The clouds must love floating above Otay Lakes. The prickly-fingered water a mirror reflecting the crinkly, scrub-covered hills of Otay Mountain Wilderness, green from winter rains. The dark line of the border, the denseness of Tijuana beyond. Their view is striking. They must never want to leave.
Nia Hilton probably shouldn’t be up here in the clouds, in a vibrating VW bus of a plane, crammed with bodies, excitement, and questionable judgment. She’s supposed to be at her best friend’s bridal shower later today. They’ve known each other since first grade, so attendance is mandatory. Hilton should be getting ready around now.
But instead, she’s strapped to a guy named Larry, about to front-flip from 13,000 feet. Will she make it on time? Will she make it at all? What is she doing up here, eyes wide, cursing in disbelief as she watches others tip out of the plane?
Her life currently rests on the tension strength of a few yards of nylon and some webbing because I put out a call on San Diego Magazine’s social media, looking for someone who wanted to go skydiving. Hilton was the first to reach out. Full of enthusiasm, her email contained enough exclamation marks to fill a high school auditorium.
“I’ve actually been thinking about skydiving for my 30th,” she wrote. “Hoping to save up by September!”
I liked her immediately but didn’t call her until the day before we were scheduled to go. The state of media in 2024 dictates I should have been looking for someone internet-famous who would share this story to a million followers. But in my heart I knew all along that Hilton was the kind of person I wanted to take. She teaches theater at University City High School, staying into the evening to run rehearsals, often buying food for her students who are there late, too.
As the child of public school teachers, I have a soft spot for overworked, underpaid people like her who keep young minds fueled, often on their own dime. Plus, she was approaching a milestone. She was perfect. Still at school when we talked, she didn’t seem to think about it, she just… jumped at the opportunity.
“I told my students about the Instagram story, the email,” she said. “They kept checking in. ‘Hey, did you get a call? What’s happening? Are you going?’ So it was really fun, and it hyped me up even more throughout the day to say yes.”
Photo Credit: Skydiving San Diego
The next morning, we meet at Skydive San Diego, out near the lakes, where a steady stream of people are being whisked away into the air only to float back to Earth a short time later. This assuages my own fears a bit. A busy skydiving operation is good, I think, like a busy restaurant. It’s the slow ones you have to look out for.
As we wait our turn, I ask Hilton what she was thinking, saying yes to jumping out of a plane with a stranger with less than 24 hours notice on a day full of important obligations. “This is a bucket list experience for me. It’s just an incredible once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” she says. “I saw the bride last night and let her know what was happening. She was so psyched for me. And also nervous.”
But a bit later, as Hilton is getting fitted for her harness, things start getting real. “Time to start praying,” she half-jokes. I hear a couple “Allahs” whispered in earnest.
“I’m Muslim.” She smiles, taking deep breaths and shaking her arms.
Hilton grew up in University City, attending UCHS herself before going to SDSU for undergrad and then a master’s in teaching. Born in Amsterdam to a British father and an Indonesian mother, Hilton moved to SD as a baby when her dad got a job at UCSD. She had plans to leave town after college, but she ended up moving back home in her early 20s to help care for her dad as he dealt with a cancer diagnosis. He died when she was 23.
Photo Credit: Skydiving San Diego
“My dad was a professor of geochemistry. I’m an only child, so it was just me, him, and my mom,” she tells me. “During the summers, we used to go collect volcanic rock or gasses from hot springs around the world. He’s a big reason I love adventures. Every time I do something that gets my heart racing a little bit, I think about him.”
“Is he watching today?” I ask.
“Oh, 100 percent, yeah. He’s here,” she says. “He’s here.”
We watch as the yellow plane takes off again and those ahead of us drop from the sky more than two miles above, like ants blown from a rooftop.
“That’s f-ed up,” an onlooker says. Waiting our turn gives me time to ruminate. In the lead-up to this story, I read about a single company in Lodi, CA linked to more than two dozen skydiving deaths. It’s impossible not to imagine all that can go sideways.
But I also realize we are living our ancestors’ dreams. Since the dawn of time, humans have no doubt dreamt of soaring like birds. But it wasn’t until 1797 that the first skydive took place in Paris, when the inventor of the parachute—André-Jaques Garnerin—lifted a fabric contraption complete with basket into the sky via hot air balloon and dropped, floating down slowly enough to not die.
Since then, people have been perfecting the technology to be able to jump higher and freefall longer. Some maniacs even jump from space—more than 25 miles in the sky—in specially designed pressure suits, plummeting at speeds exceeding 800 miles per hour. Adventure calls to each of us differently.
Photo Credit: Skydiving San Diego
Not everyone is into it, obviously. Tell someone you’re going skydiving, and you’re probably twice as likely to be told you’re nuts as you are to be asked if they can come with. Hilton just so happens to be my kind of crazy.
Then, before we know it, it’s our turn to be ants. First in the plane means Hilton is last to jump out. After everyone else has dropped through the large roll-up door, she scooches to the opening. Again, she’s praying. She’s clipped in front of Larry Barbiero, her professional parachute carrier, her legs dangling over the side. Behind her goggles, her eyes close. Her breathing becomes deliberate. Then out they go, falling at 120 miles per hour. After a tap on the arm from Barbiero, her arms fly outward and a smile blooms across her face. She’s beaming. Her tongue comes out. Her hands each sign “I love you” as she flies.
Photo Credit: Skydiving San Diego
About 50 seconds later, when the parachute opens, she starts screaming. Loud, joyous, high-pitched howls. Larry laughs behind her. “We did it,” he says. “That was awesome.”
A few minutes later on the ground, Hilton is beaming. Still hollering.
“I feel incredible,” she says. “What a brilliant way to celebrate coming into 30. My dad was 100 percent flying along with me.”
Days later, I ask her about the bridal shower and her students.
“It was a beautiful shower. It went off without a hitch,” she says. “I told everyone there about skydiving. And, all today, I’ve been showing my students photos and telling them it was such a great experience. You feel like a bird in the air. It’s almost an out-of-body experience as a human being.”
Then she laughs. “They say, ‘When I turn 18, I want to do that.’ And the bride says she wants to go, too.”
We love a mega-fancy tasting menu, but let’s be honest—we’re not all blessed with unlimited Wagyu funds. So we picked some of the breakout dishes of the last year (or couple of years) from the best chefs in the city, reverse-engineered their chief charms (salty, smoky, caramelized?) in the test lab of our mouths, and found some budget-friendly alternatives that hit some of the same notes with an everyday price tag.
Where do delicately plucked marigold blossoms adorn Deer Isle scallops, or ingredients like fermented raspberry precede roasted coffee oil, shiro miso caramel, or bronze fennel in a parade of hit-after-hit dishes? Lilo in Carlsbad, of course. San Diego’s newest Michelin star changes its menu with the seasons, but one stalwart dish has kept tongues wagging since opening day last April: the caviar ice cream. A boat-shaped sliver of orgeat ice cream, smoked celery root bushi, and freshly pressed almond oil are topped with a generous heap of caviar. It’s a dish so good and defining that chef Eric Bost will tire of talking about it for a very long time.
Price: $265 for the tasting menu (before tax, tip, and drinks)
Low: S’mores Ice Cream at Stella Jean’s
There’s a reason Stella Jean’s s’mores ice cream is part of the local scoop shop’s “always available” menu. Made with fire-roasted marshmallows and coconut ash ice cream mixed with dark chocolate-covered graham crackers and mini marshmallows, its strangely ashen hue dabbled with flecks of tawny brown is a far cry from the wildly vibrant ube and pandesal toffee flavor seemingly made for Instagram reels. But it’s a sensation in your mouth—smoky, toasty, torched, creamy, marshmallowy, coconutty, ashy, and bitter from the dark chocolate. Pro tip: If you really want to DIY Lilo’s ultra-luxe treat, bring your own caviar.
There’s no question what comes first at Lucien. It’s the egg. Chef and co-owner Elijah Arizmendi’s 12-course tasting menu begins with welcome bites under the calamansi tree before moving inside to start the Journey (the actual name of this section of the menu). The first step is one of the most astounding—a perfectly intact, upright, ochre-hued eggshell containing his take on Japanese chawanmushi (egg custard), topped with a dollop of caviar. The accompanying ingredients have ranged from sweet corn and huitlacoche to banana and buckwheat, but each one has precisely demonstrated Arizmendi’s commitment to French technique with California experimentation and global influence.
Price: $260 for the chef’s tasting menu (before tax, tip, and drinks)
Low: Chawanmushi at Sushi Ota
The biggest difference (besides price) is that while Lucien’s dish changes with the season, Sushi Ota is comfortably predictable. A San Diego staple since 1990, the legendary Sushi Ota has been one of those if you know, you know joints that locals try to keep off the radar. (It hasn’t worked at all.) Known for ultra-fresh fish and ultra-traditional service, the small Pacific Beach restaurant also serves Japanese comfort foods like udon noodle soup alongside sashimi, nigiri, and rolls. But it’s the savory steamed egg custard, called chawanmushi, that really gives you the warm and fuzzies. Add a side of salmon roe (ikura) for a few bucks more, and this dupe is about as good as it gets.
Price: $12 for chawanmushi, $11 for ikura
Courtesy of Chick & Hawk
High: The Birdman Sandwich at Chick & Hawk
Enough ink—and tears, I’m sure—has been spilled over Chick & Hawk’s long and arduous journey to opening its doors. But now that the Encinitas eatery is in full swing, chef Andrew Bachelier’s tightly curated menu of fried chicken sandwiches, fries, and bowls command lines of hungry locals and skate-culture loyalists. The Birdman, the signature hot chicken sandwich named for partner and skateboarding legend Tony Hawk, is piled with cabbage slaw and pickles and slathered with a tangy kimchi comeback sauce on a soft brioche bun. Although this Nashville meets California meets Mississippi meets Korea sando doesn’t command a triple-digit price tag, the fact that it’s nearly a $20 chicken sandwich (sans side) has been a topic of conversation. Bachelier—who worked at Addison before opening Jeune et Jolie, then launched SDM’s 2024 “Best New Restaurant,” Atelier Manna—and his team earned that price tag.
Low: 5-Piece Korean Fried Wings at Cross Street Chicken & Beer
It’s hard to beat Koreans at the chicken game. Korean fried wings are defined by a double-fry technique—first at a low temperature to ensure the chicken is cooked through, then at a high temperature to ensure the famed extra-crispy, ear-splittingly crunchrageous magic. At Cross Street, they follow a similar fusion ethos as Chick & Hawk, using inspiration from the American South as well as Thailand, Korea, Vietnam, and more, with flavors like “Seoul Spicy” or “Honey Butter” for whatever you’re feeling that day. Pair it with a cold beer to go full chimaek (a popular Korean combination of pairing fried chicken and beer). Now that’s a combo—and price tag—that’s hard to beat.
Price: $8.75 for five wings
Courtesy of Trust Restaurant Group
High: Steak Frites at À L’ouest
PB&J. Captain & Tennille. Brad Wise and steak. Steak frites ranks among the iconic global duos. And when the holy union of prime cuts and twice-fried carbs comes from Wise and the meat-loving masters at Trust Restaurant Group, it’s a pretty safe bet. À L’ouest—the group’s newest fancy, but not fussy, drippy plant dreamscape of a French steakhouse on the prime corner of 30th and University in North Park—gives guests a choice: 12-ounce New York strip, 8-ounce filet mignon, or 8-ounce Wagyu hanger, topped with sauce au poivre (the classic French pan sauce—peppercorns, shallots, heavy cream, brandy) and served with a heaping pile of 24-hour salt-brined fries and a watercress salad. One bite acts as a transport to a Parisian brasserie, so if you think about the cost in terms of time-space travel, it’s a pretty great deal.
Price: starts at $48
Low: Shepherd’s Pie at The Shakespeare Pub & Grille
To satisfy the same urge for meat and potatoes, feel at least moderately European while doing so, and save a couple quid, a trip to The Shakespeare in Mission Hills ticks all the boxes. The classic British shepherd’s pie arrives in a piping hot oval au gratin dish, smothered with a thick layer of mashed potatoes. Beneath it lies a hefty portion of marinated ground beef and vegetables in the pub’s secret sauce, and while there are a few choices of sides, the correct order is peas and “proper” chips (a.k.a. chunky, thick-cut fries versus the typically thinner American “French” fries). It’s more tickety-boo than très bien, but it’s immensely satisfying in any language.
Beth Demmon is an award-winning writer and podcaster whose work regularly appears in national outlets and San Diego Magazine. Her first book, The Beer Lover's Guide to Cider, is now available. Find out more on bethdemmon.com.
Chefs have done gobs of thankless, lumbar-breaking work over years to land the role. Restaurateurs put their entire livelihoods on the line, microdosed sleep, took ultimate responsibility for every minor stress. They earned the spotlight they get. But ask one of them, and they almost always defer to a line cook who’s showed up for years, been deep in the thing, and whose absence would bring the kitchen to its knees. Or the bartender with a warmth that draws people whether they’re thirsty or not. Or the noble and spreadsheetable soul in charge of purchasing everything needed for the nightly show.
Roger Feria Krile is not only the guy you want to be friends with at work, but also the guy you want to hire: respectful, nose-to-the-grindstone, versatile. And he’ll drop off a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls at your house for the holidays. Born in Tijuana, Krile moved to the US with his mom and sister when he was in elementary school. He saw the sacrifices his mother made to give her children a better life, and he pushed himself to live up to that brighter future.
He came to cooking during the pandemic, asking himself, “What do I really love to do?” His answer: “Bake cakes for friends and break bread with people,” he says. That led to a culinary school degree and a stint in a Michelin-starred NYC kitchen, where he grew to “love and understand” fine dining. Now back in San Diego, Krile’s showing up at Animae in a major way. He does prep work three mornings a week and comes later in the day twice a week for dinner service. Most line cooks do one or the other, but he requested both tours of duty.
“Gotta get my reps, keep my skills sharp,” Krile says, “and I don’t want to miss the rush.” Prep work in the mornings helps him learn how Executive Chef Tara Monsod uses each ingredient to the fullest. Krile’s not just a line cook. One-quarter Filipino (and learning about his culinary heritage from mentor Monsod), he’s building his own Mexican-Filipino pop-up concept. Look for Sarsa—Filipino for salsa—where every dish is a play on words fusing Mexican and Philippine Spanish or Tagalog. He’s already R&D’d a breakfast sandwich, the tortantalong: a torta filled with a signature Filipino eggplant omelette called a tortang talong. Friends in the industry say it’s unexpectedly delicious.
“He shows up every day with a clear goal of one day opening his own restaurant, and that drive pushes him to go above and beyond,” says Monsod. “He is constantly learning, asking questions, and absorbing as much as possible, all while leading by example on the line.”
Photo Credit: Matt Furman
Ruben Martinez
Purchasing Manager, Mister A’s
Ruben Martinez knows every bottle of wine at Mister A’s—not necessarily by taste (though he was on the tasting committee for years), but by where they are in storage and whether they need replenishment. Owner Ryan Thorsen wants the wine list at 100 percent available every night, and Martinez’s job is to make that a reality. He’s been keeping inventory on Mister A’s wines since the 1970s, back when he worked for founder John Alessio. And it’s not just vino: Martinez also procures the ingredients, arriving at 5 a.m. to meet delivery trucks, stock shelves, and alert chefs if anything’s amiss.
Then he hits the dining room for a once- or twice-over to find any imperfections. If a light is out, if the plumbing acts up, if something major happens after he leaves in the afternoon, he’ll fix it all. He’s the best guy to ask, anyway; he knows every inch of Mister A’s. “Before ‘Google it,’ there was ‘Call Ruben,’” Thorsen says.
Martinez started out in hospitality at 17 with his father at Hotel Del. “I thought it would be easy working with my dad,” he says. “But early on, he caught me fooling around with the boys and told me, ‘We’re here to make money for the company. If you’re not willing to work, get out of here.’” That set him straight and set the foundation for Martinez’s lifelong dependability.
He moved to Mister A’s a couple years later, and after over five decades, he’s now the indispensable purchasing manager who worked with Alessio, Betrand Hug, and now Thorsen. Later this year, he’s planning on retiring—though he’s already offered to keep showing up a couple days a week and help out with Thorsen’s new project at Liberty Station.
Thorsen knows this man is a gem. “I don’t think we fully grasp what it will feel like without him,” he says. Last year, he threw Martinez a surprise birthday party in Mister A’s Blue Room, inviting Martinez’s family and a whole cast of coworkers going back to Alessio days. Martinez says he had to leave the room to hide his tears.
Photo Credit: Matt Furman
Patrick Mattoon
Lead Prep Cook, Ironside Fish and Oyster
There’s an hour most people never see, when a restaurant’s technically awake but not yet accountable, and that’s where Patrick Mattoon lives. He’s been the foundation of Ironside’s prep team for the past five years, quietly guiding the day toward success. He and his team are the first in, and they turn on ovens, check deliveries, catch mistakes before they become problems, and fix everything without ceremony so the chefs and line cooks walk into a day that already works.
Mattoon organizes, but more importantly, he owns. There’s no job too small, no detail beneath notice. In a kitchen, bad prep’s the one thing you can’t fix later, no matter how talented of a chef is at the helm.
Five years in, Mattoon still approaches each day with the same care and intensity that he had on day one. He takes every task seriously and sees it through completely—the kind of consistent work that doesn’t draw attention but makes everything else possible. When the restaurant got a soft serve machine, a notorious maintenance nightmare, he taught himself how to clean and run it just to make sure it never broke, not for credit but because that’s just how he’s wired.
“He is a silent leader who has the respect of the entire team due to leading by example,” says Ironside chef Jason McLeod.
Photo Credit: Matt Furman
Arturo Celestino
Lead Line Cook, A.R. Valentien at the Lodge at Torrey Pines
Through 23 years, three executive chefs, and a recent kitchen remodel, lead line cook Arturo Celestino is a constant at A.R. Valentien. He’s there at 6:30 a.m. five days a week—sometimes six—for the Lodge’s breakfast service. That means he’s up early prepping potatoes, slicing mushrooms, whisking pancake batter, and stirring sauces “always with a smile,” says Owen Beatty, the restaurant’s new chef de cuisine. “He’s a good leader.”
Celestino shows the younger guys how to make the eggs fluffy, so the omelettes are always perfect (don’t stop twirling the spatula!). He keeps his line in line when their spirits start to naturally droop during the morning shift home stretch when his crew just wants to get out of there. As the lead, he’s also the one chefs turn to when newbies need motivation.
His secret sauce: “mucho talking!” It keeps people happy, and it also helps the chefs retain talent in the kitchen.
Celestino learned to cook out of “necesidad,” he says. He cut his teeth on fine dining at Pacifica Del Mar at the Hyatt and moved to A.R. Valentien in 2003, just a few months after it opened in 2002.
“I’ve had good jefes,” Celestino says of the three executive chefs he’s known at A.R. Valentien: Jeff Jackson, Kelli Crosson, and now Michelin-starred Eric Sakai. Under Jackson—who’s known for pioneering farm-to-table dining in San Diego—Arturo learned to appreciate local ingredients.
“My favorite is basil,” he says, “added to tomato sauce with garlic, it’s mmm.” Fresh basil plays the supporting role in A.R. Valentien’s signature brunch plate, which is also Celestino’s top choice on the menu (to make and to eat), via the Bull’s Eyes: slow-roasted eggplant with sunny-side-up eggs, tomato sauce, and La Quercia prosciutto.
“I love my job,” Celestino says as he flashes that smile. “It’s not just a plate of food. It’s an experience.”
Photo Credit: Matt Furman
Tony Suarez
Bartender, The Marine Room
If you’ve been to The Marine Room, you’ve probably met bartender Tony Suarez. With his charming Cuban accent and dapper vest and tie, he makes it his business to regale guests coming and going—even while he’s pouring, mixing, shaking, polishing glasses, and taking orders.
“Over 90 percent of our guests are celebrating a special occasion,” he says. “So I keep up the celebration throughout their whole visit.” He’ll make you a sparkling toast and a customized cocktail, and on your way out, he’ll wish you a happy birthday (again) and invite you back for drinks on him.
“My goal is always to delight the guest,” he says. “I like to discover how you feel and lead you to what you would like to drink.” That spirit of experimentation has led to new signature cocktails, such as the Gerald—crafted for a neighbor who’s a regular—featuring housemade pomegranate puree and bourbon, or the I Drink of You with local Bebemos tequila, Gran Marnier, and Green Chartreuse. You won’t find this anywhere else.
“[Suarez] has mastered the art of the personalized guest experience,” says Marine Room’s Executive Chef Ananda Bareño. “He remembers the small details and favorite orders that make our regulars feel like family.”
Suarez’s tenure at the Marine Room started with a walk on the beach and a knock on the door. He was impressed by the beautiful location, and he asked if they were hiring. He immediately started as a server assistant—right before Valentine’s Day. The bartender took Suarez under his wing, and he took to the books to learn all about spirits.
He’s taken on the bartender role with wisdom and grace, offering a sympathetic ear, a pick-me-up, and a “human to human connection,” he says. Ten years into his career, the surroundings still inspire him as much as they did on day one.
“The Marine Room, the windows onto the ocean, [all] have a healing effect,” he says.
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.
For Executive Chef Emily Brubaker, Omni La Costa Resort & Spa feels like home. She grew up just a mile-and-a-half away from the 400-acre property and fondly recalls walking the golf course perimeter as a kid. Though her ambitions led her away from San Diego for nearly two decades in which she honed her craft in some of the highest of high-profile Las Vegas restaurants—including triple Michelin-starred Joël Robuchon at MGM Grand—they ultimately brought her back to North County.
Courtesy of Omni La Costa
Today, the classically French-trained chef, who’s fresh off a victory on NBC’s Yes, Chef!, judged by Martha Stewart and José Andrés, oversees Omni La Costa Resort & Spa’s seven distinct dining concepts. Her goal is to elevate the resort’s culinary program with her creative, hyperlocal ingredient-driven approach while maintaining the Spanish- inspired flavors and fresh California coastal cuisine that are the bedrock of its culinary identity.
“The San Diego food scene is really growing, and in North County alone, it’s really exploded in the last five years,” Brubaker says. “There are Michelin stars, beautiful tasting menus, craft bakers, and all this food—when I was growing up in La Costa, it was fish tacos. Now there are really cool things popping up, and I’m so happy to be here to see where it’s going to go.”
Brubaker gives chefs de cuisine at each individual restaurant autonomy, however, her influence is evident across the resort.
For example, lobby restaurant Bar Traza serves as Omni La Costa’s culinary centerpiece and features bold Spanish flavors in a lively, social atmosphere. Brubaker overhauled the menu to be more consistent and centered on casual bites with that signature vibe. Think smoky paprika, vibrant citrus, and Spanish meats and cheeses.
At VUE, the focus is on seasonal offerings, California coastal cuisine, and Baja-inspired dishes. She and Chef de Cuisine Cameron Dixon change the menu biannually, which heading into summer, will highlight farm-fresh produce and hyperlocal ingredients—the resort even has its own herb garden and honeybee hives.
Courtesy of Omni La Costa
Poolside dining options are leaning into the country’s 250th this summer with a selection of classic American dishes with an Omni La Costa twist. And Bob’s Steak & Chop House (Brubaker is a trained butcher) offers a classic steakhouse experience with elevated service.
The chef and company also plan menus for special events at the resort where her creativity can really shine. For an upcoming National Ski Association dinner, the banquet hall will be transformed into an Alpine-themed winter wonderland complete with a snow machine, savory sausages, and melty, decadent raclette. A recent dinner was built around the Carlsbad Flower Fields and each course was matched to a color of ranunculus (Did you know pink dragonfruit are grown in North County? You do now.).
“It’s my zen to be in the kitchen playing with food,” Brubaker says.
Omni La Costa’s culinary program is a key part of the resort experience. And with Brubaker’s leadership, it’s becoming a draw for visitors and locals alike.
“These aren’t just hotel restaurants, these are restaurants that you should go to. They’re destinations, and I’m really hoping for the future that’s where we’re going,” Brubaker says.
Courtesy of Omni La Costa
Brubaker is also channeling her experience on Yes, Chef! into the culture at Omni La Costa—more emphasis on teamwork and collaboration, empowering her staff to share constructive critiques, and embracing different perspectives. Alongside her leadership role, Brubaker has become an advocate for mental health in the hospitality industry, serving as chief ambassador for the Burnt Chef Project and serves on the Board of Advisors for the Apex Culinary Program, where she mentors and develops future talent.
Is there any food more quintessentially San Diegan than the California burrito? That was a rhetorical question since the French fry-stuffed, flour tortilla-wrapped torpedo of carne asada bliss came into being in the 80s (either invented by Lolita’s or Santana’s, depending on who you ask). But now, Vietnamese-Mexican pop-up Một Bánh Mì may be giving the longtime champ a run for its money.
Một Bánh Mì’s original California banh mi takes cues from both cultures, using traditional Vietnamese baguettes from Paris Bakery filled with carne asada and garnished with cilantro-jalapeno crema, Vietnamese mayonnaise, pickled vegetables, cilantro, cucumber, jalapenos, and of course, French fries.
“It’s so San Diego—it’s so us,” says Desmond Bui, pop-up founder and owner with partner Marisol Santiago. “It really encapsulates the Vietnamese-American and Mexican-American journey and identity here.”
Both grew up in San Diego. Bui is Vietnamese. Santiago is Mexican-American. The sandwich makes utter personal sense.
Neither of them cooked professionally before launching Một Bánh Mì earlier this year, when they popped up for the first time at Convoy Rising for Lunar New Year. But after seeing the rise of the local Vietnamese coffee scene with shops like Saigon Coffee, Chance’s Coffee, and Em Coffee House, Bui knew there was an opportunity for a new generation to put a fresh spin on Vietnamese food in San Diego.
While there are plenty of places to grab a banh mi around town (K Sandwiches, Ba Le French Sandwich Shop, Lee’s Sandwiches, and so on), we’ve yet to hear of a California banh mi. Firsts are being firsted.
“Banh mi is regarded by top chefs as the best sandwich in the world,” says Bui. (Side note: I concur.) And after discovering overlap between Mexican and Vietnamese cuisines through common ingredients like cilantro, lime, jalapeno, white onion, and pickled vegetables, they began planning a menu.
Courtesy of Một Bánh Mì
Một Bánh Mì also serves Bánh Mì Đặc Biệt (Vietnamese cold cuts), Bánh Mì Thịt Nướng (grilled lemongrass pork banh mi), and Bánh Mì carnitas de hongos (mushroom pâté banh mi), along with some specials like Thịt Nướng tacos (grilled lemongrass pork) and hopefully soon, al pastor trompo banh mi (marinated pork shaved off a spit) and charcoal-grilled adobada.
Other banh mi shops Americanize names for English-speaking audiences—for example, listing “grilled chicken sandwich” instead of Bánh Mì Gà Nướng. Not Một Bánh Mì. If you’re not sure how to pronounce something, Bui says they’re happy to help. It’s an educational opportunity, he explains, as well as a chance for them to be “unapologetically Vietnamese and Mexican.”
Part of the immersive experience is playing Vietnamese tunes from the ‘60s and ‘70s.
“When you think of universal languages, what are ways when you travel or meet a different group of people that you can still find common ground and connect and feel like we’re a lot more alike than we are different?” Bui asks. “Food and music.”
The musical element is part of Một Bánh Mì’s greater vision. They’d like to evolve into a lifestyle brand and media company, with merch, jars of pickled vegetables, you name it. Eventually, they’d like to open a brick-and-mortar somewhere in Mid-City. In the meantime, they’ll continue to pop up at places like Mixed Grounds and Chance’s Coffee, or wherever they can. (Bui called Provecho Coffee their “dream collab,” hint hint.)
San Diego bartenders have been making serious waves over the past few years, and it looks like 2026 is carrying on that momentum. Dominique Muñoz, bar lead at Polite Provisions, just nabbed a top spot on Punch’s Best New Bartenders 2026 list. She’s hardly new to the game, having been behind the stick for nearly a decade and founding the Sirens and Spirits collective to elevate women and nonbinary bartenders in the industry, but it’s fabulous to see some (well-deserved) San Diego representation on the short list. Congrats to Muñoz—we can’t wait to see what you do next.
Speaking of awards, Tribute Pizza just earned a prize of its own. The North Park pizza palace hit #38 on the 50 Top Pizza list this year (for the fourth year) right before its 10th anniversary on June 2. Here’s to another decade of delightful pies, ridiculously good Caesar salads, and the weird-to-have, but delicious-to-eat Sichuan spicy noodles.
But the recognition doesn’t stop there. San Diego’s only three-Michelin-starred restaurant Addison by William Bradley (which is freshly re-open after a thorough renovation) just made San Diego history by being the first restaurant in the city to make it on North America’s 50 Best Restaurants 2026 list at #31. Considering there are something around 70,000 restaurants in North America (if not more)—I’d say landing in the top 50 is pretty monumental.
San Diego has one of the highest concentrations of people in the African diaspora, including one of the nation’s largest East African populations behind Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota. To celebrate the huge diversity of cuisines from countries like Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia, and beyond, head to the annual San Diego Soul Food Fest on August 1 at the North Park Mini Park from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Soul food’s roots come from the American South, where generations of enslaved people made do with what resources they had; today, it’s a celebration of culture, cooking, and community. I, for one, am salivating at the thought of getting some legit collard greens and fried catfish.
In lieu of catfish, I just might pop over to Bica in Normal Heights on June 20 for the Tuna Takedown, where chefs from Kingfisher, Mabel’s Gone Fishing, Ironside, À L’ouest, Fish Guts (plus a few more) will go full nose-to-tail on a 150-pound bluefin tuna. That’s about as fresh as it gets, and with beer, wine, and a DJ on top of that, I’m hard-pressed to make any other plans that night.
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Beth Demmon is an award-winning writer and podcaster whose work regularly appears in national outlets and San Diego Magazine. Her first book, The Beer Lover's Guide to Cider, is now available. Find out more on bethdemmon.com.
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.
Central nervous system tumors are some of the most complex conditions in medicine. Scripps Cancer Center committed to expanding its neuro-oncology services, and has recruited some of the top medical professionals in their field, including neurosurgeon Jeremy Ciporen, MD, and neuro-oncologist and researcher Tresa McGranahan, MD, PhD. But that was just the start. Expert nurses, sophisticated imaging and surgical equipment were also added with philanthropic support. Most importantly, Scripps Cancer Center designed a program that puts the patient at the center of it all. Click here to read more about Scripps’ neuro-oncology program, and here for more on the pair of donors for which it’s named.
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