Features JANUARY 28, 2019

The Big Family in Little Italy

Troy Johnson pulls up a seat for dinner with San Diego's iconic Italian family, the Busalacchis

By Troy Johnson | Photos: Madison Parker

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.

Cook Like a Busalacchi

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

Fiori di Zuccha

“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

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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

“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

Nonna’s Bolognese Sauce

“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

Everything SD JULY 1, 2026

Editor’s Note, July 2026: Hello Again

New editor Emma Veidt gives an introduction and her ode to the once-sleepy, now slept-on North County

By Emma Veidt

I am fairly sure they don’t let you graduate from Carlsbad High School without a W-2 from Legoland. Being a Legoland MC (Model Citizen, the employee’s moniker) is a rite of passage for all of us who grew up in North County. If you spent a day at the theme park in the 2010s, I probably pointed you toward the Granny Apple Fries or measured your height at a ride entrance.

And now we meet again. I can still point you to quality fries.

This is my first full issue as the new print editor for San Diego Magazine. But it’s not my first time here: I was an editorial intern for these pages back in 2018 (see photo). To be a part of a constant study of the city, its people, its culture, then finding the most compelling stories and bringing them to life—it was incredibly impactful and solidified my decision to pursue all of this (local, print magazine journalism) as a career. Since my internship, I’ve gotten my bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the Missouri School of Journalism and worked for nearly five years at Backpacker magazine. And I’m back at San Diego Magazine, baby. There’s a real magic to narrating the lives lived and dreams dreamt in the place that built me. I am excited to be a part of building the culture of where I’m from. And, born in Tri-City Medical Center and raised in Carlsbad, I can’t think of any other place than our North County issue for me to make my grand entrance as an editor.

Editor Emma Veidt at San Diego Magazine in 2018

To me, North County isn’t just where I’m from; it’s home. Throughout the years, I have run thousands of miles (I did the math) up and down the 101 between Oceanside and Cardiff. I’ve spent thousands of dollars (an estimation, too painful to do the actual math) on BRCs—beans, rice, and cheese burritos—from Lola’s, Juanita’s, and the late, great Pollos Maria.

The stretch of land between Camp Pendleton and the 56 is easy to love. We’re quieter and a little more zenned out than our lower-latitude neighbors, sure, but we’re neither sleepy nor boring.

Do you think Scrojo, the Belly Up’s punked-out poster artist featured on page 68, could last a day somewhere boring?

What I’ve always loved about North County is that the culture shifts every couple of miles as you reach a new town. For years, the media seemed to cast the realm above the merge as a two-toned monolith: sleepy surf towns to the west, suburbs and country living to the east. The nuance of each section seemed flattened or clumped. I think you’ll see the vastly different cultures of North County in this issue—but all distinctly San Diego. Which is to say a little mellower, fewer airs, come as you are.

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It’s hard to imagine that the dusty trails and vibrant, muraled alleyways of Escondido are just miles from the barefoot surfers roaming Leucadia. Even though the SDM editorial staff is made up of two lifelong locals and other longtime residents, we don’t pretend to be the experts on every street. What a good city media company does is find the people who are experts, who have a unique hyper-local perspective—and give them the stage.

So we picked six North County neighborhoods—Oceanside, Vista, San Marcos, Leucadia, Rancho Santa Fe, and Escondido—and reached out to artists, community leaders, business owners, anyone making their neighborhood brighter, and we had them describe their perfect day out and favorite things that give their neighborhoods meaning and culture. These itinerary curators included San Marcos’ Patricia Prado-Olmos, Leucadia’s Jeff Schade, Oceanside’s Aaron Crossland, Escondido’s Suzanne Nicolaisen, Rancho Santa Fe’s Charo Garcia-Acevedo, and Vista’s Steve Glaudini. If there’s anyone who lives and breathes North County, it’s them. Check out their recommendations in our feature on page 56.

This month, we’re also going back in time almost 15 years to the Big Bay Boom. Yes, that meme-ified Fourth of July fireworks show where enough pyrotechnics for a 17-minute show went off at once over San Diego Bay. Content Chief Troy Johnson remembers the day and dug back through the story for a hilarious locals’ take on the big debate: Was it the worst fireworks show of all time, or the greatest? (Page 38.)

Before I leave you to our hard work, a sentimental note. When my parents moved from St. Louis to San Diego in the early ’90s, my mom subscribed to San Diego Magazine to learn about her new neighborhood. Now, over three decades later, I’m here—on this planet and in these pages. I thought about my parents a lot as we worked on this issue. Maybe there are a couple new San Diegans reading this magazine for the first time. Maybe that’s you.

Well then, to both of us, I say, “Welcome.” Let’s do this.

About Emma Veidt

Emma Veidt is an editor at San Diego Magazine. She earned her bachelor's and master's degrees from the Missouri School of Journalism. She loves running, hiking, and rock climbing, but really, she mostly loves encounters with the street cats around North Park.

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Everything SD JUNE 30, 2026

The Fireworks Disaster That Made San Diego a Legend

Eighteen seconds, one unforgettable mistake, and a Fourth of July story that somehow gets better with age

By Troy Johnson

There’s a famous video.

“This is insane!” the guy filming it seems to proclaim. “It’s the best fireworks show ever!” a companion confirms, inspiring a debate lasting over a decade.

All told, 7,000 fireworks exploded in the span of 25 seconds over San Diego Bay on July 4, 2012. A Michael Bay amount of unison. $125,000 worth of shells, cakes, Roman candles, and skyrockets had been placed on a barge—enough for 17 minutes of decorative sky flares—and…

Boom.

The sky looked like someone had set a giant Rorschach test on fire. Or as if whatever we all see in our Rorschachs—butterflies, clowns, tongue kissing, dads—was being electrocuted and lifted heavenward, amen. It was shocking how bright it was, how much it sizzled the local cosmos. Could’ve been one of those sci-fi films where a hole is ripped open between warring universes. But angstier, more metal—the work of some methy creator in a sleeveless concert tee.

The sound?

Lou Reed once released an entire album that contained 64 minutes of mindflaying guitar screeches and machine noises. No regular songs, just a fascinating amount of ear distress. His record label reps no doubt heard the melodic outro of their careers, but everyone else was in pain and stumped. That album still sounded better than the bay did that night. The bay sounded like a god who struggled with emotional regulation had blown his speakers and was working through the anger stage of AV grief.

In the left frame of the video, a middle-aged woman is attempting to drag her husband off by the hand. In no way does he want to go, possibly because he had missed the time Roseanne Barr sung the national anthem at a Padres game, simultaneously disemboweling and amusing America through the power of song. He would not willingly abandon an equally worthy San Diego trainwreck.

Another woman in the video appears to have just filled her beer, rushing to sit down for the show. She pauses mid-sit and returns to the full and upright position to properly bear witness. What was supposed to be prolonged entertainment has been so radically shortened that she will have to find another reason to drink. Lucky for her, drinking will be the only way to adequately process.

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Locals remember the conspiracy theories. People wondered if the fuses had been tripped by a saboteur who was sympathetic to dogs, fish, or the growing suspicion that late-stage capitalism is a gorgeously branded but impossible dream sustained by remarkably efficient top-tier wealth retention and the soft compliance of fireworks-watchers who can no longer afford a house, a beer, or the personal impacts of human reproduction.

Speaking of being terrified of babies, babies were terrified. The children who witnessed it probably still can’t go near a candle store. But those kids will be tougher, perfectly scarred kids. They’ll write better songs.

That night helped us absolutely dominate the national news cycle. For a hot minute, we became America’s water-skiing squirrel. Now, years later, when you Google “fireworks gone wrong,” San Diego is always a top contender, along with that poor Nebraska family who nearly wiped out a couple generations in their front yard, their minivan somehow turning into a howitzer of recreational TNT.

There is still debate as to whether Big Bay Boom 2012 is the worst or greatest fireworks show of all time. But the advanced parts of civilization arrived at the truth as quickly as the women in the video did. It was undeniably amazing.

First of all, the point of Fourth of July fireworks isn’t “the intricate choreography of sky fire over a guaranteed amount of show time.” It’s about creating a vivid memory shared with some people you like, love, or would like to love.

BBB2012 used large-scale chemical fire to create the ultimate memory.

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Sure, some people who iron their jeans subjected their family to a sermon about how San Diego managed to botch America’s birthday like a Disney princess-for-hire who smelled of quite a few Sauvignons.

The rest of us saw how perfectly it nailed the actual feeling of being an American. Because only a miniscule percentage of us bake postcard apple pies where every inch of crust is perfectly laminated like the wood in an Irish bar. Very few of us can paint on par with Picasso. The rest of us—despite truly believing in our America-activated abilities to achieve greatness in almost any field of our choosing—burn pies. We try to paint only to realize it looks like our fine motor skills have entered active death.

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That’s why BBB2012 was the most perfectly American fireworks show ever: A wildly ambitious idea galvanized thousands upon thousands of people to both work on it and come to hold a beer and gawk at it, only to have it fail in the most glorious TMZ-level spectacle.

America isn’t about immaculate, storyless wins. It’s about how the framework of a country is solid enough that we can accidentally detonate our entire lives—a few times—and still probably be OK.

No one has America’d quite like San Diego did on that day. It was performance art. Lou Reed’s heart slow-clapped. Any brief municipal embarrassment quickly became a pride of our people. I can only hope the same for the Nebraskan yard family whose Dodge Aerostar became a hyperactive Death Star.

P.S. Local writer Maya Kroth compiled a quite great oral history of that night for Thrillist. The bottom lines for me were—it took nine months to prepare, no one was hurt, and even though the pyrotechnics company tried to zero out the bill, Big Bay Boom founder H. P. “Sandy” Purdon refused and paid them in full. This year will mark the 25th Anniversary of the yearly Big Bay Boom.

About Troy Johnson

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.

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Food & Drink JUNE 30, 2026

An Emo-Themed Bar & Pizza Joint is Rolling Into OB

Drink 182 will pair pop-punk nostalgia with New England-style pizza starting this summer

By Beth Demmon

If you’ve ever squeezed yourself into a pair of black skinny jeans with a studded belt, sported a track jacket under a band t-shirt, or swept your Manic Panic-hued hair so far to the side that your part got caught in your cartilage earring, I have good news: Ocean Beach will get a shot of emo and pop-punk nostalgia when Drink 182 opens this July.

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The pop-punk bar and pizza spot comes with bonafide scene points. Co-founder Jay Nightride runs the music production studio Nightride Visuals, has worked with artists like Steve Aoki, Lil Jon, and Fall Out Boy, and also plays in Death Cab for Karaoke, a live karaoke band that performs every month at Soda Bar (among other venues). His partner Tony Jaw is easier to spot—he’s the guy with the sky-high mohawk manning the karaoke booth at Redwing Bar & Grill who’s been in the local bar and hospitality business for over a decade.

Nightride says he’s had the idea for an emo enclave for years, but it wasn’t until after Covid that he partnered with Jaw and got the funding to move forward. “What I was looking to build was a place that I would want to be, where would I want to go to remember these nostalgic songs,” he says.

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Pending permits and final inspections, Drink 182 is slated to open the second half of July. The vibe will be dive bar meets emo night, with memorabilia from different bands who have supported the project splashed across the walls, plus a few arcade games, TVs, and (I assume) a decent sound system. The hours are still undetermined, but Nightride says they tentatively plan to be open until 2 a.m. on weekends and Wednesdays for the OB Farmers Market. In the mornings, they’ll serve fresh pastries and coffee from the similarly music-aligned James Coffee Company (whose co-owner David Kennedy is a member of Angels & Airwaves with blink-182’s Tom DeLonge).

But it’ll be the pizza that really stands out—or at least, they hope. “We’re doing New England beach pizza… a really niche pizza that not a lot of people would know about, unless you’re from North Shore, Massachusetts,” says Nightride, a former Bostonian. “It’s a thin crust, very sweet sauce, very simple, fast, go-to-the-beach kind of thing.”

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“Beach pizza” is characterized by its rectangular shape, very thin crust, sweet tomato sauce, and slices of Provolone cheese with minimal toppings. Drink 182’s version will feature homemade dough and sauce, as well as freshly sliced Boar’s Head Provolone. And yes, they are aware there are already a lot of pizza options in the area. It won’t be the same, Nightride promises.

“Everybody’s first reaction when they hear ‘pizza’ is like, ‘Oh great, another pizza place in OB,’” he laughs. “But we’re trying to do something different, just enough to differentiate it and give people another option.” If you’re not keen on the style, try one of their “drunkables,” another nostalgic riff they hope the pop-punk and emo crowd will appreciate. And if you still need a reason to give Drink 182 a try, I have more good news—you don’t actually have to break out your old skinny jeans. (In fact, please don’t.)

Drink 182 opens July 2026 at 5049 Newport Avenue in Ocean Beach.

Courtesy of Margaritaville Hotels & Resorts

San Diego Restaurant News & Food Events

Beth’s Bites

If the steak hype wasn’t hot enough already, The Heritage Steakhouse in Santee just announced Meredith Manée will serve as executive chef of the New York-style steakhouse when it opens in August. Her star-studded kitchen resume spans over 25 years, with stints at the Hotel del Coronado, the Four Seasons, and The Ritz-Carlton Maui, so I think it’s safe to assume we’ll be in good hands.
Rather than waste away in Margaritaville, you have the chance to support the San Diego Music Foundation at the annual Jimmy Buffett-inspired Day of Service at Margaritaville Hotel San Diego Gaslamp Quarter. On September 4 starting at 5 p.m., the rooftop bar will be rocking with live music and plenty of flowing cocktails, plus a silent auction and other activations to raise money for the local music education organization. I’ll drink to that.
The early bird gets the worm and you can get the early ticket to Celebrate the Craft, the annual culinary festival that takes place at The Lodge at Torrey Pines on October 18. If you snag your ticket before the end of June, you can save $50 (which is nothing to sneeze at), plus you’ll be helping support the San Diego Food Bank.
Mani e Grani, the pizza spot from the same people behind Ciccia Osteria, seems to be inching ever closer to opening its doors in Barrio Logan. I know I’m not the only one anxiously awaiting sinking my teeth into some wood-fired, chewy but crispy, hot-from-the-oven, authentic Italian pizza.

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About Beth Demmon

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.

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Studio S JULY 1, 2026

Get Your Home Ready for (San Diego) Summer

Tips from the trusted experts at Mauzy Cooling, Heating, Plumbing, and Electrical

By Partner Content

San Diego summers can be brutal. But since the hottest period is typically late summer into early fall, San Diegans still have time to prepare. The pros at Mauzy Cooling, Heating, Plumbing, and Electrical are standing by to help homeowners fortify their homes against the elements and ensure their air conditioning is as frosty as the penguins that serve as the company’s mascots.

Many homeowners underestimate the load their AC system faces, especially in the inland valleys where temperatures regularly top 100 degrees. San Diego regularly sees multi-day heatwaves each summer, and a system that struggles on the first day will likely fail by the third. Longer run times, unusual sounds or smells, and uneven cooling from room to room are all signs that your system may not survive the next hot spell.

Systems typically last 12 to 17 years, but there are exceptions. If a system is approaching that, or is already there, a professional evaluation is recommended before summer really heats up. A good rule of thumb: If you can’t remember when your system was last serviced, it’s due.

“As technology changes, systems become smarter and smarter,” says Sean O’Connor, an install manager at Mauzy with 42 years of experience. “There are a lot of people out there who will say a system’s only good for 10 years. I don’t buy that—these systems are built to last as long as they’re taken care of.”

There are also a few steps homeowners can take between services to extend the life of their system. Regularly changing a dirty filter—especially if you have kids or pets—and keeping an outdoor unit clean can help head off problems in the future, says O’Connor.

Also, be realistic about whether it’s time to replace a unit. O’Connor likens pouring money into salvaging a faulty unit with patchwork repairs and replacement parts to “tripping over a dollar to pick up a dime.” When one part fails, others are sure to follow, and newer parts may not be compatible with older units. Mauzy recommends homeowners use the 50% rule: If a repair costs more than 50% of the system’s replacement value, and the equipment is over 10 years old, replacement is usually the better long-term value. And don’t forget the ducting. An older house that was built with heat and later had air conditioning added may not have sufficient airflow, regardless of how good the system is.

Last but not least, homeowners should know who to trust when it comes to their homes. Built on three generations of professional integrity, Mauzy has grown into not just a leader for cooling, heating, plumbing, and electrical services, but a leader in the community known for supporting local nonprofits across an array of causes. To ensure complete peace of mind, Mauzy stands behind a comprehensive 12-point guarantee that outlines its commitment to outstanding service, quality equipment, expert technicians who understand how the local microclimates affect HVAC performance, and no upsells or surprises on the bill.

“We go the extra mile. That’s what sets us apart,” O’Connor says. To get a free quote today, visit mauzy.com.

Features JUNE 29, 2026

5 San Diego Food Trends to Know About

From surprise revivals to changing dining habits, these are the shifts redefining the local culinary landscape

By Beth Demmon

Comebacks Are the New Kickoffs

If absence makes hearts (and stomachs) grow fonder, then shuttered restaurants quickly become the hottest tickets in town—something a number of iconic institutions found out after taking very public hiatuses after historically long runs. For instance, following a lengthy (and extremely flip-floppy) closing process after 92 years in business, Las Cuatro Milpas reopened two blocks away in Mercado del Barrio. Similarly, Carlsbad butcher shop Tip Top Meats reopened in the same location (albeit a smaller space) after the death of founder Joachim “Big John” Haedrich in 2023. Finally, after a whopping decade out of business, Sami Ladeki and chef Alfie Szeprethy brought back Roppongi to its original Prospect Street space, where it was the talk of the town in the late ’90s. All came back under the same proprietors, so they weren’t third-party nostalgia-licensing deals. The algorithm may have ravaged our attention spans away from all but the newest and shiniest, but this proves there’s still hope for our collective prefrontal cortex.

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New Generations Take the Reins

Other local eateries honored their pasts by bringing in new perspectives. The Lion’s Share in Embarcadero, Milton’s Deli in Del Mar, Dudley’s Bakery in Santa Ysabel, and J-K’s Greek Cafe in La Mesa handed over the keys to new owners willing to take on a big task: maintain the soul of icons through particularly rough economic circumstances for restaurants, navigate big feelings from longtime regulars (who often don’t take kindly to change), and make some necessary changes to keep going for another few decades. Taking over a project in process can be a lot harder than starting from scratch. But building that feel-good nostalgia doesn’t happen overnight, so it sure helps to have a well-established playbook of success passed down from those who came before.

The Expansion Class Arrives

It wasn’t just restaurant groups from Los Angeles that decided to put down roots en masse, although San Diego saw plenty of LA transplants recently (Sugarfish, Mr. Charlie’s, For the Win, Katsuya Ko, Bacari). Global brands like Chef Fei, Zuma, and Pepper Lunch have locations of their own on the way, and upscale Canadian eatery Joey joined to the inescapable gravitational pull of Westfield UTC’s culinary cosmos for its first spot in America’s Finest City. Good to see the rest of the world is catching up with what we’ve been seeing the last few years—San Diego is a dining destination already on the rise.

Choosing To Not Choose

Between the never-ending news cycle of doom and perimenopause brain fog, I’m at the stage in life where I’m more than happy to let someone else make a decision for me, especially when it comes to what’s for dinner. And based on the way a lot of menus look right now, I’m not alone. It seems like half the places I visit offer some version of a prix fixe, omakase, or tasting menu. Restaurants are embracing the curated experience to solve the problem of affordability (a fixed menu reduces food and labor costs, guarantees an acceptable check average, etc.) and critical thinking in one fell swoop. Omakase (meaning “I leave it up to you”) is far from a new concept in high-end Japanese sushi culture, but now that it’s popping up everywhere from coffee experiences to grab-and-go sushi and sandwiches, it’s gone from somewhat niche to nearly omnipresent.

Local Coffee Hit the World Stage

The world got an up-close look at San Diego’s coffee industry when we hosted the premier specialty coffee expo World of Coffee for the first time this April. San Diego’s long and rich coffee history stretches back to the late 19th century. Things percolated fairly quietly for around a century before really picking up steam. Today, there are nearly 200 specialty roasters and cafes across the county, with many earning national accolades like the Good Food Award (Steady State Roasting, 2020; Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, 2023, 2021, 2019, 2017, 2016), Roaster of the Year by Roast Magazine (Mostra Coffee, 2020; Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, 2012), and the Specialty Coffee Association Coffee Design Award for packaging (Rikka Fika, 2026). Now that we’ve moved past the comically insufferable coffee snob era of the early 2000s, even java newbies can feel comfortable walking into pretty much any coffee shop in San Diego, asking questions, trying a few things, and feeling confident they’re going to get great service and a great beverage.

About Beth Demmon

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Everything SD JUNE 25, 2026