My father and his six siblings grew up in Comala, a cozy town in the small, coastal Mexican state of Colima, about three hours by plane from San Diego. I spent childhood summers visiting but had returned only once since my parents split in 2010.
I recalled Colima mostly in senses: the sweet scent of ripe guava, the croak of white-lipped frogs and itch of mosquito bites, the patter of rain on a neighbor’s pool, surrounded by lush gardens. Monolingual, I couldn’t speak much to my grandmother, with whom I share a name, but I remember her hugs and the way she’d let my brother and I splash in the dish basin in her open-air kitchen, which sat on the edge of the large, grassy courtyard in the heart of her house.
Photo Credit: Toniee Colón Customers flock to a vendor selling pan dulce on the streets of Comala.
I was in college when word came that she’d passed. Sadly, we hadn’t talked in over a decade. I regretted that I’d never really known her, and over time I felt myself longing to better understand her world. I downloaded the Duolingo app and logged lessons day after day for years, building upon several semesters of middle school Spanish.
Still, even as my language skills grew, other reasons kept me from returning to Colima. I’m not on good terms with my father, and I wasn’t sure how his side of the family would receive me. And, then, the fact that I’m gay. My Mexican relatives represented a whole swath of new—very Catholic—people to come out to.
But I knew I’d regret not trying. I messaged my dad’s younger sister Raquel on Facebook, asking if I could come visit. I mentioned my girlfriend and did not mention my dad.
“Por supuesto,” she wrote back quickly. Of course.
Photo Credit: Toniee Colón The author (center) and her family comb through albums of old photos.
I look like my tía Raquel. The thought surprised me the first time it occurred, as I fastened a hoop earring below my slicked-back bun. It dangled above the collar of my oversized white button-down.
I hadn’t seen Raquel since I was 11, and I couldn’t quite picture her face. But I recognized in the ensemble touches of the casually glamorous style that I envied as a child. And it seems other people see it, too. When I step into Mexican-owned businesses—fruterías, coffee shops—dressed like her, cashiers greet me in Spanish. If I’m in my winter turtlenecks, my fine hair loose around my shoulders, people seem to see my white American mother more than my Mexican father. They say “Good morning” instead of “Buenos días.” It makes me curious who I really resemble.
Photo Credit: Toniee Colón Rooms full of lovely furniture and historical artifacts frame a lush courtyard at the Alejandro Rangel Hidalgo University Museum.
At Raquel’s large, modern house in Colima’s capital city of the same name, I finally have a chance to search her face, wondering what features we might share. Bound by my so-so Spanish skills, I try not to be frustrated that I can’t yet ask everything I want to know about her childhood, her memories, the sort of person my grandmother really was.
She’s patient, though, as I stumble over conjugations, and she shows me a picture of her daughter Celeste and a young woman I don’t recognize. “That’s Celeste’s girlfriend, Marcella,” she tells me.
I stifle a gasp. I’d had no idea Celeste dated women. I realize she paved the way for that unblinking “of course.”
Raquel digs out old photo albums, showing me my abuela at 6 or 7, looking solemn in a school photo, then my uncle Reyes, Raquel’s husband, who’d died of Covid. It’s hard with the language barrier, but I can see shades of it: her enormous grief and, simultaneously, her peace and strength. All this I’ve missed, I think, while hiding in California.
At some point, I realize I’ve lost one of my hoop earrings.
I search the house and Raquel’s car. I file a report with the airline. But it doesn’t turn up, and I comfort myself with the departed jewelry’s narrative power: a thing symbolizing my link to this place, left behind somewhere in Mexico.
Photo Credit: Toniee Colón Spectacular arched architecture defines the hacienda where the museum is housed.
I ’d love to tell you that Comala hasn’t changed, that, when we visit, I’m able to slip back into the world of my childhood memories. In some ways, I am. There’s still the picturesque town square, bordered by little shops hawking local sea salt and fragrant leather huaraches. The white-and-yellow chapel where I was baptized stands as proud as ever. The people still wave hello to one another in the cobblestone streets.
However, cartel activity has increased in recent years. Colima now has one of the highest crime rates in Mexico. I don’t feel unsafe, but there’s a newly anxious undercurrent here.
And, at my abuela’s house, her absence is palpable. Spiny weeds have overtaken her once-verdant courtyard. I walk to the kitchen, though, and see the familiar dish basin. I dip my fingers in and remember her lifting me up so I could peer at the water’s surface. We didn’t need words for me to know she loved me.
Photo Credit: Toniee Colón Dense coconut palm groves line many Colima roads.
When I was small, my family and I used to pass entire days at Las Hamacas del Mayor, a beachside restaurant in the agricultural region of Tecomán.
I recognize it the moment we pull up: the giant clamshell at the entrance, the pool with a dolphin-shaped waterslide, the tables laden with whole fried dorados.
After lunch, Celeste and I walk down the beach, its sand charcoal-black from the nearby volcano. In the distance, I think I see a rainbow flag. I figure it must mean something different here—after all, a gay bar? In rural Mexico? But as we get close, I spot drag queens dancing on a makeshift stage in Rockette bodysuits.
We stand and watch for a while. I want to tell Celeste what it means to me to share this with her. Though my mother’s family welcomes my girlfriend during the holidays, I’d always felt the unspoken difference of my queerness. Now I see I’m no longer alone.
It feels like too much, so I stay silent, but we both smile as the queens twirl.
My father lives in Comala, but I don’t see him. He remains a casual elephant in the room—I don’t talk about him, and neither does anyone else. Finally, over breakfast on my final day, Raquel spends a long time typing something on her phone. She passes it to me, a translation app open. “How are things with your dad?” the screen reads. “You don’t have to tell me, but you can always talk to me.”
“We haven’t spoken in years,” I admit in Spanish. “I don’t want to see him. Maybe next time.”
She nods. “Of course.” Then, fervently, in English: “I’m with you. Always. You come first.” Even after all this time goes unspoken.
Hours later at the airport, when I hug her tight and promise to come back soon, I hope she knows how much I mean it.
At home in San Diego, I dig through my jewelry dish, seeking a pair to replace my now-lonely hoop—only to find its errant twin. Apparently, I’d forgotten to put it on days before. It was never missing; simply waiting, primed to be rediscovered. I snap it into place. Then I let down my hair and look in the mirror. All the women in my family stare back.
Photo Credit: Toniee Colón The town of Comala is perhaps best known for its stately white-and-yellow chapel.
Colima at a Glance
A beautiful green territory dwarfed by neighbors Jalisco and Michoacán, Colima has the smallest population in Mexico. Once home to a number of pre-colonial civilizations, the state is known for charming red pottery figures of round-bellied dogs. Two volcanoes—referred to as “fire and ice” because one is active and the other is dormant—perch at Colima’s border, and lush rainforests and orchards cover much of its land. Colima is Mexico’s primary producer of limes. Biodiversity abounds here, and visitors may see reptile species like crocodiles, iguanas, and sea turtles.
If you find yourself in Colima, visit the port city of Manzanillo to snorkel amid coral reefs and shipwrecks. About an hour from the state’s capital, El Tortugario Centro Ecologico de Cuyutlan gives tourists the chance to say hello to rescued sea turtles, take a boat tour of a lagoon teeming with wildlife, and even release freshly hatched turtles safely into the sea. See Colima’s famous dog statues and other archeological finds at the Colima City Regional History Museum. For more art and history, explore the small but lovely Alejandro Rangel Hidalgo Miguel University Museum, a garden-flocked hacienda showcasing the artist’s furniture designs and slightly surreal lithographs of children in traditional dress. Afterward, shop for artisan creations and sample local eats in the friendly little town of Comala.
Amelia Rodriguez is a writer and journalist and winner of the San Diego Press Club's 2023 Rising Star Award and 2024 Best of Show Award, she’s also covered music, food, arts and culture, fashion, and design for Rolling Stone, Palm Springs Life, and other national and regional publications. After work, you can find her hunting down San Diego’s best pastries and maintaining her five-year Duolingo streak.
His ascent has been stealth and humble, which fits the man. When Liberty Station was struggling to convince people it existed over a decade ago, Sicilian chef Accursio Lota’s food at Solare Ristorante was a tractor beam for food people who sniff out hidden talent like truffle dogs. In 2017, he won the World Pasta Championship (a legit competition from global pasta brand Barilla) and struck out on his own, opening his and his wife’s from-scratch pasta trattoria in North Park (Cori Pastificio). Gambero Rosso—the Italian version of Michelin, the most respected source—has clamored for the restaurant since it opened, naming it “New Opening of the Year” and this year giving it their highest award, “Tre Forchette” (Three Forks), only knighted on a handful of US restaurants.
So this year, Lota opened his grandest thing—Dora Ristorante—and it pulls everything together. Steps from San Diego’s world-class theater, La Jolla Playhouse, it’s laden with brass and large-format murals, tile work and mosaics—like the one on the wood-burning oven that blisters, chars, and smokes a good portion of the menu. Their housemade focaccia is a new street drug (try it with the puttanesca, his grandmother Dora’s recipe). The olive oil-cured sardines make “sustainable seafood” and ethics not taste like a compromise. Dora might finally be the one to solve the “where do I eat before the world premiere at LJP” dilemma.
The yuzu-colored building that helped build North Park’s modern food culture is alive again. Years ago, the ornate French Quarter–inspired spot on 30th Street was home to chef Matt Gordon’s Urban Solace (duck macaroni and cheese). Then it laid conspicuous and fallow until a few months ago when Bacari took it on. It’s an LA transplant, but they’re proving forgivable of that trespass. Chef and co-founder Lior Hillel cooked at Jean-Georges before opening the first of this Venetian-style restaurant in 2008 with brothers Danny and Robert Kronfi (Bobby started his food venture with a pop-up dinner series in his college apartment at USC).
For dinner, it’s house-baked bread, crudo and shrimp ceviches, Mediterranean street corn, lamb hummus, shawarma, and glazed pork belly. Weekend brunch is bellinis and French toast and burekas (famed Jewish stuffed puff pastry), and chef Noa’s cauliflower (caramelized with chipotle). It’s Italian-ish with a heavy dose of pan-Mediterranean and Middle Eastern. Doesn’t hurt that they left the iconic exterior as is, adding chandelier-farmhouse insides with charm that echoes two of the city’s dearly departed (Jayne’s Gastropub, Cafe Chloe).
Courtesy of TRUST Restaurant Group
À L’ouest
Much tolerance for friends who hate mussels because they look too biological. But if they manage to dislike À L’ouest’s—served over ice with vadouvan curry aioli and chili crisp—then you’ve successfully identified your brokemouth friend and should try bicycling or crafting with them to bond instead of eating in public places. It should be on everyone’s short list for dish of the year.
Chef Brad Wise and his team have earned their rep over multiple concepts—Trust, Fort Oak, Cardellino, Wise Ox, Rare Society. But he’s been eyeing this corner of North Park since before he opened his first (Trust, in 2016). North Park has been rising for a while, and À L’ouest feels like the missing piece—an indoor-outdoor brasserie stunner on the marquee spot of 30th and University, which long sat boarded up and vacant like a neighborhood missing a front tooth.
As with his other concepts, woodpile is king; smoldering red oak boosts the flavor of just about everything. Get the spätzle with braised rabbit, maitake mushroom, secret de compostelle (the famed Basque sheep’s milk cheese), and black truffle. Or the chicken liver parfait with persimmon, fennel aigre-doux (sweet-sour), and chives on toast. Or, like everyone else in there—the steak frites.
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
Fleurette
Chef Travis Swikard’s first solo restaurant, Callie in East Village, proved how details can make the most composed of us blubber a little in fine places—from citrus left in ovens overnight to blacken and transform, to the Scripps Oceanographic Institute saltwater he keeps his spot prawns thriving in until ordered, to the days-long fermentation and stone-ground dukkah that turn carrot shavings into a statement piece.
Now, he’s focusing on French food with a fitter, less buttery San Diego heart. Fleurette is his doubling-down, a SoCal riff on the food he learned under mentors Daniel Boulud and Gavin Kaysen. The French gave us the mother sauces, and Fleurette showcases the lightest and brightest evolutions. Like the anchoïade on his beef tartare, which uses famed Italian anchovy sauce colatura di alici, mixed with cured egg yolks over tiny, uniform-sized cubes of raw, USDA Prime Flannery beef.
There is soubise (onion sauce), a sauce vierge (tomatoes and herbs), and a fennel marmalade on the duck liver and bone marrow pâté. Although the structure is stunningly pure glass, Fleurette’s in a location—an office park on the edge of La Jolla, near UTC—that few chefs would be able to pull off. But Swikard’s Michelin-bound house of saucework pulls hard.
The Escondido taqueria from Rosarito-born-and-trained chef Juan González and farmer Megan Strom took the county by storm this year. The married couple started as a popup four years ago, hosting farmside dinners before taking up residency at Vino Carta in Solana Beach. Strom was working a small, 5-acre heirloom bean farm in Valley Center owned by Mike Reeske (aka “The Bean Man”) when he retired and sold them the plot.
The huge bonus was that the sale included Reeske’s famed collection of beans, curated over 20 years. The couple planted other things and now grow much of what they serve in the form of tacos and burritos at a permanent spot in Escondido: Mesa Agrícola.
The menu’s bone simple: housemade tortillas in your choice of taco or burrito norteños (which are smaller, like burritos de hielera) that change constantly and often topped with guisados (Mexican braises or stews) like lamb and garbanzo, birria, chicharrón, mushrooms al ajillo, rajas, you name it. And, of course, some of the best beans honoring the local legend of Reeske.
Courtesy of Lucien
Lucien
San Diego is now the recipient of national food buzz. The dark ages—during which we learned how to sear ahi and asada some carne and called it a day—felt prolonged, and they were. The problem was never ingredients. San Diego County always had the best raw dinner materials (more small farms per capita than any county in the US, seafood right there); it just didn’t have a critical mass of highly trained chefs to do them justice. Easy to understand the chef dearth.
For a very long time, if you wanted to be a serious chef you had to go to the restaurant superplexes of New York, San Francisco, or Chicago (which imported their raw ingredients from places like San Diego). But now—credit farmers or Alice Waters or Dan Barber or Michael Pollain or the reasonable conclusion that food picked right here tastes better than food picked way over there—some of the most talented chefs are moving to the ingredients, not the other way around.
In San Diego, we got Richard Blais, Swikard, and now Elijah Arizmendi, who cut his teeth in Vegas with Joel Robuchon (plus Boulud and Thomas Keller) and was chef de cuisine at NYC’s L’abeille when it got its first Michelin star. His debut restaurant in La Jolla—with partners Brian Hung and Melissa Yang—is a dark, moody multicourse tasting-menu hideaway with one of the best egg dishes in the city.
Troy Johnson is the magazine’s award-winning food writer and humorist, and a long-standing expert on Food Network. His work has been featured on NatGeo, Travel Channel, NPR, and in Food Matters, a textbook of the best American food writing.
San Diego is just out here minding its own business. It’s long been cast as Los Angeles’s less ambitious sibling—the chill one, the one who shows up late for dinner reservations in flip-flops with a few provocative opinions. Architecturally it’s often cast the same: secondary, derivative, a footnote to California modernism that seems to begin and end with the Stahl House (Case Study House #22). LA has Pierre Koenig, Craig Ellwood, John Lautner. San Diego has the original fish taco.
But this version of the story is redacted, metaphorically speaking.
While the jazz hands of Hollywood and its hills cast a spell on historians and architecture buffs, San Diego had, and has, its own quiet evolution: It invented and reinvented itself through homegrown modernism, beginning with The Allen House (1907) in Bonita by Irving J. Gill.
“The biggest misconception is that San Diego was following Los Angeles,” says Keith York of Modern San Diego, one of the city’s top guides to modernist architecture. “Those who consider Rudolph Schindler and Richard Neutra as the fathers of Southern California Modernism often fail to recognize the outsize influence Gill and his buildings had on their work.”
Courtesy of Keith York
A new book, The Distinct Modernism of San Diego—written by Mark Hargreaves and Hallie Swenson, published by York—focuses on eight architects who were born, raised, or built their careers in San Diego. It illustrates how the city wasn’t hosting weekend warrior architects on side quests. It was a staging ground for a less look-at-me modernism from luminaries like Gill, Lilian J. Rice, Richard Requa, Lloyd Ruocco, Frederick Liebhardt, Kendrick Bangs Kellogg, Sim Bruce Richards, and Cliff May.
“Absent the backstabbing competition for projects, a collegial group of architectural peers collaborated and maintained lasting friendships with one another as they designed in response to the temperate climate and slower economy,” York says.
Largely unknown until the mid-1960s, Gill is a marquee name today. He arrived here from the East Coast at a moment when San Diego was still defining itself, which gave him the freedom to invent something new, experiment, rebel.
Instead of imposing the flourishes and frills of the time, he considered San Diego’s climate, light, landscape, history—the joie de vivre—and designed for this place. “[Architects of the west] must have the courage to fling aside every device that distracts the eye from structural beauty, must break through convention and get down to fundamental truths,” he once said, a sentiment that nails the un-ornate, total lack of pretension that’s defined San Diego people and culture.
And, lo, did Gill fling: His flat roofs, clean lines, and almost no ornamentation—though not necessarily modernism in the Eames or Eichler sense—foreshadowed what would later be called minimalism. Gill eventually became synonymous with the Los Angeles narrative, but broader architectural histories overlook the fact that his most progressive designs happened here.
Courtesy of Keith York
Another key to San Diego’s architectural movement was Lilian J. Rice, who often worked behind the scenes with little credit. She was one of only about 10 women in America licensed as architects at the time. Even though she died from cancer at 43, she somehow managed to complete an estimated 170 projects in the region, many in Rancho Santa Fe.
Born and raised in National City, Rice also wasn’t importing ideas. She shaped her own based on her understanding of this region and her commitment to protect the natural environment. Her work has been categorized as Spanish Colonial Revival, but she wasn’t reviving as much as she was refining a style suited to our border region—serene, mirroring nature, beautiful.
Like Sim Bruce Richards, who was his own way of life. While Gill stripped away ornamentation and Rice focused on the peace of open spaces, Richards came along several decades later and went full emo. By then, modernism had grown deep roots; its steel-and-glass structures took themselves very seriously. Richards came to party.
Photo Credit: Ollie Patterson
An eccentric, unpredictable man with half a face (part of his jaw was removed following a bone infection when he was a child), his life was a jalopy of adventures. He was opinionated and passionate about design, music, texture—and he created what he called a “sensuous environment.” He wanted his clients and their guests to feel the spaces as much as to be in them, appealing to the visual, tactile, nasal (“a cedar house smells good”), auditory (“acoustically superior”), even taste. “Though, I‘ve never had a client lick my houses,” he once wrote.
Organic, woodsy, textured, aromatic—if you ever find yourself in a Sim Bruce Richards house, a licking impulse might not seem so outrageous.
Gill, Rice, Richards and the other architects in Distinct Modernism built a legacy in San Diego that resonates nationally. And the work of these heavy hitters isn’t stuck in an inaccessible collectors realm: This October, homes by Kellogg and Liebhardt will open to the public as part of the La Jolla Modernism Home Tour—an opportunity to experience it not as a museum relic or magazine image (ahem), but as something alive.
Modernism in San Diego was never about glamour or an intention to be iconic. What transpired here is more nuanced, more ingrained with a less shouty aesthetic. A very San Diego aesthetic.
At the top of a golf swing, the world settles into a hush. Anyone within 50 yards kindly shuts up in reverence. Steady heartbeats tuck inside the sound of the wind. Time stands still.
Or—panic sets in, a thousand warnings from coaches and YouTube tutorials prattle through your brainpan. You wonder if a good walk prepares to be ruined.
On descent, the club rearranges air particles as it slices on a perfect or unwise line toward an earth so green, it seems like AI. The iron face meets the ball, and the satisfying or unsettling thwack echoes across the fairway like a nonviolent gunshot or a cry for help. Breath catches, curse words load in the prefrontal cortex. Eyes squint to follow the hard-to-see projectile zip majestically through the air or bounce lamely along the ground like a failed hurdler.
Sometimes it goes a couple hundred yards in the right direction, other times a couple yards into uncaring swamps. Golf’s beautiful and hard as hell.
Mindfulness and stillness reign over speed and might—which goes against most basal American instincts regarding sport. Its quiet, serene mocking of our human abilities is what brings so many of us to the life-long process of sharpening the skill. Because who hasn’t stared at the most beautiful parks and lawns in the world and said, “How can I turn this into a game and win it?”
Luckily, San Diego has an abundance of courses to improve and curate self-doubt. The county is home to over 70 courses that attract the top golfers in the country. Some of the biggest names in the sport—Callaway, TaylorMade, Cobra, Titleist, Odyssey, Honma—are based here. Perfect weather never hurts. But San Diego golf courses also promise a smorgasbord of terrains: rocky canyons, hot deserts, and lush greens overlooking the expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
If you could take the 1,300-ish holes around San Diego and pick the very best ones to create your ultimate course, which would they be? We asked some of the top golf pros in the county to do just that. The result? San Diego’s Dream 18. Think fantasy football but for golf.
Just like any great course, our Dream 18 includes four par 3s, 10 par 4s, and four par 5s—everything from tricky dog legs and psychological tee shots to just pretty, pretty views. Once we had our list, we either asked the head golf pro what makes a hole so special, or other pros spoke on its behalf. Go ahead, tell us what we missed.
“One of the most iconic par 3s on the West Coast. The cliffside setting above the Pacific and the constant ocean breeze make it both beautiful and demanding.”
—Anthony Valverde, Director of Golf, The Crosby Club atRancho Santa Fe
“It’s a downhill par 3 over water with a great view from the tee down to the green. It’s surrounded by bunkers as well, so it almost feels like an island green even though it’s not. What’s really cool is once you drive to the next hole, if you look back on No. 14, it’s a great view as well. One of the signature holes [at Santaluz].”
“Hole 15 is widely considered one of the best and most memorable holes on the course. At about 250 yards, it’s a long downhill with multiple tiers and panoramic views into the valley. It looks intimidating at first, but there are lots of recovery contours and the green is fairly large.”
“While it’s beautiful with the backdrop of the Batiquitos Lagoon and the Pacific Ocean, this finishing hole demands both precision and nerve. The water guarding the right side and fairway bunkers ahead create a visually striking, strategic tee shot, while the expansive green rewards a confident, well-placed approach. If you can make a par on this hole, you’ve played it very well.”
“The 18th hole at Del Mar CC is a demanding par 4 with an elevated tee box. Water guards the right side of the green, and a player must hit a precise shot into this green.”
“It’s a difficult 428-yard par 4 playing into the predominant west wind. The hole is post-renovation and the vegetation was trimmed back, so now it exposes a penalty on the right. It’s uncomfy at the tee but a good challenge. Plus, it’s the No. 1 handicap for [all players].”
—Chris Lungo, Head Golf Pro, Rancho Santa Fe Golf Club
Lili Kim is a content coordinator and writer for San Diego Magazine, with experience highlighting local businesses and communities. When not writing or shooting film, she is likely brewing her seventh cup of tea of the day or strolling along Sunset Cliffs.
In this city, chef Brian Malarkey and restaurateur Chris Puffer are kind of like peanut butter & jelly, tacos and Tuesday, Padres and Petco—they just go together. This month, the duo celebrates 10 years of partnering on some of San Diego’s top restaurants including their first venture, Herb & Wood.
To celebrate this milestone, we stepped back and revisited their journey becoming some of this city’s most successful restaurateurs.
But first, let’s go back to the beginning. The duo met at Oceanaire in 2007 where they both worked. Malarkey was still riding the high from his stint on Top Chef Season 3 where he won runner-up. He was a great chef, Puffer recalls, if not a tad arrogant. Whatever he was doing, though, it worked. Sales doubled under his watch.
In 2009, Malarkey was approached by some patrons to start what would become Searsucker. He knew he wanted Puffer to be his partner. They had great chemistry and loved hospitality and food. “We both came to this with a bit of a chip on our shoulder,” says Malarkey. “We wanted to prove it to other people that we know what we’re doing.”
Courtesy of Puffer Malarkey Collective
Searsucker, Gabardine, and Herringbone (under the Fabric of Social Dining restaurant group) were born through the new partnership. But in 2012, they sold their concepts to Hakkasan and soon partnered on a new lease.
That building would eventually become Herb & Wood. “We were going to do it differently this time around,” says Malarkey as he reflects on Wood’s early days. “And we [wanted to] build it to last.”
The vision: Great food. Great music. Great service. It’d be a place where diners would let go, put their phones down, and be fully present to enjoy a meal together. When they walked into 2210 Kettner Blvd, they knew they had found their spot.
The only problem was that, at the time, that area of Little Italy was still severely underdeveloped. In a 8,500-square-foot space, they were going to have 230 seats to fill. “It may as well have been on Mars,” says Troy Johnson, San Diego Magazine publisher, content chief, and the city’s longtime food critic.
Courtesy of Puffer Malarkey Collective
And, of course, there were the naysayers. The prevailing feeling in the dining world was, “Let’s see what these f**king idiots do,” recalls Malarkey. The duo let all the noise be noise. In fact, the noise fueled them. “We weren’t going to cater to the haters,” Puffer says.
Their next hurdle would be to tackle the restaurant’s design. “There was nothing. It was literally a box,” says Puffer of the former space. Design teams were too expensive or didn’t quite get their vision—no, they didn’t want exposed beams or wooden tables made from reclaimed barns. “Then, Puffer was like, ‘f**k it, dude, I’m going to design this restaurant.’”
Having never really designed something like this before, he decided not to work in the programs that most professionals use to create their layouts. 3D mockup? Didn’t need it. CAD? That’s what a paper and pencil are for.
Courtesy of Herb & Wood
“It was all in my head,” he recalls. “I had this moment where I was like, ‘If I died right now, no one would know where any of this shit goes.’”
“Yeah, it made no sense,” Malarkey says.
And it still doesn’t if you hear him explain it. A mishmash of vignettes from the inner workings of his memory bank, evoking everything from Mississippi riverboats to Eiffel tower ironwork, Kensington home façades, an old theater he frequented, and a canoe, because why not? Yet somehow, it all worked.
“It’s a sense of nostalgia,” says Puffer. “People might say, ‘Oh, my gosh, this feels good’ and they don’t realize it reminds them of the time they were in Paris.’”
“We don’t play trends,” Malarkey says. “We play timeless.”
Courtesy of Herb & Wood
Over the course of many years and plenty of trial and error, the partnership has continued to thrive. And, the Puffer Malarkey Collective has found its sweet spot within their restaurants: The service had to be kind and unpretentious and the food had to come out quick, delicious, and consistent. “Consistency is key!” says Puffer.
They also learned to balance out one another. “He’s a go-go-go-go [person],” says Puffer, “I’m a let’s-take-a-deep-breath-and-sleep-on-it [type of person].”
So, when they opened the doors to Herb & Wood in April of 2016, with those lessons in place, everything was just right. “We knew it had to fire on all cylinders,” says Puffer. “And it did.”
Courtesy of Puffer Malarkey Collective
There was no pretense and the dress code was exceedingly simple. “Money in your pocket,” says Malarkey. “That’s all you need.”
The phones rang, the seats filled, and the haters had to give it to them, those gnocchi hit. People began embracing every aspect of the place, even the edgier ones.
“We thought people were going to complain about all the paintings with boobs,” says Puffer of the many John Lanes on the wall. “But the amount of people who take pictures in front of the boobs is amazing.”
They even had a middle finger statue that Puffer had picked up from a yard sale. If a table was rude or antagonistic toward the staff, he’d walk over to them with the finger. “Congratulations,” he’d say, handing it over. “You’ve won asshole of the night.”
Courtesy of Puffer Malarkey Collective
The point is, they were ready to laugh (and not take shit from anyone). When someone wrote a review of Herb & Wood and called it Weed & Boners, they both had a laugh. It’s one of the keys to longevity.
Along with the fun and deliciousness, they’ve also served as a culinary talent incubator for San Diego. “It’s like a centrifuge,” says Johnson about Herb & Wood. “They train up all these young chefs and start spinning all this talent into different parts of the city.”
There’s Sebastian Becerra with Pepino, Samantha Bird of Relic Bakery, Aidan Owens at Herb & Sea, and Tara Monsod of Animae and Le Coq (San Diego’s first James Beard award finalist) to name a few. “They’ve expanded the footprint of the food revolution in San Diego,” says Johnson.
Their plans for the next 10 years?
“We’re just going to keep the magic going,” says Malarkey.
Industry fave Lion’s Share just celebrated 14 years of glorifying nontraditional proteins; the chef who helped launch Cesarina has a sleeper hit in UTC; and there’s a stiff drink at the new Padres lounge-club-bar. These are the best things we ate and drank this month across San Diego, which we think are worth your serotonin receptors.
Courtesy of Bacari North Park
Bacari North Park
Mediterranean Street Corn
L.A. standout Bacari just opened its first San Diego spot—inside the iconic ornate, yellow, two-story building in North Park that was long home to Urban Solace. The Venetian restaurant and wine bar concept is helmed by chef and co-founder Lior Hillel (ex-Jean Georges), so very few dishes falter. But a standout was the Mediterranean street corn with fire-roasted corn, toum crema, crispy shallot, hazelnut pistachio chili crunch, feta, and lemon. It’s a brighter, herbier, tangier version of the famed Mexican street food. –Nicolle Monico
Provisional Kitchen
Birria Skillet
Brunch food tastes better simply due to the fact that we’re bubble-drunk and have booted laundry to the basement of our to-do list. But too often the booze is the best dish. Provisional Kitchen’s birria skillet is an exception—and that’s saying something because everyone with access to a slow-cooking device is doing birria now, so there’s no room for half-assed Mexican stew meat. Chef de cuisine Dara Steinrichter serves slow-braised short rib, melted bell peppers, onions, two eggs sunny, cotija cheese and cilantro with corn tortillas. Also try the brick-sized pistachio french toast (a decadent breakfast riff on Dubai chocolate). –Troy Johnson
Recommending salad at a pizza joint—and a damn good pizza joint at that—feels sacrilegious and slightly almond-mom. But I swear, this one’s worth it. It’s a classic kale Caesar with a mountain of roasted chicken breast, freshly made dressing, heirloom cherry tomatoes, thick parmesan shavings, and house-made croutons. It’s perfectly simple, not too anchovy-ous, and big enough to share with a few friends before the pizza comes around (you didn’t think we weren’t getting pizza, too, right?) –Lili Kim
Lion’s Share
Duck Aguachile Negro
Lion’s Share never shoulda worked. It’s in a sliver of Kettner Blvd by its lonesome (OK, there’s a coffee shop next door). Almost everyone passes by it and hits up nearby Headquarters or Seaport Village. And those people should be sad for themselves. LS became an industry favorite, a dark hovel of obsessive cocktails and alternative proteins (boar, elk, frog legs, bison, etc.). Last year, it got new owner blood in chef-duo Danny and Dante Romero—the former who’d been a cook at three-star Michelin, Addison, and who both were opening chefs at Wormwood. For the duck, they fry it, freeze it, then slice it thin and warm to order. For sauce, they char peppers, onions, corn tortillas and blend it with oil and jugo maggi (a secret umami-sauce weapon in Mexican cooking), and serve it with fried green plantain slices dusted with salt, sugar, and lime zest. –Troy Johnson
Diamond Room
The Dirtiest Martini
I once heard a story of a man who never ate the third olive in his martinis. He believed skipping the last one had once saved him from being trapped in a hotel bar with a bomber. I say this because if you drink two of the seriously tasty dirty martinis at the Diamond Room—the new red-lit, ’70s-style lounge from the Padres on the perimeter of Petco Park—you’ll be spouting superstitious stories all night long, maybe even some conspiracy theories. For what it’s worth, theirs only has two olives. So you’re safe. –Nicolle Monico
Tunaville Market & Grocery
Jalapeño Cheddar Smoked Fish Dip
Owned by five longtime local fishing families, TunaVille is a San Diego treasure that’s simultaneously got the best and worst location. The best because it’s on the dock at Driscoll’s Wharf, with a parking spot for local boats. They dock every morn and unload right into TunaVille’s seafood case (boat to throat distance, about 50 feet). The worst because foot traffic’s just the bay walkers and their dogs. Locals who are in the know are rewarded with the freshest catch in town, plus this dip, which is one of the most delicious and dangerous things you’ll ever taste. –Troy Johnson
It’s impossible to speak of Barrio Logan’s Italian charmer without mentioning its mushroom flan, and oh, look, we did it again. But there’s another dish, an Italian specialty usually associated with the chianti-drenched region of Tuscany. You rarely see it on menus in San Diego, and it’s worth a trip. The ubriaca is essentially gemelli pasta that’s cooked in red wine in lieu of water. So it has that good Saturday night wine breath—like stroganoff—and is tossed with sausage, ricotta, and shallots. –Troy Johnson
Mitch’s Seafood
Fisherman’s Stew
If I were a fisherman out at sea, this is the meal I’d write shanties and ardent poems about. It’s got the works: shrimp, squid, clams, mussels, and white fish in a warm, tangy tomato broth, paired with a 6-inch baguette for tearing and dunking. Best enjoyed sitting on Mitch’s outdoor deck with a view of the harbor boats and the occasional giant stingray that loafs about in the shallows. –Lili Kim
Courtesy of Pazza Market & Cucina
Pazza Market & Cucina
Mushroom Risotto with Seared Sirloin
UTC’s metamorphosis from a mall to a destination food city is complete, but they don’t seem to be slowing down. Pazza is the local spot among the big national names featuring Patrick Money, who was opening chef of San Diego’s pasta star, Cesarina. His mushroom risotto is textbook. Carnaroli rice is cooked in stock, then tossed with a trio of sauteed and caramelized mushrooms—porcini (depth and umami), cremini (body and earthiness), and white button (almost sweet). Finished with butter and Parm-Reg, then topped with med-rare seared sirloin. –Troy Johnson
Mad Libs. License plate bingo. The “quiet game,” a universal parent savior. Long live Slug Bug, where kids with zero self-control punched each other in the arm every time they saw a VW Bug in the wild—an activity no doubt invented by some Volkswagen marketing intern who now quietly runs the world. A family that cruises together bruises together.
So many threats to pull the car over and leave unruly progeny on the side road for good. GenXers are such baddies because our parents actually followed through. But we tracked those boomers down—or just walked into the wilderness and formed angsty flannel bands. We survived.
There were no downloaded movies back then. No seatback entertainment. Just a mythical road, a few bug-gutty windows, and the fast-moving summer world beyond. Seatbelts ignored, hot air whipping a frenzy of hair and beef-stick child scent.
Very few chaoses match being trapped in a moving car with your entire bloodline. It’s unimaginable, but we kinda liked it.
The road trip was always about endurance, discovery, adventure, creativity, and memory. Somewhere between gas station hot dogs, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and musty motels with coin-operated vibrating beds—the bored between moments of mutual expedition sealed our love of the long distance car ride.
To respark road lust, we’ve put together a coastal California run up the 101 and Highway 1. The state’s famed road trip siblings, with ocean on one side and possibility in every direction. We analyzed what’s incoming, just-arrived, compelling, or a classic in need of a reminder in almost every county along the way—the kind of places we’d drag our family (or dog or best friend) to.
We start our trip just outside San Diego County lines and work our way through San Francisco. Because, by then, it’s time to turn the car around and do it all again.
The road is still the main character.
Photo Credit: @Tanveerbadal
Laguna Beach
A 90-minute drive from downtown San Diego, Laguna Beach is home to serene coves, big-deal art events, miles of hiking trails, and the greatest number of beachfront hotels in California. Among the latter is the newly revamped icon, Surf & Sand Laguna Beach. Along with tweaks to the guestrooms, pool, and onsite Splashes restaurant, the remodel includes a new spa, Aquaterra. Wake up to ocean views, then get outside: Go tide pooling at Shaw’s Cove, or descend to Thousand Steps Beach and spend the day stretched out with a salacious summer read. For dinner, get fancy at the upscale (no swimwear allowed!) Studio Mediterranean at the Montage Laguna Beach hotel. Led by Greek chef Dennis Efthymiou, it serves feta-, phyllo-, and fish-forward cuisine inspired by his heritage.
Newport Beach
Head another 15 minutes up the road to Newport, an unlikely destination for adrenaline junkies both relatively tame (family-friendly thrill rides at the Balboa Fun Zone amusement park) and willing to risk life and limb (30-foot waves at the Wedge surf break). It’s also increasingly a killer place to eat, with Luke’s, of international Maine-lobster-roll fame, having recently opened locations in town. James Beard Award winner Tyson Cole just opened his sleek omakase and sushi restaurant Uchi this year. Once you’re stuffed, lay your head at Bay Shores Peninsula Hotel, a midcentury-inspired, 25-room boutique resort overlooking the sea. Watch the waves from beside the hotel’s rooftop fire pits, or paddle out on surfboards provided free for guests.
Huntington Beach
Huntington Beach has been an icon of California surf culture since the 1910s thanks to Hawaiian Olympic swimmer Duke Kahanamoku. Surfers still chase waves near his old haunts, including the Huntington Beach Pier, where the aptly named Huntington’s on the Pier is scheduled to arrive this fall in the location of the old Ruby’s Diner (RIP, Ruby). It’ll serve seafood, obviously, plus livestreamed videos of groms wiping out just a few feet away. Sports here don’t always require wetsuits: Mini-golf bar Playground is equipped with the obvious, as well as arcade and pinball games. Or bypass physical exertion en masse at the new Holistic Lounge at Hyatt Regency. It’s packed with newfandangled healing tech that uses light, heat, and electromagnetic fields to allegedly repair stressed skin and muscles tired from lifting mojitos.
Amelia Rodriguez is a writer and journalist and winner of the San Diego Press Club's 2023 Rising Star Award and 2024 Best of Show Award, she’s also covered music, food, arts and culture, fashion, and design for Rolling Stone, Palm Springs Life, and other national and regional publications. After work, you can find her hunting down San Diego’s best pastries and maintaining her five-year Duolingo streak.
Visit Tuolumne County to Find the Unmistakable Spirit of Fall and Winter
Take a refreshing trip to Tuolumne County, where your senses will get their fill and your wallet will stay full with off-peak accommodation prices
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It’s that time when all of your senses are awakened by the unmistakable feel, sights, tastes, smells, and sounds of fall and winter. Experience them all in Tuolumne County in Northern California! Discover a different side of Yosemite National Park in the quieter and less crowded destinations. Watch as history comes to life with local tales and vibrant colors in Gold Country. Temperatures are dropping, but cooler adventures are found on the trails and slopes of the High Sierra and at unique events throughout the County.
Take a refreshing trip to Tuolumne County, where your senses will get their fill and your wallet will stay full with off-peak accommodation prices.
Find Serenity in Less-Crowded Yosemite National Park and Surrounding Area
Yosemite
Yosemite has quieted down, and now’s the time for national park adventures and new explorations. Find yourself in awe as you take in the sights among the giant sequoias backdropped by colors of maples and dogwoods and maybe some glistening snow in the Tuolumne Grove of Giant Sequoias. Or, hike around stunning Hetch Hetchy Reservoir.
Wander in Groveland, outside of Yosemite, and enjoy a warming pumpkin spice latte or a one-of-a-kind seasonal brew. Feel like shopping? Pop into some of the unique shops in town to find gifts and seasonal decor to bring home.
Discover an Era Past in Gold Country
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Explore Gold Country starting with the nooks of Columbia State Historic Park, and let your eyes and nose lead you into candle, candy, and provisional shops where their seasonal creations will warm your heart. Listen for clanging from the blacksmith shop or clinking of the authentic stagecoach as it enters town.
In nearby Jamestown, become immersed by the smells, sounds, and sights of Wild West railroad culture at Railtown 1897 State Historic Park, and stroll down Main Street where you’ll find shops, restaurants, and inns housed in picturesque historic buildings.
In Downtown Sonora, you’ll find many shops and restaurants located in historic buildings; as you step inside, you’ll see some interiors are left to show the architecture of 150 years ago. Also, take in a show at the Gold Country’s premier theater company, Sierra Repertory Theatre.
Reach the Mountain Tops in the High Sierra
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High Sierra adventures await where brisk mountain breezes are the perfect excuse for a cozy sweater. Take a hike along the Pinecrest Lake Loop Trail, and catch unreal views of changing leaves set against rugged granite mountains. Feel the invigorating wind in your face as you ski, snowboard, or snow tube down glorious mountain sides.
Visit the nostalgic mountain town of Twain Harte and enjoy a relaxing stroll to find some fun fall fashions or handy cooking gadgets to help with upcoming holiday cooking or gift giving.
Stir Up Your Seasonal Cheer
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Seasonal cheer is found in every town throughout Tuolumne County. Events include Fall Fest at Indigeny Reserve in Sonora and Harvest Festifall in Columbia State Historic Park in October. The night-time Sonora Christmas Parade, the night after Thanksgiving, and the sights and activities of Christmas Town Sonora delight all ages. The Polar Express departs Railtown 1897 State Historic Park for the North Pole on weekends following Thanksgiving.
Plan Your Trip to Tuolumne County
Rush Creek Lodge
You’ll need a place to stay during your visit. Pick from mountain resorts, historic inns, cozy vacation cabins (perfect for gathering the family), distinctive B&Bs, and full-service RV parks.
Start planning your vacation with the help of travel inspiration and information delivered directly to your mailbox. Request your FREE Tuolumne County Travel Guide at VisitTuolumne.com today. Or, call the Visit Tuolumne County team at 209-533-4420.
