Swimming above a thousand bluefin tuna in the deep waters of the Pacific, one feels a dizzying calm. Below, the fish move in endless, unhurried loops, slowly growing plump in their monotony. Weighing around 170 pounds each, the fish in this net-pen are considerable. Heavy as a man and as wide as a surfboard, they move like hydrodynamic refrigerators, pewter backs reflecting water-filtered light like suncatchers.
Not long ago, these fish were in the open ocean, gunning 18 miles an hour through cold currents, possibly detecting our planet’s magnetic field using mineral deposits in their snouts, and tracing ancient migration patterns through the largest ocean on Earth. But here, with a gringo in a wetsuit bobbing above them, the fish merely draw lazy loops inside a giant aquaculture cage tethered far offshore, awaiting their fate as some of the most sought-after and expensive cuts of protein on the planet.
This is Baja Aqua Farms (BAF). Located in Mexican waters southwest from San Diego, BAF is, at any given time, home to tens of thousands of tuna worth tens of millions of dollars, making it one of the largest tuna ranching operations in the world and a major player in a modern global fish farming industry that now supplies more than half of the world’s seafood.
Courtesy of Baja Aqua Farms Anchored in the deep waters of the Pacific, the main feeding vessel at Baja Aqua Farms pumps thousands of pounds of small fish into dozens of net pens filled with slow-circling bluefin tuna.
If one were to, say, fly a helicopter over this operation, the view through the omnipresent cloud of gulls would prove impressive. Thirty Olympic pool–sized net-pens float in an open-water grid, each filled with a single school of a thousand or more bluefin. Some are huge, weighing more than 400 pounds, and some are smaller, around 45 pounds (still a lot of fish). And anchored in the middle of it all is a sizable, computerized central feeding vessel where specialists sit on aging rolling chairs inside an air-conditioned cabin, monitoring each school’s food consumption and their pen’s water quality on screens 24/7. A ship that thousands of pounds of feeder fish visit briefly each day after being offloaded from sardine boats and before being pumped into the bellies of tuna.
I ventured here on an educational mission. As a lover of both the ocean and tuna, I wanted to find out how bluefin—an animal fished nearly to extinction within my lifetime—makes its way into the tartares and chirashi bowls of today. My search led me here, face down in the water, listening to the sound of my breath through a snorkel and contemplating the vast machinations that keep these incredible fish churning through the global food system.
Silent as they are, these tuna tell a story about the future of fish and the future of how we interact with the ocean.
All of which we’ll get to. But first, let’s eat.
Courtesy of Baja Aqua Farms Workers separate a select number of tuna from the school and stun them with electricity before bringing them aboard the harvest boat.
By the time the bluefin arrives on my plate as glistening, fatty slices of pink otoro at Ophelia restaurant in Ensenada, it has already crossed oceans, boundaries, and moral terrain.
This fish was part of a school of tuna born in the open Pacific from eggs laid off the coast of Japan, captured as juveniles in Mexican waters by BAF boats in vast purse seine nets, towed for months to the BAF ranch, and fattened for many more months with feeder fish harvested from our coastal ecosystem by the BAF sardine fleet, then efficiently and bloodily killed, refrigerated, and brought to shore here in Ensenada to be packaged and driven over the border to LAX, where they either get exported—mostly to Japan— or eaten in high-end omakase and strip-mall sushi joints throughout San Diego, once the world’s tuna fishing capital.
Bluefin tuna, recent developments have shown, is both a symbol of past overfishing and a surprising conservation success. And its future now lies in operations like Baja Aqua Farms, which represent the next phase of human seafood consumption.
With me at the table, talking tuna, is Rodrigo Armada Tapia, the head of sustainability at BAF. Having grown up in Ensenada, Tapia speaks with pride about the region’s food culture—where tuna is often a star ingredient. Before taking me to the farm the next day, he wanted me to try the product, which BAF packages under the name Bluefiná.
Photo Credit: Mateo Hoke Otoro at Ophelia in Ensenada.
“You can’t understand the fish until you taste it,” he tells me.
Ophelia is Michelin-recognized. It sources bluefin from BAF, as do some notable restaurants in San Diego.
This is because BAF fish is some of the best bluefin money can buy. Fast-swimming wild tuna store fat in their bellies; the rest of the meat is relatively lean by comparison. But with the caged and portly BAF tuna, pillowy fat veins run throughout the entire fish, like a spider got inside and spun a web of tallow.
Dishes arrive, highlighting meat from various parts of the fish—akami from the side, a pile of flesh scraped from the ribs. Bluefiná tuna is not frozen for transport (it can make it from the ranch to Japanese markets in 72 hours), and the freshness of the fish combined with the high fat content translates to a peach-skin, custardy episode on the palette. It’s distinctive, delightful, and somewhat disorienting. I love tuna, but I don’t always love eating it. For my entire adult life, the stakes have felt too high. Every fish consumed was one fish closer to zero.
But that story is changing. Fished nearly to extinction from the mid-1900s to the early 2000s, today’s Pacific bluefin populations are back to near-heyday levels.
“Not only have we met the rebuilding targets, but we’ve actually already exceeded them,” says Josh Madeira of the Monterey Bay Aquarium Global Ocean Conservation team. The bluefin population rebound is a full decade ahead of schedule, thanks to international conservation efforts.
For the first time since the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch program began telling consumers in 1999 which fish are ocean-friendly to eat and which should be avoided, consuming certain Pacific bluefin populations—like those caught in California waters—is considered only a moderate environmental risk. That may not sound like much, but it signals a major step for bluefin.
“This is a great success story,” Madeira says. “But there’s much more work to be done.”
Tuna, of course, means a lot to San Diego. And to understand how we got here, it helps to look back.
Throughout most of human history, tuna were seasonal, wild, and revered—an oceanic mystery glimpsed briefly, then gone. For millennia, various peoples chased tuna with harpoons and caught them in elaborate stone weirs. Aristotle wrote of their migratory patterns hundreds of years before Christ was multiplying fishes, marveling at their strength, speed, and uncanny navigational sense. It wasn’t until the 20th century, when canned tuna became a pantry staple, that the fish transformed into a mass-market American commodity.
In San Diego, bluefin were hauled in by immigrant fishermen from Portugal, Japan, and Italy; packed in salt; and canned—cheap protein for various war efforts and school lunches. Forty-thousand San Diegans worked in the tuna trade. Communities lived off it; entire neighborhoods came to be defined by it. Two of the largest canneries in the country were here. The city smelled, quite literally, like tuna.
But overfishing soon led to declining populations. By the 1980s, the canneries were gone. Tuna didn’t disappear, though. It simply went upscale.
Sushi—once an exotic, niche cuisine—became not just popular but aspirational. Bluefin prices soared. By 2012, Pacific bluefin populations had plummeted to around two percent of historic levels.
Which is where strict regulations came in.
As Tapia tells it, today’s tuna industry is largely controlled by a complex system of catch quotas heavily regulated by international agencies referred to by five-letter acronyms. Only certain countries are permitted to commercially fish for bluefin. Japan—which consumes 80 percent of the world’s bluefin tuna—gets the highest quotas. Mexico’s quotas are respectable, higher than those of the US.
It’s a system that’s imperfect, controversial, and not overly friendly to American fishermen in San Diego and beyond, but something about it is working to contribute to species recovery. In the US, catch limits for commercial Pacific bluefin tuna vessels increased almost 80 percent for the 2025–26 season. Bluefin, it seems, are back. The question is, will they last?
According to Gardner, tuna ranching operations like BAF and other similar operations in Japan, Spain, and Australia are able to abide by catch-weight quotas while still providing large amounts of fish. Essentially, they catch skinny and sell fat.
“Tuna aquaculture means that people still get to eat bluefin tuna without fishing the stock to commercial extinction,” he says.
But tuna farms are not without their problems. BAF, and other smaller, seasonal Mexican operations, rely on wild tuna stocks to fill their pens (closed-loop, egg-to-plate tuna ranching is still in its nascent stages, with only one company in Japan claiming to have figured it out), and the ranches require large amounts of wild feeder fish stocks to fatten their fancy fish once they’re caged. Concentrated waste can negatively impact nearby habitats.
Courtesy of Baja Aqua Farm
All this means that, despite the potential benefits of tuna ranching, as of its last report in 2021, Seafood Watch categorizes Mexican net-pen tuna as a fish to avoid eating. But that, too, could change soon when the next Seafood Watch report comes out, Madeira suggests.
“We have an update in progress, and we do know there’s a lot of new information,” he says.
Crunching a Bluefiná tuna tostada, Tapia explains that BAF is doing all it can to improve its sustainability, working with a staggering number of regulatory and certification bodies.
“Everything that we catch at sea, we report. You can trace every single catch. We have observers on board all our tuna boats and cameras that are audited by a third party,” he says. “It would be borderline insane to not make sure that the tuna and sardine resources are there for the prolonged future.” He adds that BAF is also working closely with the Marine Stewardship Council toward a certification for its sardine fleet and is certified dolphin-safe by the Friend of the Sea program and the International Marine Mammal Project.
“I know Baja Aqua Farms is working hard to try to make improvements and is paying close attention to things like the Seafood Watch assessment,” Madeira says. “Consumers are saying that sustainability matters. I’m encouraged by that.”
Finally, the otoro—the benchmark of bluefin—hits the table. Served as sashimi, rosé-colored and ribbed with blubber, it dissolves like a pat of cold butter dipped in the sea. For a moment I turn off my mind, allowing myself to simply and blissfully enjoy one of the ocean’s greatest gifts.
“Quality-wise, Bluefiná tuna is [expletive] amazing,” one highly regarded SD chef of a Michelin Bib Gourmand restaurant tells me. “It’s crazy fat, even on the top loin. Every sushi chef’s dream.”
But, he adds, he doesn’t want to be associated with Bluefiná fish, no matter how chubby.
“As a Southern California restaurant owner who believes in sustainability and buying local, farm-raised bluefin is not in line with our ethos,” he says. “We wait for our wild bluefin to come in, and we know where it was caught and when.”
That tension—between wild and farmed—remains at the core of the modern bluefin story.
Gardner doesn’t buy it. “People have this perception that a farmed fish is bad, but they eat farmed everything else. Why not fish?” he says. “These operations can be good for bluefin tuna when they’re regulated and overseen.”
The otoro is simple and divine, a near-perfect meal. Fighting an urge to order more, I am reminded that we live in an age where to eat seafood is to make a series of quiet negotiations: between ocean and operation, local and global, sustainable and extravagant. And no species captures the contradictions and complexities of modern seafood like the Pacific bluefin. A single fish can sell for millions of dollars. This is the Wagyu of the sea: a delicious, fatty luxury that relies on an even more complex system than its bovine counterpart.
So, full of tuna and questions, the next morning, I board a speedboat for an up-close view of the ranch.
Courtesy of Baja Aqua Farms Upwards of 100 people work at the floating Baja Aqua Farms operation on a given day.
Getting to the farm means two hours of cold, rough porpoising from Ensenada. With me as chaperone is Tapia, plus a handful of other workers simply needing a ride to the ranch where they live and work for weeks at a time. I can hear Gardner’s voice in my mind: “They call it tuna ranching, and there are definitely people [at the ranch] you could associate with a kind of cowboy mentality,” he’d told me. “You have to be a little bit out there to do it.” No one speaks much during the loud trip in the dawn light.
The prevalence of gulls and sea lions hunting for scraps hint at the operation before the floating circles of the tuna pens come fully into view, each topped with chain-link fencing sticking many feet into the air for sea-lion defense—a hard-learned requirement, Tapia tells me as our boat slowly approaches the colossal main feeding barge, stained with rust and gull droppings. The place smells of fish flesh. We climb a ladder up the side of the vessel; hoist our bags up to the deck; and make our way over and around various tubes, ropes, riggings, and machinery to the main operations room.
Courtesy of Baja Aqua Farms The main deck of the feeding boat offers an inside view of the modern food system. Here, specialists remotely monitor water quality and feed the tuna through tubes. Underwater cameras show a glimpse of life inside the cages.
Here in this room and out these windows, a large, invisible part of the contemporary tuna trade becomes visible. At the head of the operation, marine science experts point to giant screens displaying views from the dozens of underwater cameras that BAF uses to keep tabs on the fish in each pen. Specialists monitor when the fish have ceased eating and turn off the hose, so to speak. The screens show oxygen levels and temperature, checked three times a day at three different depths. BAF also routinely tracks phosphorus and pH levels below the pens, Tapia says. Behind us, with the help of AI, a specialist pauses a video to count each fish that came in from the most recent capture. Out on the water, small boats zig-zag from pen to pen.
Divers are consistently in the water with the fish, hand-cleaning and repairing nets (Tapia tells me BAF does not use the industrial net protectants that many operations do) and keeping a close eye on the product. On any given day, upwards of a hundred people—deckhands, divers, engineers, captains, maintenance crews—are out here working. The scale takes time to process, partly because I was not prepared for just how many small fish are required to fatten tens of thousands of large fish.
I suppose I had never seen literal tons of fish in person before—that is, until a sardine boat ties up alongside the floating warehouse on which we stand and begins pumping a few thousand pounds of burrito-sized fish into the big boat’s refrigerated hold like loose ammunition.
The sardines are dead, but not frozen. This is a big selling point for BAF, Tapia tells me—that its tuna don’t eat frozen fish or any of a number of fish-feed slurries that other tuna ranches around the world at times have to rely on and then medicate around.
“We don’t use antibiotics because we don’t need to,” Tapia says. “Because we’re feeding them only fresh fish like they get in the wild, our tuna don’t get sick.”
Courtesy of Baja Aqua Farms Baja Aqua Farms relies on costal sardine populations to keep its operation running. It takes about 25 pounds of small fish to convert to a single pound of bluefin.
The operation requires so many feeder fish because bluefin are not efficient weight-gainers. They have to keep swimming to force water through their gills and stay alive, so they are constantly burning calories. According to Gardner, this means it takes upwards of 25 pounds of small fish to produce one pound of bluefin. Not the most efficient farm animals.
“Compared to other species of fish aquaculture, bluefin are expensive to run,” Gardner says. “It’s like taking the Ferrari to the corner store to get milk, instead of your Volkswagen.”
During our time at the ranch, Tapia explains that, due to timing, I can either swim with the tuna or see the tuna harvest up-close. Rather than watching hundreds of tuna be killed, I choose life. I want to pay my respects.
But, before departing back to Ensenada, our cold little speed boat stops by the harvest ship to pick up a hitchhiker, so I end up with a view of the marine slaughterhouse after all. On board, men in waterproof bibs move with a kind of practiced urgency. The harvest is still in progress, precise and bloody.
First, divers section a specific number of fish off from the rest within the chosen pen and stun them with electricity to make them safe to handle. Then comes an assembly line of efficient killing. In the humane ikejime fashion of dispatching fish, crew members drive steel spikes into the tuna’s brains and a wire through their spinal cords to preserve the quality of the meat. The fish are bled and gutted. The gills and guts go to a fish meal plant. The blood spills quickly into the sea.
Tapia tells me BAF only kills fish it’s already sold, harvesting around 1,500 tuna per week.
As we motor away, I run some back-of-the-napkin math. According to the Bluefiná website, wholesale bluefin starts around $20 to $40 per pound and goes up from there.
Tapia won’t disclose how many tuna BAF has at any given time, but he does say the pens can hold upwards of 1,500 tuna each. If each of the 30 pens contain, conservatively, 1,000 tuna, and each fish weighs—again conservatively—say, 80 pounds, that’s a modest estimate of $48 million in the water. Today’s global tuna industry is worth $40 billion. The ocean is rich.
And bluefin, it seems, reveal not just the complexity of a single industry, but a larger moral calculus now embedded in every bite of seafood in our modern food systems: the shift from hunting to ranching, from wild to managed. We’ve already done it with pigs, chickens, cows, and corn. Now, for better or worse, we are doing it with the sea.
Still, you can net a fish but not the current.
The ocean resists our domestication. It is too vast, too unwieldy. So we improvise—floating pens, AI tracking, revered fish in holding patterns, constant feeding, and massive amounts of labor to ensure that sushi bars and seafood restaurants stay stocked with the good stuff.
Ten years ago, restaurant design centered around sleek minimalism. Fonts lacked serifs, clean lines dominated, and any manufacturer that made globe-shaped chandeliers must have made an absolute killing.
Things have changed since then, and Jeff Fink says it’s time for Madison on Park to glow up. On September 7, Madison will temporarily close its doors for a top-to-bottom renovation of the space and concept. Fink hopes to reopen this fall ahead of the busy holiday season, with a new look he calls moody mid-century maximalism.
“We have to take into consideration what’s going on culturally,” he says. When Madison first opened, TikTok wasn’t a thing in the U.S. and craft cocktails felt relatively cutting-edge. Today, he sees a resurgence in the vintage look, handmade goods, and low-to-no ABV drinks dominating menus everywhere.
Courtesy of Madison on Park | Photo Credit: Andy McRory
Fink and his partner Matt Sieve have already dabbled with that sort of motif at Sonny’s Pizza, their Brooklyn-inspired joint around the corner. Fully half of the cocktail menu is made up of spritzes, mocktails, and Negronis. Madison 2.0 will take it further.
The new concept doesn’t have a name yet—Fink says they have to feel out the vibes as they make progress with the design. “The name comes when you see it appear,” he says. But he has a few design elements in mind: things like more artwork and more uplighting. “Not cluttered and overstuffed… I want to keep it intimate, sexy, and immersive.”
Madison rightly earned its rep as one of the best-dressed eateries in San Diego, nabbing an Orchid Award for interior design its first year. The returning designers Anna and David Sindelar originally transformed the space from weird padded walls and fake greenery at Lei Lounge into a mid-century modern wonderland, complete with a signature arched ceiling and geometric patterns aplenty. Michelin-recognized chef Mario Cassineri (Ciccia Osteria, Bice Ristorante) built a menu heavy on Mediterranean flavors mixed with California classics.
The new menu shouldn’t feel completely jarring, but will take cues from Fink’s recent travels in Spain with his family. Expect shareable plates with lighter ingredients. “Americans eat way too much, and our portions are way too big,” he says. “I like the idea of smaller plates, healthier plates, and being creative… I’d rather see 15 items on the menu that are all less than $20 so that I can try different ones.” Bar manager Danny Kuehner will continue developing craft cocktails and mocktails for the new venture, as well as curating a selection of wine from Europe and locally.
Courtesy of Madison on Park | Photo Credit: Haley Hill
This isn’t the only project on their plate. Besides running Sonny’s in University Heights and Madi in Normal Heights, later this fall, Fink and Sieve will also open Josie’s, a modern all-day, Midwestern-style diner inspired by Sieve’s Minnesota roots. Like all their restaurants, it’ll hold a special part of their families’ legacies—something Fink hopes people feel as soon as they enter.
“You walk into Sonny’s, you’re like ‘Oh, Jeff’s at home,’” Fink laughs. “[Josies’] will be ‘Matt’s at home.’” The next version of Madison? We’ll have to wait and see.
Madison on Park will temporarily close on September 7 until October (barring any unexpected delays). Keep up with the newest updates on Madison’s Instagram.
Listen Now: The Latest in San Diego’s Food and Drink Scene
Have breaking news, exciting scoops, or great stories about new San Diego restaurants or the city’s food scene? Send your pitches to [email protected].
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.
When I was pregnant, my food craving was singular and intense. If I didn’t eat at least one thing doused in cinnamon every day (ideally, more than one), I was—to put it gently—a complete monster.
Since then, my obsession has tempered somewhat. But cinnamon buns still perch high on my top treats list, so I’m always on the lookout for the next great place to indulge. IMO, The Huddle in Mission Hills’ mondo cinnamon roll remains top-tier, but after eyeing the ooey, gooey goodies from Sinner Buns, we might have a contender.
Originally from Ukraine, Daria Nadar had already done everything one can do at a bakery—business operations, wholesale contracts, actually baking, you name it—so during the pandemic, she started dabbling with perfecting her cinnamon rolls. After she got a couple fans over social media, she threw her first pop-up to see how they’d be received. She sold out.
After a few false starts with a couple storefronts and business deals, Nadar officially launched Sinner Buns in October 2025 with her partner Filipe Pazi. After making it through an unexpectedly hectic season stuffed with holiday orders, the team closed temporarily to get everything in line and reopened this April. Business has remained in full swing ever since.
There are only so many ingredients in a cinnamon roll, but “the process is what makes it special,” she says, adding they use fresh yeast rather than powder and a 48-hour process for each batch of brioche dough made to order. (Thus the need for pre-orders.) Customers can preorder until Thursday each week for pickup Friday, Saturday, or Sunday from Sinner Buns’ ghost kitchen at 780 Hollister Street, just east of Imperial Beach.
You can also catch her at various pop-ups around San Diego, the next one taking place on Saturday, August 22 at Infusion Lab Coffee in Pacific Beach. Eventually, Nadar opens to offer nationwide shipping (once she figures out the logistics and quality control) and one day, her own storefront.
But it’ll be on her terms, not the whims of social media. “We already learned how to not only rely on virality of the product, because you go viral and then it fades,” she says. “It’s a slow burner, and I know eventually, it’s going to grow much more.”
Courtesy of San Diego Spirits Festival
San Diego Restaurant News & Food Events
Beth’s Bites
Get spirited away at the 17th annual San Diego Spirits Festival. If you understood that reference, I regret to inform you that it is not a Studio Ghibli watchathon, but it’s still a win with a bonanza of craft makers pouring libations at the Museum of Contemporary Art in La Jolla for two full days. On September 26-27, try sips, glugs, and guzzles from brands like Condesa Gin and Uncle Nearest (with some bites to wash it all down, of course). Could you ask for a more picturesque venue? Spoiler alert: no.
You love to see a longtime employee take the reins of a beloved local institution. That’s exactly what happened at Konito’s Cafe in Pacific Beach, which is currently transitioning to Pablo’s Cafe, which is now under new ownership. (Yes, his name is Pablo.) Will their breakfast sandwich still slap? Guess we’ll have to go find out.
I’ve yet to visit Tigawok, the small California-based chain serving mini bowls like Kung Pao chicken and Mapo tofu. But the latest storefront (and the first in San Diego) is now soft open in La Jolla, and it’s only a matter of time before their Sichuan shredded chicken gets in my belly.
Listen Now: The Latest in San Diego’s Food and Drink Scene
Have breaking news, exciting scoops, or great stories about new San Diego restaurants or the city’s food scene? Send your pitches to [email protected].
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.
When San Diego launched Micro Enterprise Home Kitchen Operations (MEHKO), it changed everything. Riverside County first established the experimental program in 2019, with San Diego introducing its own countywide pilot program in 2022 and granting it permanent status in 2024. The new category allowed people to launch at-home retail food operations—basically, home restaurants—with special requirements and restrictions to ensure food safety and smooth operations. Over two dozen counties across California have since adopted their own versions with over 1,200 permits issued, around 100 of them in San Diego alone.
Some have a dizzyingly long waitlist (Warung RieRie), others are still getting their name out there (The Hidden Gazebo Eatery), and still others use MEHKO for pickups rather than fully opening their home as an onsite dining facility. Love Pupusas falls into that category.
Yanira Majano came with her family from El Salvador to the United States when she was 11 years old, bringing a love of cooking and desire to share the country’s cuisine along with her. “There’s a lot of similarity [between Salvadoran food and] Central, South America, even Baja Mexico,” she says. Salvadoran cooking tends to be less spicy than some Mexican cuisines, with an emphasis on ingredients like corn, staples like yucca root (cassava), meats like crispy pork (chicharrón), and sides like curtido, a tangy cabbage slaw that’s typically either naturally fermented or vinegar-based.
And of course, the signature dish of El Salvador—pupusas.
In San Diego, Salvadoran food lacks the widespread availability of other Latin American cuisines like Mexican or Peruvian food, but Majano says she’s seen pupusas gain popularity over the past few years. But she likes to think her recipes, which have been passed down by her mother and kitchen partner Martha, contain a certain special something.
Some pupuserías use rice flour to create the handheld stuffed tortillas, but she prefers the more traditional gluten-free corn flour. Still, it’s what’s inside that really counts. “That’s where we put our own touch,” she explains. Most of Majano’s pupusas come with cheese and different fillings like carnitas, black beans, mushrooms, or zucchini, but she also offers vegan options. Every one comes with a side of curtido and salsa, each made fresh daily.
Showing people the magic of home-cooked food might not have been possible without the MEHKO program or The Cook Alliance, a MEHKO support and advocacy coalition. Opening a brick-and-mortar restaurant requires a huge amount of start-up capital—at least six figures, generally. Not exactly pocket change. “But when the MEHKO program started in 2022, I said, ‘Oh my God, this is for me,’” says Majano.
Now with four years under her belt, she says she’d love to bring Love Pupusas to more food festivals, host more pop-ups, and eventually open a food truck to keep serving the humble dish of her homeland, taking pride in every bite. “[I put] a lot of love in everything I do. You see it when you taste the food,” she promises.
Pre-order Love Pupusas for next day pickup in Rancho Peñasquitos between noon and 5 p.m.
It’s not the end of the road for Catalina Offshore Products—just the end of an address. The local family-owned fish market announced that come September, they are moving from their longtime location in the Morena District to The Old San Diego Seafood Building at 1842 McKinley Avenue in National City. Normal business operations will resume in October with the same retail market fully stocked with premium seafood and local catches, so it’s not goodbye, it’s just “see you later.” (And yes, 5202 Lovelock Street is still open until moving day.)
Don’t come at me with complaints about autumnal seasonal creep—I got an email this week about holiday shopping. In August. In comparison, the 2026 release of Karl Strauss Oktoberfest seems right on time. For the 38th year in a row, ahead of the Munich-inspired festivities, the 5 percent ABV malty amber lager is now available in bottles, with draft coming to the brewpubs in September. Despite the lack of chill in the air, there’s no reason why your fridge can’t be stocked with this frosty German delight.
Listen Now: The Latest in San Diego’s Food and Drink Scene
Have breaking news, exciting scoops, or great stories about new San Diego restaurants or the city’s food scene? Send your pitches to [email protected].
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.
Implementing a farm-to-table model hardly deserves acknowledgement these days. It’s not a stretch. It’s not innovative. “It’s the bare f**king minimum,” says Herb & Sea‘s executive chef Aidan Owens.
When I arrive at the Encinitas restaurant, I’m ready to talk sustainability, farm-to-table stuff, with Owens. “Did you see the chin on that?” he says of the extra big jiggly chin on the sheephead that just arrived with the day’s fresh catch. I did. It was Jay Leno adjacent.
I learn quickly that he somehow oozes both charm and stone-cold honesty. Maybe he could construct a new dish with chin goo, like he did when he had a bunch of tuna scraps and voila’d it into a smooth and crowd-pleasing ‘nduja. “I want to know what’s in there,” he says.
Courtesy of Herb & Sea
The instinct to look closer, to dig into what others might discard, says a lot about the chef’s approach. I guide him back to our topic, but he has something else on his mind. “We’re overcomplicating food—what happened to just cooking good food and having fun with it?”
Owens grew up on a farm in Byron Bay, Australia, where sustainability wasn’t a concept you chat about so much as a way of life. Think dirt roads, backyard chickens, pulling vegetables straight from the ground, and a mother who believed that if you couldn’t pronounce the ingredients on a package, you shouldn’t eat what was inside.
Food wasn’t precious or performative. Making it was what you did because you were hungry and that’s still what inspires Owens today. “I like to cook good food because I like to eat good food,” he says.
His approach to sustainability at Herb & Sea began so naturally that it felt just like instinct. “I was just like, ‘Let’s order food from the people who live and work here,’” he says.
Courtesy of Herb & Sea
And why wouldn’t he when lives in San Diego? Cities all over the world vie for our goods. Our tuna is sent overseas. Our spiny lobsters hit dinner plates in China and Japan. Not to mention California’s producing a third of the country’s vegetables and three-quarters of its fruits and nuts.
“Why would we outsource when it’s all here?” Owens asks.
Sustainability, in this context, is about cooking what exists in abundance, nearby, right now. “I love the local fish here. It’s f**king delicious and San Diego citrus, I mean, it is so f**ing good,” he says.
Instead of importing ingredients, Owens also looks for nearby alternatives. “You can find really cool things in the local waters,” he says, pointing out that stingray cheeks taste similar to scallops.
Courtesy of Herb & Sea
Whatever he finds in that sheephead chin might just be the next substitute for marrow. But to make this work, it means getting diners amped up about the slightly unfamiliar.
Tasting menus, where diners are completely in his hands, become an opportunity to gently push boundaries. “I’ll serve mackerel, because people think they hate it,” Owens says, noting that the abundant local fish can have some fishiness. “But when it’s fresh, it’s arguably one of the best fish in the ocean.”
He also tweaks the language on the menu so people might feel more compelled to give dishes a try without preconceived notions. He might use “lengua” instead of “tongue.” “Whelk” instead of “snail.” When he puts “stingray throat” on the menu, he disarmingly calls it “skate.”
To reduce waste, scraps aren’t always discarded but rather turned into something new. Sometimes they’re smoked, cured or fermented. Apples going bad turn into apple ponzu. Lemons turn to marmalade, which stretches their usefulness far beyond peak season. “And it’s super tasty on our pizza,” he says.
What makes the food even richer, is the relationships he’s built with farmers. Though it didn’t always feel natural, Owens sought personal connection first. He recalls approaching a fisherman at the Tuna Harbor Dockside Market. “I was awkward,” he says. “I went up to him and said, ‘I like your fish.’”
Owen’s is now so close to his suppliers—like fishermen Ryan Sebo and Joe Daly—that he gets texted pictures of fresh catches right as they flop on the boat. The messages always ask if he wants first dibs. “I say yes to a lot of fish,” Owens says, noting that Herb & Sea can go through 2,000 pounds of seafood a week.
Courtesy of Herb & Sea
The next evolution of sustainability, in his view, will be chefs working directly with producers such as his alliance with Sebo, cutting out middlemen and purveyors where possible. “It will put more money in the pockets of the people doing the work,” he says.
It will mean that chefs can’t just know their local farmers and producers, but they’ll choose to work with the ones who have the best practices. Dining and sustainability will become much less about the final plate. “It will be more about the impact that plate has on the Earth,” he says.
Ultimately, he believes sustainability doesn’t need to be loud. It doesn’t need hashtags. It just needs to be honest.
“We aren’t saving lives. We’re feeding people good food,” he says.
And yet, in feeding people well—simply, thoughtfully, responsibly—something meaningful happens. Guests leave satisfied. Ingredients are respected. Local ecosystems are supported and food returns to what it has always been at its core: nourishment, pleasure, and a quiet reflection of the place it comes from.
The folks at Kairoa Brewing Company must never be lonely. It seems like there’s always a local pop-up or event at the University Heights space, from Bincho Taco slinging Japanese coal-fired tacos on the rooftop patio every Tuesday to Yipao Coffee serving coffee from a window on the ground floor. Later this year, the New Zealand-inspired brewery will bring yet another resident into the fold—Mon Chourie is launching its first bakery counter service window along Park Blvd.
Mon Chourie owner and baker Kelly Kim first started selling her Korean-style cream puffs at farmers markets and places like Pizza Kaiju, Pho Ga Go, and Mixed Grounds, collaborating with a myriad of other makers (like Amor ice cream and Ming Oun’s) before nabbing a regular spot at Michi Michi Bakery every Wednesday. San Diego Magazine readers even voted Mon Chourie the Best Pop-Up for 2026.
In French, the word for an airy puff pastry is “choux,” which is pronounced generally the same way as “syu,” the Korean word for the same item. (Both sound like “shoe.”) Mon Chourie plays with both iterations with a dash of whimsy by referencing the song My Cherie Amour by Stevie Wonder, which translates to “my darling love.”
As long as all the permits and inspections move forward without issue, Mon Chourie should open in Kairoa before the busy holiday season. She’ll continue appearing every Wednesday at Michi Michi and other pop-ups in the meantime. Once open, expect best-selling flavors like the savory potato croquette (a collaboration with Karanchi chili crisp) and a sweet Dubai chocolate choux au craquelin, a version of puff pastry with a delicate cookie crust.
Classic cream puffs are fluffy, softs and often filled with custard cream in the United States. “What makes a difference for us is we use a very light version of diplomat cream, which is my mom’s recipe,” she explains. Diplomat cream is a lighter French pastry cream that uses whipped cream for a lighter, airier end result.
Choux au craquelin’s signature crunchy top comes from adding a thin disc of cookie-like dough on top of the pastry, which crackles as it bakes, leaving a thin layer of crispiness atop the final product. “It contrasts with the creamy, fluffy cream inside, so it gets that better, deeper texture experience,” she says.
Courtesy of Kelly Kim
Along with her popular cream puffs and her bite-sized “mini-choux” options, Kim is also planning on offering more of a newer-to-her item: salt bread, a rich butter pastry topped with sea salt that originated in Japan, but went completely viral in South Korea. There are a few places to get it in Los Angeles and New York, “but I know that a lot of people here are interested in trying out new stuff, or maybe they had it in Korea or Japan, and they came back, but they couldn’t find it anymore,” says Kim. At first, she didn’t really get why it was so popular. Then she tried it in South Korea earlier this year.
“I was in love,” she laughs. “This is what the hype is about.”
Ideally, Mon Chourie will eventually open its own storefront and introduce more events in North County to satisfy demand. “I would also love to have our own drink program that reflects what’s popular in Korea,” she says. And to mark two years of puffy pastry prosperity, Mon Chourie is throwing a two-year anniversary party at Easy Does It (5375 Kearny Villa Rd., Suite 112) on Wednesday, August 25 from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. with drink specials like a misugaru latte (a Korean roasted multi-grain powder with espresso), a DJ, photo booths, special ceramic merch created by local ceramicist Whale Tran, and a few other vendors. Get there early.
Mabel’s Gone Fishing has always supported the arts—see their Fishbowl Artist Series—and they’re keeping things going this month with The Studio Table, an immersive dining event on Saturday, August 29 from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. at Barrio Logan-based ceramic studio Tao of Clay. For $160, guests can slurp down oysters and other Spanish-inspired pintxos, Basque ciders, cocktails, and take home a handmade oyster bowl made with reclaimed oyster shells. Gratuity is included for this 21+ event, so be prepared to slow down and enjoy the tangible fruits of nature.
City Tacos keeps moving and shaking, and the restaurant group’s next landing place is Liberty Station. El Punto by City Tacos is slated to open in October in the former El Jardin space (2885 Perry Road, Suite 102). Once destined to become another Lola55 outpost, the space will now become a full-service, family-friendly, and dog-friendly restaurant with seafood, tacos, cocktails, and more.
For as many closings as we’ve seen over the past year, restaurant openings seem to be back on track. The long-awaited Honor Bar finally opened its doors in Del Mar this summer, and Soul Sip in North Park is soft open from 4 p.m. to midnight daily. Still on the way are The Shackhouse by Julian Beer Company (slated to open by Labor Day) and Sprouts Farmers Market plans to open in the former Pancho Villa’s building in North Park this October. (La Mesa is still waiting patiently for Stella Jean’s and Pop Pie to make their debuts.)
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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.
Snacks are the best vacation souvenirs. You get all the novelty of having something to unwrap without any of the burden of keeping random crap around. I’m always game to try some chips from a place I can’t find on a map with ingredients I can’t identify by taste. Gimme that spice mix from that Southern barbecue pit whose wine list consists of light beers from lesser-known appellations. Don’t think I won’t lick the inside wrapper of some chocolate bar homemade by a grandma at a farmers market you stumbled upon in a small Midwestern town best known for giant yarn balls.
Even though San Diego is best known for our thigh-sized burritos, fish tacos, and craft beers, those travel about as well as room-temp mayo. So we gathered some of the city’s best food souvenirs: snacks, spices, and sauces worth sliding into your carry-on or gifting to a lucky out-of-towner.
Inside Bread & Salt—Barrio Logan’s old Weber Bread Factory turned into one of the city’s most vibrant art, culture, and community spaces—there’s a cafe in front of a giant, now-defunct bread mixer. Mexican-owned specialty brew shop and roastery Provecho! Coffee started as a pop-up in 2020, but its success quickly bricked-and-mortared. Although Provecho! specializes in sourcing and roasting Mexican coffees, its consistency is variety: The lineup changes regularly as Provecho! finds new sources around the world. Get a to-go taste via the coffee bags that range between 250 g and 2 kg.
Courtesy of Superlova!
Sesame Sauce
Superlova!
Superlova!’s Chinese-inspired, seed oil–free sauces are grocery list mainstays for San Diegans. The sesame sauces (Dan Dan is spicy, May May is tame) pair with noodles, dumplings, or any meal that could use a little more oomph. They don’t have tahini, which is de-hulled; they have Chinese sesame paste, which is dark-roasted for a nuttier flavor and packed with fiber and calcium.
Courtesy of JuneShine
Hard Kombucha
JuneShine
San Diego is known for beer, sure. But real locals pour from a different tap. JuneShine’s low-sugar, yet still refreshingly sweet, hard kombucha is an SD favorite. The brand has joined the canned cocktail tidal wave and now sells vodka mules, tequila palomas, and vodka sodas—all with about two shots per can, real juice, and sparkling water. But for a classic food gift, get a variety pack of the booch. Fit it into your checked bag. It’s worth it.
Double entendre is key to hot sauce brand Down To Ferment, aka DTF. (Popular sauces have flavor names like CornHub, Smokin’ Hot Date, and Ghosted.) But it’s no gimmick. The homemade, kombucha-based sauce is seriously good: DTF’s That’s What Shishito Said made it onto Season 30’s lineup on Internet-famous interview show Hot Ones.
Courtesy of Tortilleria Los Reyes
Fresh Tortillas
As discussed, carne asada burritos travel about as well as a toddler with emotional-regulation issues. But the soul of a truly great, San Diego burrito? It’s not the fillings. It’s the tortilla. You can’t go wrong from any locally owned spots, but our favorites are Tortilleria Los Reyes in Vista, Windmill Farms Market in Del Cerro (which uses Pancho Villa’s old tortilla press), Esperanza’s Tortilleria in Escondido, and Tortilleria Lily in City Heights.
Courtesy of Karanchi
Chili Crisp
Karanchi
Handcrafted in small batches, Karanchi’s Sichuan peppercorn–packed chili oil comes in two varieties: original and spicy. The original warms your palate and adds depth to your meal, and the spicy is a form of mealtime masochism. Founder Nguyen Le’s favorite way to eat his garlic-studded chili crisp is on avocado toast—which makes an already San Diego meal even more San Diegan—but it’d make old shoes taste pretty good.
Fresh fish ranks low on society’s acceptable realms of carry-on items. But canned fresh fish straight from local fishermen? You’re the best part of a bruschetta. Every Saturday at the docks behind Seaport Village, fishermen step off their boats and sell what they caught as recently as that morning. While getting yourself some fresh sea urchin and squid, grab a couple cans of locally caught albacore tuna for the tinned-fish lover in your life.
Photo Credit: Salsa Digital Agency
Conchas
Tus Chefs Favoritas
Started as a pandemic baking hobby for BFFs Natalie Rodriguez and Lesly Mendoza, Tus Chefs is now a South County favorite spot for conchas with a twist. The menu is expansive enough to get over a baker’s dozen without any repeats—why not get one of each, anyway?—but if you only have enough space in your carry-on for a few, start with popular “chocolate abuelita,” churro, mazapan, horchata, and brownie conchas.
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.
Chemotherapy and radiation have long been considered gold standards of cancer treatment, but they can cause severe side effects. A promising new approach called theranostics—a combination of “therapeutics” and “diagnostics”—could offer patients with certain types of metastatic cancers new hope. It’s a two-step process that uses a drug that binds to specific receptors on cancer cells. Advanced imaging detects this radioisotope, allowing doctors to then use a second radioisotope that binds to the cancer cells and destroys them. Click here to learn more about how specialists at Scripps Cancer Center are using theranostics.
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