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Troy Johnson pulls up a seat for dinner with San Diego's iconic Italian family, the Busalacchis
Joe Busalacchi would like to invite you to his birthday party. All of you. He didn’t, technically. But I feel confident. That’s what Joe does. He invites yous.
On the outdoor grill at his gated Mission Hills home—with a three-point view of downtown, the airport runway, and, most critically, of Little Italy—lies a whole grouper, scored and slathered with salmoriglio sauce (anchovy, capers, garlic, shallots, oregano, parsley, lemon juice, fresh-squeezed orange, olive oil). He’d like to give you the cheeks, a delicacy for people who truly know and love fish. Since you’re not here, he gives it to me. That’s what Joe does. Joe gives the best parts to strangers. Has been for 42 years.
For example: Within 15 minutes of my being in his home for the very first time, he invites me for Christmas. Not a restaurant opening, or something that would benefit his business by having a writer publicize it. With unrestrained earnestness, Joe announces to his entire family that this stranger is invited to the holiday where they all wear pajamas. And no one bats an eye. Yes, they agree, the stranger should come to Christmas in his pajamas.
The Big Family in Little Italy
“The most important thing that you don’t get in a lot of restaurants now is the ‘Hi, how you doin,’ lemme buy you a glass of wine,’” says 61-year-old Joe, as he surveys the dozens of dishes assembled in his kitchen, wearing an apron emblazoned with a Picasso print. “You gotta make people feel like a million dollars. Restaurateurs now are doing so many covers and don’t have time. You should make a friend, then make a customer.”
I feel like a friend. Should I show up on Christmas morning, I have no doubt Joe would answer the door and insist I was late.
About a dozen Busalacchi specialties are being prepared for this family meal tonight, overseen by no fewer than six family members. Joe’s son Michael helps Cousin Nino monitor the squash blossoms, vibrating in hot oil like a Van Gogh painting of flowers. On another burner, Nonna’s Bolognese sauce lightly simmers (always for at least three hours). Joe’s other sons, PJ and Joey Jr., handle the hospitality, making sure cups are filled, introductions are made, and embarrassing stories are given properly mortifying light.
The Big Family in Little Italy
Everyone has brought a plate of food. A typical Busalacchi family meal consists of dishes made by between 20 and 25 Busalacchis. There is someone poking and prodding the spiedini, a Sicilian specialty of ground pork stuffed with bread crumbs, currants, prosciutto, and cheese (“We were the first in San Diego to serve these,” beams Joe’s nephew, Nino, who’s now the chef of their newest Little Italy restaurant, Barbusa). Pendant kitchen lights glint off the fresh orange juice squeezed on razor-thin slices of fennel for the finocchio salad. Sicilian meatballs the size of toddler fists bask in crushed tomatoes flecked with herbs.
An aunt produces a warm basket of her bread topped with sesame seeds, toasted brown as desert dusk. There are layers of zucchini upon layers of eggplant—”blanched first, so they don’t get so oily,” explains Joe. Sfingi, a gossamer Italian donut is made, tonight and always, by Joe’s sister, Anna. And, of course, there’s cannoli. In Italian, a night without cannoli is called a mistake.
As the dishes are finalized, men gather in the TV room to see a football team that used to play in San Diego and then left the city without ceremony, and are therefore watched with a mix of obligation, habit, and derision. In the corner, a door leads to a modest wine room filled with immodest and sentimental reds. Most of the women converse around a large table outside by the pool. It’s there that my girlfriend asks how they’ll know what time is proper and polite to move inside to eat. “Oh, you’ll know,” a woman laughs. Two minutes later, Nino opens the sliding glass door and yells, “LET’S EAT!” The table must be 30 feet long, an Uber-able distance from end to end. Actually, it’s two tables. When you’re a Busalacchi, you own two tables, just in case family happens. And family always happens. Gold crosses glint from almost every open shirt collar. Each seat is elaborately set with wine glasses, each with a specific purpose (an aperitif glass, a dinner-wine glass, a digestif glass). Italians, much like the French and Russians, have an extensive tool set for dinner. I’m sitting in the center. The room is full of Busalacchis. Nearly 20, for sure. There’s Joe’s three sons, PJ, Joey Jr., and Michael. Joe’s brother Frank, his sons. Then nephews and girlfriends and boyfriends. If you ever need to borrow an aunt or uncle for any aunting or uncling scenario, they’ve got extra. They’re all laughing and spilling family secrets and moaning over the fiori di zucca (those fried squash blossoms, stuffed with four cheeses and topped with apricot jam, one of the standouts at Barbusa).
The Big Family in Little Italy
Our family meal begins when Nonna—Joe’s 87-year-old mother, Christina—serves us the pasta course, as she always does. It’s her celebrated Bolognese, which is on the menu at their other Little Italy restaurant—appropriately named Nonna. Forks twirl and voices climb as a flood of family stories come. The table takes on the roar of the stock exchange floor, with less panic and more bonhomie.
After the pasta course, we take our plates, go to the kitchen, and load up. It’s impossible not to be obscene about this, with a tonnage of food that befits Thanksgivings and last meals. Impossible for everyone except Joey Jr., whose plate is virtually empty. “Oh yeah, that,” he says, a little sheepish. “I don’t really eat. I eat fried food and meat and cheeses, but that’s about it. I don’t think I’ve ever had a vegetable. My dad used to get so mad. He once held up a piece of arugula and said, ‘I swear to God if you eat this right now I’ll buy you a car!’ I didn’t eat it.” Before coming to dinner, I called a handful of restaurant people to ask about Joe. They all said the same thing—good restaurateur, and one funny guy. Real funny. People always mentioned the funny.
“C’mon, dad, show him the video!” begs Joey Jr., plate still empty.
The Big Family in Little Italy
Joe does not want to show the video. But soon the cajoling gets him. He stares down to the head of the table, his shoulders sulk, his face flushes. For the first time that night, he doesn’t look like a self-made restaurateur who helped build both Hillcrest and Little Italy into culinary destinations. He looks like a child with a Bic lighter and a bad idea.
“She’s gonna be so mad,” he says, trying to contain the laughter.
“She” is Nonna, dressed tonight in a proper blue sweater with a significant necklace and earrings.
Joey Jr. produces the infamous family video on his iPhone. His father turns his back to Nonna and reluctantly narrates. They’d finally gotten her a flip phone, he explains. She wanted to program it like a smartphone: press one for Joe, two for brother Frank, and so on. Joe, divining rod of funny, convinced her that these newfangled phones can only be programmed by loudly speaking the person’s name and then banging on a cooking pot with a wooden spoon. Joe had helpfully arranged the necessary materials for her on a kitchen table. The video shows this sweet woman almost screaming the names of her beloveds into the phone and banging with shocking authority on the pot. Like a gong.
The Big Family in Little Italy
When pot banging didn’t work, he convinced her—oh yeah oh yeah sorry Ma I forgot—she has to do it lying down. So the next video is her wearing a conservatively elegant nightgown in bed, loudly proclaiming the names of her grown children into the phone. The poor woman; the good sport. Her fault, though, for raising a Joe.
At this point, Nonna has caught wind that she’s the inspiration for the laughter. She casts a narrow side-eye that is loving and deadly. She quietly mutters something in Sicilian.
No one can hush a roomful of Sicilians like Nonna. With a look or a whisper. Throughout the night, the Busalacchi home is not merely loud, it is a leading cause of tinnitus. Men and women talk over each other, a constant rising and falling of voices. People yell to fill our wine glasses (Joe makes his own wine, called Due Matti). They yell to be heard. In a jumbo-sized family with jumbo-sized personalities, if you don’t yell you might as well be carpet. But when Nonna opens her mouth, the assembled generations zip it. The Busalacchi Earth stops spinning and will return to its regularly scheduled decibels after these important messages.
The Big Family in Little Italy
Someone—an uncle or a cousin or a brother or some stranger who walked in off the street and was welcomed—translates for me: “She said ‘Why you gotta talk about me?” Nonna shakes her head with the kind of annoyed permission parents give when their pride for their children outweighs the crime.
She should be proud. Joe had help from his brother, his ex-wife Lisa (who raised their sons so that Joe could raise the business, often feeding the three young’uns in the restaurants before opening hours), his cousins, aunts, uncles, and eventually his grown sons. But it was mostly Joe who built a restaurant empire that provided for a few generations. And he did it by learning to cook at Nonna’s side when he was knee high.
Nonna and her husband brought the family to San Diego from Sicily when Joe was eight years old. “When I’m telling you they had nothing,” explains PJ, “I mean nothing.”
The Big Family in Little Italy
At age 19, Joe was hired as the chef for one of San Diego’s tuna boats. At the time, the city’s tuna boats were the equivalent of floating Google campuses—more or less economic juggernauts. Usually, boat cooks were ad hoc parents who cleaned, did dishes, mopped, and grunted through the necessary and unwanted work. Joe was so good, his brother explains, the crew didn’t make him do any of that.
“I used to take about 50–60 cookbooks out fishing and read all day,” Joe explains. “All I had to do was make a call and they’d deliver me fish to our house. And they let me have access to the wine locker.”
He opened his first restaurant 35 years ago in La Mesa at Grossmont Center, Casanova’s Pizza. That same year, with his fishing contacts, he opened Busalacchi’s Fish Company. Two years later, in a converted Craftsman home in Hillcrest, he christened the restaurant that would make his name—Busalacchi’s on Fifth. The dishes, largely based on Nonna’s recipes and tweaked with Joe’s expanding talent, were a revelation. But it was bittersweet, because San Diego diners at the time weren’t adventurous. “I used to get so sick of people saying, ‘You make the best fucking lasagna in the world,’” Joe grouses. “I didn’t want to make the best fucking lasagna in the world.” He wanted to serve them Sicilian specialties like calamari, or octopus with lemon (which, at family dinners, is always served as a late-night snack and always, always cut by Uncle Frank Z.). “I couldn’t get fettuccine alfredo off the menu,” he grumbles.
The Big Family in Little Italy
Busalacchi’s on Fifth—which moved one block away and was renamed Busalacchi’s A Modo Mio in 2011—lasted as an icon for 24 years. When the lease was up and the landlord’s new terms were too steep, Joe opted to close it. This became a recurring theme. When faced with a spike in rent, many owners often just pay it, because that particular patch of earth is the birthplace of so many emotions. Joe crunches the numbers. If those numbers don’t pencil out, he cuts bait and opens somewhere they do. He had already made inroads in Little Italy, opening Trattoria Fantastica and a bakery called Cafe Zucchero in 1994 and 1995, respectively. (Joe’s brother Frank went to Sicily, studied Italian pastry, and returned to help open Zucchero). At that time, the price per square foot in Little Italy was 99 cents. Now it’s eight dollars.
“Tell them about the bullet holes, Dad,” urges Joey Jr. as we sit outside after dinner, cigars aflame.
“It was a ghetto,” Joe admits. “Seven thirty, eight o’clock it was dead. I’d love to say I saw what Little Italy would become, but I had no idea. It was just so affordable.”
“We used to have to put things underneath the patio tables because the sidewalks slanted down toward the street,” Joey Jr. remembers.
“You could lay in the middle of India Street and never get hit by a car,” adds Nino. “The lease was a single piece of paper.”
The Big Family in Little Italy
Joe was one of the independent business owners who changed that, by taking a chance on Little Italy. Landlords wanted a Busalacchi joint. Joe’s food and jokes de vivre made people come, which made landlords’ buildings more valuable. They offered him rent for proverbial pennies. At one point he had six concepts in the neighborhood, from Grape Street to Cedar.
“I couldn’t say no,” he says.
Then Little Italy exploded. Craft & Commerce, Prepkitchen, Bencotto, Underbelly, Café Gratitude, Born & Raised, Ironside—all the hip restaurants arrived. Rent went up, way up. Between 2015 and 2017, he sold or reconcepted seven restaurants, five in Little Italy alone. From an outsider’s perspective, the Busalacchi starshine seemed a little dusty.
“It wasn’t that we lost it,” explains Joe. “We were done with the leases. I sold one of them to one of the managers who worked with me. I wanted to give him an opportunity. And so we concentrated on coming back, all hands on the one idea.”
The Big Family in Little Italy
That idea was Barbusa. The lease for his steakhouse restaurant, Po Pazzo, was up. He wanted out. His sons wouldn’t let him, at least not without a fight. PJ and Joey Jr. wanted to take Dad and Cousin Nino’s food and put it in a more modern setting. Ditch the white tablecloths, the formal service, the classic—and possibly outdated—earmarks of restaurant culture Joe made his name on.
“We fought with him over every little thing—decor, music, the food,” says PJ.
“I was coming from the old school with the linens and tiles or carpet,” says Joe in his defense. “They had all these big changes, of concrete floors and no linens, different-style chairs, mix-matched spoons. I was like, ‘Wow, what’s goin’ on here? You guys are crazy.’ But apparently they were right and I was wrong.”
It worked. Barbusa, which opened in 2016, is a hit, arguably Busalacchi’s biggest in a decade. PJ and Joey Jr. run the front of the house, trying their best to make strangers feel the same way I, a stranger, feel in their home tonight. Father Joe oversees it all. There are plans to open more Barbusas outside of Little Italy, maybe even in other cities.
The Big Family in Little Italy
“I’m still at the restaurants at six in the morning,” says Joe. “I still check the sauces and prep some. But I’m all over the place. I’m consulting with my kids, keeping them on their toes, changing menus, and handling the business end of it. You might see us at the edge of a table, fighting.”
It’s 42 years in the making, this Busalacchi thing. And the boy who worked on a tuna boat at age 19, who opened a pizza joint with a few bucks and a dream, is watching the second wave carry the name.
Near the end of the night, I look down at Nonna in her spot at the head of the table. She hasn’t moved. That is her place. The cook who started it all.
San Diego’s first family of Italian food shares three hallmark recipes passed down through the generations, including Nonna’s famous Bolognese. Mangia!
The Big Family in Little Italy
“Squash blossoms are an ingredient that intimidates many people but, in reality, are very easy to work with,” says Barbusa Executive Chef Nino Zizzo. They are a great example of a fresh dish that you can change up by experimenting with different stuffings according to your preference, and they will consistently impress your guests.”
Serves 6
Prep time: 10–15 minutes
Cook time: 2–4 minutes per blossom
Ingredients
Filling:
6 squash blossoms
¼ cup mascarpone cheese (can substitute cream cheese)
2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese
¼ cup mozzarella cheese
1 teaspoon chopped shallots
Pinch of salt
Pinch of pepper
Sauce:
¼cup apricot preserves
½teaspoon Calabrian chilies, minced
½teaspoon serrano chilies, minced
Batter (can substitute store-bought tempura batter):
1 cup flour
¼ cup corn starch
1 egg
Sparkling water to preference
Directions
Filling:
1. Combine all ingredients (except squash blossoms) in a large bowl.
2. Roll into small balls, then stuff each squash blossom to capacity (will depend on blossom size).
Batter:
Combine all ingredients in a bowl, using enough water to achieve preferred consistency.
Sauce:
Combine all ingredients in a bowl and plate under the blossoms.
Blossoms:
1. Once stuffed, pat the blossoms in flour, then dip in the batter.
2. Heat your skillet with oil or heat the fryer to 375ï° F.
3. Fry each blossom until golden brown, about 1–2 minutes on each side.
4. Plate the squash blossoms over the sauce.
The Big Family in Little Italy
“Spiedini are a traditional Italian dish historically reserved for holidays and special occasions,” Zizzo says. “Whether it’s Christmas, Easter, or a family member’s first communion or reconciliation, the whole family gets together and participates in the preparation.”
Serves 4
Prep time: 45 minutes–1 hour
Cook time: Varies according to preference
Ingredients
Stuffing:
½ sweet onion
2 bunches of green onions
½ cup olive oil
â pound salami
â pound prosciutto cotto (ham)
â pound pecorino Romano cheese
â pound mozzarella cheese
1 teaspoon black currants
1 teaspoon pine nuts
½cup tomato sauce
Panko breadcrumbs
1 sprig Italian parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Meat:
2–2 ¼ pounds pork or veal, cut into 2 ounce medallions (4–5 medallions per skewer)
1 red onion, slivered
20 bay leaves
Extra virgin olive oil
Panko breadcrumbs
Directions
Stuffing:
1. Chop onion and green onion into slices the width of a quarter.
2. Sauté the onion and green onion in olive oil, then transfer to a bowl.
3. Chop the salami, prosciutto cotto, pecorino Romano, and mozzarella and add to mixture.
4. Add in black currants and pine nuts, then mix in tomato sauce.
5. Add Panko breadcrumbs until the mixture becomes doughy.
6. Add parsley and salt and pepper to taste.
Meat:
1. Place meat medallions on plastic wrap and pound until thin.
2. Take a generous dollop of stuffing, roll it up, and place on meat.
3. Using a three-tuck fold, roll the stuffing up in the meat.
4. After they are rolled, place 4 to 5 portions of meat on each skewer, inserting a sliver of red onion and 1 bay leaf between each portion
5. Dip both sides of the loaded skewer in extra virgin olive oil, and roll the skewer in Panko breadcrumbs.
6. Barbecue the skewers on the grill, cooking to preference and until cheese in the middle has melted.
The Big Family in Little Italy
“Our Bolognese aims to instantly bring back the memories of walking into Nonna’s kitchen for Sunday family dinner,” Zizzo says. “The recipe comes directly from our grandmother and serves as a reminder of simpler times with a great meal and family.”
Serves 4
Prep time: 30 minutes
Cook time: 1 hour
Ingredients
1 white onion
1 large carrot
2 stalks celery
¼ pound pancetta
3 garlic cloves
½ cup olive oil
1 ½ pounds ground beef
1 pound Italian pork sausage
2 tablespoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 cube beef bouillon
24 ounces tomato paste
½ cup whole milk
1 gallon water
2 cups green English peas (sweet peas)
Directions
1. Mince the onion, carrot, and celery in a food processor.
2. Add the pancetta and garlic, then transfer to a large pot and sauté in olive oil.
3. Add the ground beef and sausage, then add salt, pepper, and the beef bouillon.
4. Once the meat has browned, add in the tomato paste.
5. Mix well, then add in milk, water, and peas.
6. Cook on low heat for one hour.
7. Depending on desired consistency, add more water or cook for longer.
The Big Family in Little Italy
Editor at large, Aaryn Belfer, introduces the September 2026 Arts issue featuring 190 artists, makers, builders, and doers.
What makes San Diego, San Diego? That’s the question at the heart of this issue.
Over the course of eight weeks, San Diego Magazine staff and I spoke to dozens of people, from long-time leaders at some of our biggest institutions to emerging artists working alone at night in studio apartments after eight hours (or 10 or 12) at their day jobs.
Tasked with bringing this issue to life as editor at large, I’m just one member of a stellar team of artists in their own right. I repeatedly told owners Claire and Troy Johnson: This is your baby, I’m just the babysitter. Which is wink-and-smile cute, until you spend two months with the kid and realize you’d take a bullet for it.
San Diego’s beaches are gorge and the weather the envy of those who spend winter scraping ice from their windshields. But sand and sun are the least interesting things about this place. Traditional territory of the Kumeyaay people, San Diego is a majority-minority region with cultural and artistic depth that’s unmissable unless you’re looking directly at the sun (don’t do that, please).
For me, the creatives make San Diego. The composers, the painters, the sculptors, the writers. From Oceanside to the border, and Tijuana too, this is arguably the most culturally layered region in the country. That shows up in murals, music, textiles, food, dance, street art, and beyond.
Almost nobody I talked with does just one thing. The visual artist is also a musician. The culture keeper is also a painter. Their personal stories shape their work and compel them to create in San Diego, even when staying costs them more than San Diego gives back.
That world is what San Diego’s artistic and cultural community gives to us. It’s the mural on the side of the building at Ace Parking on the corner of India and A streets. It’s the buskers overlooking the pier in OB. It’s cultural drumming classes at WorldBeat Center. It shows up invited (or not: we see you, street artists), and we’re all better for it.
I believe we’re all artists, by the way. That natural state gets trained out of us early, in favor of deadlines and the idea that anything made with your hands needs to justify itself with a return on investment. A lifetime doodler, I picked up a sketchbook three years ago; watercolor followed. Talent’s debatable, but that was never the point. When I’m creating, my brain quiets; I can’t be anywhere else in my head except exactly where I am. My work won’t be on gallery walls, but it’s not a hobby either. It’s a portal to the world I want to live in.
For this issue, we reached out to dozens of people across the arts community and asked them to give us names—artists and culture makers they felt were especially crucial, compelling, moving the city forward. The result was a list of 190 artists, makers, builders, doers.
We also wanted this issue to be its own art project, not just a write-up of one. To give artists proper acreage, we enlisted one of the city’s top photographers, Matt Furman, to capture their image.
Then we began the Sophie’s Choice process of narrowing the list of talented humans—each deserving of their own 2,200-word profile—down to 31. Our criteria was broad with bumper rails: Names that kept coming up again and again had to be included; so did people doing work that reflects our diverse region; and people building something bigger than themselves, gathering others, and galvanizing pockets of scene. Individually and collectively, these creatives are reaching toward a future in which art and culture is what brings people to San Diego; a main attraction before getting a sunburn, not a side quest after.
Strip all of it away—the murals, the music, the makers, the stories—and what’s left of a city? Concrete and buildings with the Pacific Ocean and a mythological green flash. That’s it. That’s the whole inheritance.
Turns out the babysitter fell hard for this one: Seeing these artists through Furman’s lens made me feel all the things, and I hope it will do the same for you. I hope this issue compels you to get out your calendar and make a plan to buy the ticket, step into the gallery, sit in the audience. Showing up is how you tell San Diego’s creatives that art and culture matter—and that they matter, too.
This issue is my love letter—San Diego Magazine’s love letter—to them. To the people working and fighting to ensure that the stereotype is never all we are.
Aaryn Belfer is a writer and editor specializing in nonfiction across art, architecture, and culture. Once upon a time, she wrote a provocative column for San Diego CityBeat (RIP). She was a runner up in the 2025 Matchbook Stories contest at the San Diego Central Library and is irrationally happy about it. Currently in her Soft Girl Era, Aaryn has expensive taste in (mostly flat) shoes and will choose a great art exhibit or live jazz concert over almost anything else. Except, possibly, Javier Bardem.
After a blind taste test, these four desserts came out on top—see the winners here
Basque grandmothers have not been making it for centuries. If you’re a millennial, there’s a strong possibility you’re older than the dessert itself. Yet somehow in less than 40 years, the Basque cheesecake—a half-pudding, half-cake creation with a top that looks like a mistake—managed to ooze its way onto menus all over the world.
It became the undisputed dessert star of San Diego’s restaurant world this year. So we invited 19 of the top restaurants, pastry chefs, and bakers to bring their best to the San Diego Magazine office for a blind taste test to find the best in the city.
First, a little history and context.
In 1987, after failing to find a job as an electrician, Santiago Rivera started working as a bartender at his parents’ unassuming pintxo bar La Viña, in San Sebastián, Spain. He was a naturally curious, self-taught cook who spent his free time testing recipes, tinkering with ingredients, and tweaking techniques.
So when it came to the cheesecake—which hadn’t changed much since its invention (a rudimentary version was served at the first Olympics in Greece 4,000 years ago, and the modern New York version in 1872)—he got radical with it.
He removed the crust (partly just to speed up the process because time is money for a small business). Without the crumbly crust, the experience was far creamier, less granulated. Then he cranked the oven to 400 degrees, nearly 100 degrees hotter than the normal baking temperature.
The result? The top became deeply caramelized, almost burnt, while leaving the center luxuriously soft and loosely set. The restaurant became a legend because of this breakthrough in the dairy arts, and his father never let him stop making it after that.
Now, 67 years after the restaurant’s opening, La Viña stands out for the unceasing line spilling onto the street, and the remarkable amount of curd cultists standing nearby, hovering over cream-smeared plastic containers. It’s the kind of scene that makes you stop and think: What the hell are they eating?
Now, the blind tasting. To keep things fair, the contenders were divided into four categories: Restaurant Traditional, Restaurant Flavored, Bakery Traditional, and Bakery Flavored. (It’s a tad unfair to pit a baker who specializes in the one glorious thing against a restaurant that cooks dozens of things.) Each entry was served blind and judged on texture, flavor, and number of vaguely inappropriate food moans.
The logistics were chaotic, to say the least. Our fridge—not a walk-in, sadly—was packed to the brim. Each cake was sliced, secretly labeled, and shuffled onto plates while the team gathered in the conference room. The whole shebang was not in any way sponsored by Lactaid, despite our various attempts to convince them of this ripe marketing opportunity.
The judging became gloriously unhinged. We heard it all, from “I don’t care how the cheesecake gets in my mouth, it just needs to happen,” and “Is it supposed to be this jiggly?” to “Kind of a baby throw-up situation,” “Straight cheese,” and “I’m getting vague socks there.”
But four Basque cheesecakes stood out among the rest, earning themselves the title of Best Burnt Basque Cheesecake in San Diego.
A restaurant for the people. Rosarito native chef Juan González and Megan Strom are the ideal married couple to be running a farm-to-table joint. She’s been a farmer for decades, selling top-notch produce to some of the best restaurants in California—which is how the two met. A couple years ago, she started working at the small organic farm in Valley Center run by Mike Reeske, who had spent decades breeding the perfect heirloom beans for SoCal’s climate. He recently retired, and gifted those strains to Strom—who grows them (and other crops) for their tiny Escondido taco/burrito shop specializing in guisados (Mexican stews).
A Basque cheesecake in a taco shop? You bet. Juan’s got family roots in Spain and has cooked in Spanish kitchens.
Mesa Agricola’s winning Basque is by far the most “burnt” of all contenders—so much so that an Instagram follower declared it a mistake. But as Chef Juan notes, there’s an art to hitting the sweet spot where “the bitterness of the char balances the richness and sweetness without turning it into ‘chicharrón.’” Plus, char is a core charm of Baja cooking. It’s the perfect Basque for the people who prefer setting their campfire marshmallows fully on fire.
With red leather booths and a retro steakhouse vibe, Moe’s in Mission Beach is a good cheat day destination. The menu is flavor maximalism—dry-aged steaks, housemade pastas, brown liquors, and sides like the lobster truffle mac ’n’ cheese. Pastry chef Eli Peralta (whom some might remember as the creator of The Patio on Lamont’s “Twisted Elvis”—a peanut butter-banana brûlée stunner) brings that same intensity to the dessert menu.
Baked at sister restaurant Molly’s (6 feet away), his Basque is served on a bed of caramel with walnut brittle and a dollop of whipped cream, an indulgent recipe that converted the pastry chef himself. “I wasn’t crazy about cheesecakes,” Eli admits. “Then I started making different flavors, and I started to like them.” He’s not the only convert: During our blind tasting, one judge likened the cake to crème brûlée, concluding, “I don’t even like crème brûlée, but I like this.”
Every creative pursuit starts with a muse—and Lada Sadovnyk’s has been the Basque cheesecake for years. In Ukraine, she baked them for friends and family gatherings, never imagining she would one day build an entire bakery around them in the US. “When we moved to San Diego,” she explains, “I kept thinking, ‘What can I do? What do I really love to do?’”
The answer is pretty fantastic.
After obsessing over proportion and techniques, chasing that molten center and deeply caramelized top, what began as an online recipe evolved into something entirely of her own.
She moved from her home kitchen to a rented commercial kitchen close to Sports Arena. The orders kept coming, and so did the pressure. “At one point, I was thinking about divorcing my husband,” she says with a laugh (while sitting next to him). The grind paid off: Today, Muse Cheesecakes bakes roughly 1,200 cheesecakes a month and is planning to open its first brick-and-mortar home in Pacific Beach.
For our competition, the expectations met reality. Muse has made a quick name in San Diego as the Basque to beat. In a blind taste test, there’s no bias, no reputational shine to sway a room. The response on reveal: “Oh, of course.”
Husband-and-wife duo Alex and Anastasia Kiperband pulled off the number of failures (and then some) that are required of any search for the best recipe. After adjusting baking temps, sugar rations, and experimenting with different brands of cream cheese and heavy cream—they finally landed on something worthy of a business license.
“When we started this business in America, we were really nervous,” Anastasia says, co-owner of Bite Cheesecakes & Bakery.
Once they won over those first customers, their confidence grew enough to start tinkering. When Dubai chocolate took social media by storm, they developed their own version, making the pistachio paste from scratch before layering the buttery kataifi pastry beneath a glossy chocolate shell to create its signature Dubai Chocolate Basque Cheesecake.
“In a lot of situations, we’re converting cheesecake haters to cheesecake lovers,” they say. “That’s probably the best feedback that we get.”
Camila Ibarra Gallego is a CaliBaja native pursuing a master's degree in culinary journalism at the Basque Culinary Center. Shaped by the culturally rich, bicultural megaregion, she's passionate about sniffing out stories that connect people, territory and culture through food. When she's not tumbling down internet rabbit holes, you can find her pretending to be a wine connoisseur at a local wine bar or nose-deep in a good book.
Whether you're a lover of the arts, music, or a leisurely stroll through the park, these are Balboa's best attractions
On February 28, 1926, the Fine Arts Gallery of San Diego (now called the San Diego Museum of Art) opened its Plateresque doors to 3,000 guests for opening day. Over the next century, the museum changed with the times—even once functioning as a naval hospital after Pearl Harbor. This year, the museum is celebrating its 100th birthday with an exhibit (open through January 24, 2027) featuring photographs, ephemera, and film footage spanning the museum’s history.
Every Sunday from 2 to 3 p.m., stop by the historic Spreckels Organ Pavilion for a free concert presented by the City of San Diego on the largest outdoor organ in the world (more than 5,000 pipes). The pavilion seats 2,400 for performances by the civic organist or guest artists.
Some think natural history museums are just cemeteries for dioramas that haven’t received an update since the Reagan administration. When it comes to The Nat, which just finished a $7.5 million rejuvenation, they’re totally wrong. The museum debuted a new rooftop that replaces its 25-year-old atrium. The old roof created a greenhouse effect that steamed up some exhibits, so the new one—which includes 200 solar panels and better temperature control—will help preserve the artifacts inside. Each Friday in the summer, The Nat also becomes one of the season’s vibiest hotspots during Nat at Night, with food from places like Wolf in the Woods and The Craft Taco, bars and signature cocktails on several floors, and a rooftop DJ.
The Fleet Science Center just received its most significant update since the 1990s. It expanded its exhibit space by 20 percent and introduced a newly designed entrance gallery (formerly the IMAX theater lobby) that includes free exhibits for visitors who want a taste of the science without paying an admission fee. The former ticketing area now houses the Mindbender Mansion exhibit, and there’s a new café, Element 8, that will, of course, sell the center’s famous soft serve.
Inspired by the effortless charm of French cafés, this taste of France on Orange Avenue invites guests to embrace the simple pleasure of taking their time.
Strolling down Orange Avenue on a sunny afternoon, you’ll hear the hum of beach cruisers rolling by and visitors making their way toward the Hotel del Coronado. Dogs pause to greet one another on the sidewalk, palm trees sway overhead, and for a moment, you’re convinced you’re living inside the postcard from the gift shop you just passed.
Then the scene shifts. Towering white columns, black café awnings and gold-trimmed windows frame Little Frenchie, where woven bistro chairs spill onto the sidewalk and servers deliver bubbling crocks of French onion soup. The scent of caramelized onions and melted Gruyère is practically an invitation to ask, “How long for a table for two?”
That feeling of pulling up a chair and staying awhile is exactly what inspired Little Frenchie. French cuisine has a reputation for feeling a little intimidating, but the restaurant is rewriting that narrative with food and wine that feels approachable.
“Sometimes when you read a French menu, you come across words you can’t even pronounce,” David Spatafore, the owner of Little Frenchie, says. “We wanted to create a restaurant where people felt comfortable.”
Little Frenchie was designed to capture the spirit of the French sidewalk cafés that inspired it. Dating back to 1917, the space already carried the charm of a Parisian bistro, with architectural details that felt more at home on a European street corner than in Coronado. The team saw an opportunity to create a restaurant that matched the character of the space while filling a gap in the neighborhood.
The result is a French restaurant that honors tradition without taking itself too seriously.
At Little Frenchie, classic French techniques are at the heart of the menu, but there is always room for creativity. A cassoulet featuring Toulouse sausage and duck confit pays homage to the recipes and regions that inspired it, while a rich hot chocolate made with ingredients imported from France brings a taste of French café culture to Coronado.
The team loves finding unexpected ways to make familiar dishes feel new. A burger becomes a showstopper when it is finished tableside with melted raclette, while a French Dip gets elevated with prime beef and Wagyu makes its way into the burgers. Even Eggs Benedict gets a French twist, swapping the traditional English muffin for a buttery croissant. The GB&J, Little Frenchie’s take on a grilled cheese, brings that same playful approach with seasonal jam and French Brie layered into a comforting classic.
Nearly everything at Little Frenchie is made from scratch, with ingredients carefully chosen to match the restaurant’s standards. Even the bread receives special attention. Each morning, the team sends a car to Prager Brothers Artisan Bread to pick up freshly baked loaves, ensuring every element of the meal reflects the restaurant’s commitment to quality.
Wine is woven into the experience just as naturally as the food. Inspired by the effortless pairings found in French cafés and bistros, Little Frenchie’s by-the-glass selection invites guests to sip their way through different regions and discover new favorites without the pressure of knowing all the rules.
Casa Del Lobo blends coffee culture with Mexican design, serving seasonal drinks alongside its own handcrafted ceramics
There aren’t many places left in San Diego with a lack of specialty coffee options. This week, we can add La Jolla Shores to that list—Casa Del Lobo has arrived. Life-and-business partners Christine Silver and Saul Moreno came to San Diego the same route so many of us have: coming for vacation and falling in love with the city and each other.
Silver was working on Wall Street in New York City and decided to visit some friends in SoCal after the pandemic clouds lifted. Moreno happened to be visiting from Mexico City at the same time. The two met, moved here, got married, had a baby, and thought, “Hey, why not start our own business?”
Apparently, their whirlwind lives needed more windy whirls. (Windy whirls? They like to stay busy.) Casa Del Lobo isn’t either of their first rodeos, although it’s both of their first forays into the coffee space. “We’re both serial entrepreneurs,” laughs Silver. She runs a venture capital business that invests in women-owned wellness companies, and he runs his own logistics company out of Mexico City. “We keep saying, ‘Oh, it’s the last time we’ll start a business. Then all of a sudden, a year or two later, we can’t help ourselves.’”
The idea to open Casa Del Lobo initially started when the pair began decorating their house in Windansea. After looking for large-scale ceramic planters and outdoor fountains that met their quality expectations without egregious price tags (something Moreno was used to seeing in Mexico), they realized there simply weren’t any comparable options here.
So rather than continuing to drive over the border to go shopping, they decided to bring Mexican ceramic style to San Diego.
The partners now run a manufacturing facility in Tecate, specializing in large-format ceramics and specialty glazes. As they sought out potential locations to open a planter store, they realized they could go one of two routes. One, get a warehouse in an industrial area and rely on marketing to get the word out. Or two, they could diversify by opening a homey retail store where people have to walk through the shop area to get a cup of specialty coffee.
They went with option two, and coffee quickly became their primary objective.
“My husband and I, we love coffee,” she says, adding that whenever they go on vacation, no matter where they are in the world, figuring out where to get a java fix every day is their number one goal. (Side note: I can strongly relate.) Mexico City coffee and design culture lean heavily urban and industrial in feel, mixing both an Old World architecture with modern sensibilities—something Silver says they felt was missing locally, specifically in La Jolla Shores.
Casa Del Lobo, which translates to “house of the wolf” in Spanish, soft opened this week, with traditional coffee offerings like lattes, cappuccinos, and Americanos, along with four housemade syrups that will change seasonally (currently, they are vanilla, lavender, orange blossom, and brown sugar cinnamon). For now, the food is simple pastries from Knead Artisan Bakery, but Silver says they plan to add more options like breakfast burritos, paninis, and natural wine in the future. Eventually, customers will also be able to purchase their signature ceramics online, and one day, they may open more locations along the California coast.
But for now, they’re just getting started in La Jolla. “We’ll be here forever,” says Silver. “We want this to be the first of many.”
Casa Del Lobo is now open at 2246 Avenida de la Playa every Tuesday through Sunday, 7 a.m. to 1 p.m.
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.
Boredom's not an option. These are a few of the top events in the city each year, including a rodeo, free summertime music festival, and a chili cook-off
Meet some rodeo queens (or be crowned as one yourself) in R-Town’s annual celebration of the Wild West. Three days of mutton bustin’, tie-down roping, and barrel racing are all doing the community some good: Proceeds from the event funnel into local organizations like Ramona Town Hall and the Guy B. Woodward Museum. This month marks the 45th annual Ramona Rodeo, which takes place in the Fred Grand Arena and draws more than 12,000 attendees each year.
For nearly half a century, OB has hosted a chili cooking competition that has drawn thousands of hungry locals. (Buzz Cannabis presented this year’s event, so taste testers could have been under the influence of munchies-enhancing drugs.) Non-chili-related street fair festivities include beachfront live music, Fun Zone family-friendly play areas, and a Dirty Birds wing-eating contest.
In 1970, Chicano Park was set to become a California Highway Patrol station. The problem: The city had promised a community park in that area. After decades of development fractured Barrio Logan and displaced thousands of families, Chicano locals were tapped out. So, for 12 days, locals occupied the area under the Coronado Bridge, blocking bulldozers and planting cacti. It worked. Construction stopped, and that area is now Chicano Park. Each year, locals celebrate the successful preservation of Chicano Park and the resilience of the Chicano Movement.
Solana Beach gathers at Fletcher Cove Park at the start of each summer for two days of live music ranging from country to pop to Chicano rock, plus an arts and crafts fair, an international food court, a beer and wine garden, and the Solana Beach Firefighters Association’s pancake breakfast. The event is free, but if you want an elevated experience, grab Seaside Pavilion ($75) or VIP Deck ($160) tickets for reserved seating, private cash bars, exclusive restrooms, and discounted swag.
The entire North Park neighborhood hosts an annual music festival, meaning a dozen venues—from Queen Bee’s to Bacari to North Park Community Park—become live music spaces each June. Some locations are open to the public, but if you’d prefer lounge access at Granada House and line-skipping privileges, check out the $65 VIP passes. General admission otherwise starts at $25.
It’s weird if you don’t wear a lemon-themed outfit at Chula Vista’s annual Lemon Festival. For one day each August, Third Avenue pays tribute to the city’s former “Lemon Capital of the World” status with live music, citrus-themed photo ops, arts and crafts vendors, a lemon cook-off competition, and plenty of other food that doesn’t include the famed hesperidium. But who would want that at Lemon Fest?
Laika Nur, MD, takes her love of volleyball from the court to the clinic as team physician for the San Diego Mojo
Growing up, Laika Nur, MD, Scripps Clinic sports medicine specialist, loved watching beach volleyball when the Association of Volleyball Professionals tour came to her hometown of Chicago. A talented volleyball player herself, she remembers sitting in the stands all day, and once, even got a couple autographs. Years later, Dr. Nur was attending a professional event focused on women’s sports, and the discussion turned to a new professional women’s volleyball league. The general manager and coaching staff for San Diego’s team, the Mojo, happened to be in attendance, and Dr. Nur took the opportunity to ask them if they needed a team doctor. Flash forward to the Mojo’s inaugural 2024 season, when Dr. Nur officially became the team physician. Click here to read more about Dr. Nur and how she incorporates lessons she learned on the court into her practice.
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