the-mill options from the guy who makes weird wines and mead, the oldest alcoholic beverage in human history (hardly TikTok trend material). “We have a unique perspective… Hopefully we can expand some palates and minds in the process,” says Billy.

Community is the heart of the project, more than food, more than drinks. “We have a young family. [Bica owners] Manny [Da Luz] and Charlie [Knowles] have families,” says Billy. Suzanna adds: “People want a space that they know they’re going to get really amazing food, really fun drinks, but they can also feel like they can bring their kids during the weeknights.” It won’t be North Park 2.0, although many families now living in La Mesa came from various neighborhoods across Mid-City (like the Beltzes). It’s filling a void. It’s something they can build from the ground up. And just maybe, it’s something that will surprise people who have yet to discover La Mesa’s potential. 

Oddish Wine/Lost Cause Meadery’s new concept is projected to open by the end of 2027 at 8495 La Mesa Blvd.

San Diego Restaurant News & Food Events

Beth’s Bites

• For as long as I can remember, my favorite animal in the world has been bunnies. (You’d think I would have been cured of the notion after adopting an adorable, but absolutely diabolical rabbit in my teens, but alas, it did not.) If you, too, love gazing at cute little cotton tails and velvety-soft ears, then join me for Bunnies & Brunch on Saturday, September 26 at Hilton San Diego Gaslamp Quarter’s Wild Hare Bar Garden. (I had no idea that downtown San Diego was once home to a robust rabbit population in the mid-19th century, but today I learned!) Yes, there will be a bunny petting farm from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Take a number, pal.
• Keeping with the animal theme, there’s a new snake in town. Serpent & Stone, a Greek-inspired restaurant and lounge opened this weekend at 750 Front Street with Mediterranean classics like falafel, Greek meatballs, skewers, Greek salads, and mythology-inspired cocktails like “The Aphrodite” (pea-flower-infused Ketel One vodka with passion fruit, Madagascar vanilla, Passoã, lime and champagne). If you didn’t make it to Mykonos this summer, this sounds like a decent alternative. 
• Mat Robar, Jesse Pine, and Winslow Sawyer launched Pure Project in 2016 with the idea of centering a brewery around sustainability, rather than leaving it as an afterthought or bonus. Most recently, they released Closed Loops, a collaborative murky IPA with Societe Brewing Company and Dalum Beverage Equipment, the latter of which installed CO2 capturing machines at both breweries earlier this year. Since February, Pure Project has recaptured and reused over 74,500 pounds of CO₂ emissions, keeping all of that out of the air and staying on track to hit over 119,000 pounds by the end of the year. The hazy IPA brewed with Tropical Fusion, Mosaic, and Strata Cryo hops is now on draft and in to-go four-packs at all five Pure Project locations, and I’ve got to say, it’s really nice to see environmental enthusiasts doing their part. 
• Cheerio, California English. The Sorrento Valley British restaurant launched by celebrity chef Richard Blais will close permanently at the end of September. May your prime rib “proper roast” and Scotch eggs live on in another realm somewhere.

Listen Now: The Latest in San Diego’s Food and Drink Scene

Have breaking news, exciting scoops, or great stories about new San Diego restaurants or the city’s food scene? Send your pitches to [email protected].

This is part of a three-part series. This is Act III. See Act I and Act II here.

The Future

We’ve been here before.

In 2012, city funding for the arts and culture in San Diego had eroded. As a corrective, the city council unanimously approved “Penny for the Arts”—a promise to dedicate roughly one penny of every dollar spent on hotel rooms (the Transient Occupancy Tax, or TOT).

The logic was fair and sound: Cultural institutions and events help attract visitors. Those visitors pay hotel taxes. So, the people agreed, some of that hotel-tax revenue should go back into maintaining the cultural ecosystem that helps bring those visitors and that money.

Projected as a five-year plan, the measure was supposed to increase funding to $17.9 million by 2017.

September 1, 2026

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It never did. The penny was never guaranteed, so each year the city used part of it for other priorities. By 2023, the money going to arts and culture was up to about a half a penny. Even as TOT revenue has gone up significantly.

In 2019, TOT revenue was $245 million.

In 2025: $325 million.

One fix would be to guarantee the penny. Not simple, given San Diego’s financial woes. But the alternative—eroding the culture that makes San Diego San Diego, give it its identity—also doesn’t feel wise. Plus, even a locked percentage still rises and falls with tourism, which is why culture advocates want a guaranteed floor on top of it.

Another solution would be to give the arts commission actual authority.

“It’s an advisory body,” says arts commissioner Kamaal Martin. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anybody who takes our advice.”

He described the commissioners debating real, consequential questions this year, like whether and how to divide the cuts between funding pools. But those conversations “don’t connect to whoever’s actually deciding,” Martin says. “We haven’t been entrusted with decision-making about relevant things nearly enough.”

Christine Martinez is building political infrastructure through her organization Arts+Culture:San Diego—which is starting a 501(c)(4) lobbying structure not unlike police and fire unions. Martinez is also keeping her community actively engaged. “We won’t be caught off guard next year like we were this year,” she tells me.

Then there’s the evergreen issue of affordability and accessibility. Kiplinger’s most recent report ranks San Diego as the 11th most expensive city in the US, based on cost of living. The average home value is $980,700 (the US median is $540,000), but San Diego’s median household income is only one-third greater than the national level. Rent is also 66 percent higher than the national average ($2,716 vs. $1,636).

This is why San Diego has long suffered from the creative brain drain—creatives leaving for more affordable cities. “Artists are free to live wherever they want, and they will go where the rent is affordable,” says Jennifer de Poyen of Space 4 Art. “When they leave, they take their gifts with them, and their contributions, and their economic impact.”

One saving grace is the presence of Tijuana, where the cost of living is about 60 percent lower than San Diego, per Numbeo. Tijuana has long functioned as an affordable neighborhood for many in San Diego’s creative culture. It’s part of the reason why the binational identity is such a constant in our galleries, music, theater, murals, and culture. While that cross-border blood flow is one of San Diego’s most compelling attributes, few artists living that life would call it convenient or easy. A city is at a disadvantage when its culture creators have to cross a border to go home at night, and cross again the next morning to work.

September 2, 2026

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In May, San Diego County Board of Supervisors approved a $2.75 million arts initiative of its own. It includes an Artist Space Grant Program aimed directly at the affordability crisis, as well as an artist-in-residence program, a dedicated Binational Creative Economy Investment, and a one-time investment in the Black Arts and Culture District in Encanto.

Bob Lehman of San Diego Art Matters has been doing county-level, binational organizing for years; in 2023, he helped get the county’s arts commission reestablished after 30 years of defunctness. That’s important because it gives arts and culture an official seat in county government, advising the County Board of Supervisors on arts and culture policy. He also brought in consultant Laura Zucker, who ran LA County’s arts program for three decades, to build a real regional plan.

“I really believe we’ll have something set up here that other communities come and look at,” he told me. “A national template other cities come to learn from.”

When asked who decides which artists will get the new grant money, county arts commissioner and executive director of the Chicano Park Museum and Cultural Center Monica Delgadillo Hernandez doesn’t hedge.

“That’s part of the infrastructure we’re going to be building,” she says. “What should a panel of reviewers look like? Should it be the commissioners? Should it be other folks? A supervisor?” She was just as candid that the commission itself doesn’t reflect San Diego’s population—Chicano communities are roughly a third of the city, she tells me, “and that’s not represented at the table yet.”

What Other Cities Prove Is Possible

The great news is that none of these solutions have to be invented from scratch. Numerous cities serve as examples of what’s possible—if we have the will.

Jonathon Glus—Prebys Foundation Senior Fellow for Art & Design, the Executive Director of the Art + Design District, and board president for California for the Arts—worked in Houston before coming to San Diego. The Texas city dedicates 74.5 percent of its hotel tax to arts grants by formula, and that support is guaranteed. Washington, DC locked in dedicated arts funding in 2019. Salt Lake City, my hometown, has run a voter-approved arts tax for almost 30 years, most recently reauthorized through 2034. And just this summer, New York City pushed cultural funding to a record $323.8 million, even incorporating an emergency fund.

Denver’s model is interesting because instead of a city-dependent funding model, theirs is a 0.1 percent regional sales tax. In place since 1988 and renewed by voters three times, their Scientific & Cultural Facilities District has distributed between $54 million and $85 million to arts, culture, and scientific orgs—each of the last 12 years.

This is part of a three-part series. This is Act III. See Act I and Act II here.

None of these cities got there by accident. They decided, on purpose, that arts and culture were worth protecting from politics—and, in some cases, worth building an entire identity around.

“That’s how Miami has flipped the switch,” says Glus. “People go to Miami for culture as much as they do the beach.”

San Diego has spent decades selling itself backward: Beach and weather first, culture as an afterthought you might stumble into. Glus would love to see the strategy flipped: Visitors should come for the art, “and then, by the way, you’re on the beach.”

So What Happens From Here?

“I do think it was a wake-up call for the community,” de Poyen says of the budget fight. “People understand that our funding is vulnerable. It was a lesson in how much power people have when they coalesce. But wow, is it painful.”

Glus says he’s genuinely optimistic. “The players have all changed seats, but the work is moving forward.”

“I believe optimism is a moral duty,” says Martin, who’s both power-fist and polite.

In eight months, there will be another budget fight. Everyone I talked to expects it will be worse. But something happened this spring that can’t be undone.

“I hope this rupture has brought us together in a moment of self-realization,” says Leticia Gomez Franco of the Balboa Art Conservation Center. “I hope we stop being so transactional; we begin to see ourselves and each other as partners in this work.”

That’s the whole ask, really. And it’s on all of us.

This is part of a three-part series. This is Act III. See Act I and Act II here.

This is part of a three-part series. This is Act II. See Act I and Act III here.

Without concrete, wildflowers are just weeds. Any honest history of San Diego art and culture is tension and its reckonings. It begins before the name existed, with the Kumeyaay. It must pass through the Panama-California Exposition, one hell of a county fair that conjured Balboa Park as our grand cultural stage. It pays tribute to the lights of La Jolla, where the donor pool helped realize unrealizable things. It should mention names like Marston, Scripps, Ochoa, DeWitt, Lopez, Klauber, Baldessari, Torres… so many.

In short spaces like this, long histories like that become roll calls. So this is more of a walk through pressure points, notes on recurring forces and regional oddities.

Border life is key to understanding the here of here. Art without dialogue is just decoration. At its best, that dialogue should be a tad muddy, emotionally gassed. In other words, it should be in need of art—to widen perspective, parse meaning, see the unseen.

September 1, 2026

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San Diego’s central dialogue—the magic and the stressor—is being flatmates with Mexico’s second-largest city by population. That makes San Diego a swing-gate of shared and vastly different perspectives, both its own place and something larger. And in no other major city in the US do the fresh flow of ideas from two countries—different governments, laws, mores, expressions, arts, cultures, traditions, economies, loves, and resentments—mingle at such a constant daily rate (due respect to El Paso).

That binational steam created Chicano Park, one of the most uniquely San Diegan contributions to national and international culture. When construction of the I-5 and Coronado Bridge divided Logan Heights, neighbors protested by transmuting prejudicial concrete into redwoods of Chicano art. Turning a civic wound into a beautiful and enduring landmark that expressed and preserved a core identity—like East Side Gallery in Berlin or Constitution Hill in Johannesburg—is damn near the core of what art is supposed to do.

Like any city, the underground-overground friction is crucial in San Diego. Our culture is headlined by institutions that lift creative work onto national and international stages: MCASD, The Nat, SDMA, Centro Cultural de la Raza, the Symphony, WorldBeat Center, The Old Globe, La Jolla Playhouse, Mingei, Museum of Us, Stuart Collection, Timken, ICA, Comic-Con, etc. The next mutations grow in the seams: street murals, music dives, tattoo shops, wheatpasted walls, graffiti, lowriders, surf and skate art (though in San Diego, this is mainstream), pop-up shows, backyard shows, beach raves, any place with room for people and a loose relationship with regulations.

Both art and culture get their power from power. They’re fundamentally a conversation with and retort against dominant structures. San Diego’s most pervasive structure is arguably the most rigid form: the military. Its presence is heavy in the southern tip (Border Patrol), the middle (Navy and MCAS Miramar), and northern edge (Camp Pendleton). The military is San Diego’s largest employer, by a long shot.

Within this plus-sized environment of order and hierarchy, it’s understandable that Shepard Fairey’s “OBEY” posters in the late ’90s struck such a potent chord. The most compelling punk rock is often outside a strong governor’s window. (The “OBEY” series featured an ominous, propaganda-style André the Giant wheatpasted on random ugly surfaces across San Diego—launching Fairey’s style that he eventually used for Obama’s “HOPE” poster.)

Armed forces are often viewed as the absence of creative culture—understandably so, since rogue individual expression feels like a pretty sure way to sink a war effort.

September 2, 2026

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But in San Diego, the Navy’s unsuspecting role as art creator—directly or indirectly—is hard to ignore. Tattoos are a dawn-of-time practice of many early cultures, including the Kumeyaay. But Polynesia was a core realm. Sailors were exposed to it on deployment in the Pacific Rim, inking their arms with the names of loved ones and unit insignia. Back in San Diego, they’d flaunt those tats in the beaches and bars of Mission Beach or PB (Marines did the same in Oceanside.) Enlistees were the muscular flesh galleries that helped turn skin art into one of the city’s most widespread modern art forms.

During WWII, the military also trained huge legions of San Diego laborers how to build war machines. Those mechanics, engineers, machinists, welders, painters, and metal fabricators used those skills for creative good in their neighborhoods—especially in custom car culture, which took off in the post-war ’50s and ’60s. Mexican-American vets helped develop the lowrider scene, a deeply rooted part of San Diego creative expression. Galleries on slow-moving wheels.

Tourism is the other mainstream force ripe for creating against. It is both critical to San Diego’s economy, and one of the greatest barriers to deeper, more nuanced expressions of what and who San Diego is. The industry of selling our city to passers-through creates a gigantic tarp of cultural tropes. It reinforces the most obvious charms—cute zoo animal takes in an epic sunset with a giant margarita—and doesn’t yield much airspace to the thrilling micro-cultures that live and breathe where locals live and breathe. Nothing against watercolors of dolphins, but much against the hegemony of watercolors of dolphins.

Maybe because of these dominant forces, San Diegans especially tend to force underground and institutional art into a needless cage match. It’s human instinct to champion the underdog as more worthy, but that has always felt like a form of articide.

It’s like saying the only good food is made by gritty upstarts who crafted their own whisks from discarded shopping carts. Most of those plucky whisk-makers would love to eventually be paid properly, would love a stage, a grant, a building, a donor, a lighting rig, health insurance, maybe even one chair that doesn’t threaten the spine.

That’s what the major institutions do. Both stages—the duct-taped and the donored—serve vital roles and deserve commensurate support if we care about the entire lifespan of creative expression and not just its first exciting steps. Championing the starving artist exclusively just secures an enduring poverty for the creative class at large.

I’ve often theorized it’s harder to create great art and culture in cities like San Diego, where the climate is supernaturally pleasant. In colder/hotter/rainier/less beautiful cities, people are forced indoors to fabricate their own beauty (the grunge music of Seattle, the obscene creative output of Reykjavík). San Diego’s eternally mild sunshine tends to make the human body our art medium of choice. But scratch the surface of that surf poster (and I’ve only scratched a miniscule percent here), and this city’s far from the cultural shallows it gets accused of being.

Addendum: A Personal Agenda. In scouting the route of art and culture across San Diego county through history, two areas come up again and again: La Jolla and Barrio Logan. So I propose a collaboration between two icons of artful concrete—Chicano Park and Salk Institute (one of the world’s great examples of brutalism architecture). Let Barrio Logan’s muralists go nuts on that coastal science fortress, unite the realms for a moment in time.

This is part of a three-part series. This is Act II. See Act I and Act III here.