Review: Amalfi Cucina Italiana

The bird has a plan. You stand between that bird and that plan. For the remainder of your ceviche, you’ll identify as collateral damage.

There are many other nearby birds with the same plan, absolutely sucking at trying to be nonchalant about it. The pigeons are by far the boldest on account of what we can all agree just by looking at them is sheer stupidity. They come right up and ask with their red murder clown eyes: “Can bite?”

Pelicans are the silverback gorillas of this bird gang, hulking and alpha. They periodically flaunt the acreage of their wingspan in the same way a schoolyard bully puffs out his chest. One could casually land on your plate and maintain constant eye contact as it slowly enjoyed your fish taco. You share this tacit awareness with it. But it doesn’t approach because there are always a couple off-duty fishermen eating at Mitch’s Seafood. Those salty dogs have been forced to beat the shit out of a pelican or two in their day, and they and the pelican also know that.

The snowy egrets pretend to not really want your food. They seductively lord on the tops of the sportfishing boats moored in front of the restaurant, fully aware of how hot they are—svelte fashion models, Ozempic with wings. They just turn their faces to the wind so that it blows their fabulous hair. They seem to expect tourists to be overcome by their avian Brad Pittness and just throw swordfish sandwiches to them in tribute. They refuse to demean themselves like the gulls do.

The gulls are shameless menaces. The linebackers of seabirds—a lot quicker than you expect given their big butts, full of schemes and microaggressions. They stand at a distance and mad-dog everyone, intimidate with their beaks the color of old bananas. Fear is not a seagull emotion. When they take a plate—and they will take a plate—there is so much flapping and fighting. They desperately bite and claw at fishermen’s stews like zombies who finally caught up to Rick Grimes. We see one that’s missing a foot.

At some point you will hear a baby cry. It’s not a baby. It’s a gull, who has learned to mimic the sound of human babies in distress so that parents feel the great evolutionary ache—and throw fries at the crying.

“Watch out for the crab cakes,” says a server to every person she drops them to. “Those are their favorite.”

The birds have opinions on the menu. And their presence at Mitch’s is better than any Yelp review. Think they’d risk life and limb for some recently unboxed frostbite tilapia down at the local skate rink? Yeah, probably so.

But these birds know the backstory of three longtime local fishing families who own Mitch’s: Brian Kiyohara and his wife, Viola; Randy Toussaint and his wife, Tracy; and namesake Mitch Conniff. Conniff cut his teeth as a young sous chef at Jsix (a long-gone restaurant that was, 20 years ago, a slow-food star under chef Christian Graves). Then he was executive chef of American Angler, the long-range Baja fishing vessel co-owned by Kiyohara.

It was on the Angler that Mitch reportedly looked at the restaurant that was previously in this location—on stilts over the water at Point Loma Sportfishing Dock—and said to Kiyohara, “Wouldn’t it be cool if a restaurant in that space used local fish from local boats and local people like us?”

And that’s how Mitch’s was born. Its doors opened in 2008.

The real story of Mitch’s is the wheelbarrows. Every morning, the crew rolls them along Driscoll’s Wharf down to Tunaville—the market also owned by local fishing families (including Conniff). The shop has a parking spot for local boats, who bring their daily haul there every morning. Mitch’s crew fills the wheelbarrows with fresh fish and wheels them back to the kitchen. Within hours or a day or so, some of it will be lunch, dinner, and bird crack.

There are no reservations at Mitch’s. More often than not, there’s a long line snaking out the door. It moves fast. Their tiny kitchen is remarkably efficient. Locals know to go for breakfast (get the crab avocado toast) or in the off-hours (11 a.m., 3 p.m.—just not noon and 6 p.m.). There’s a small-ish indoor dining room, tables that appear more lacquer than wood. It’s a shrine to local fishers, the wall’s a family photo album of tan locals beaming with pride over a record catch, pleasantly fatigued boat captains, sun-gnarled deckhands. Leave your partner in the line, and go peruse, get a sense for the humans out there in local waters, leaving their families for days and weeks and months at a time to provide. It’s a core San Diego way of life that built this city (tuna money poured the concrete at Point Loma High), once robust and now rare.

The prized seats are on the deck. Thirty or so metal bar stools are ponied up to a small counter attached to the wooden rail. Bendy metal rods cascade from the roof like eyelashes. “They were put in to deter the birds,” a server tells me. “It worked for about a week.”

The swordfish sandwich is just about perfect and a mission statement of the place—humble and simple, like fishing. A big-ole torta, a grilled filet not cooked to sawdust like American restaurants once did, with tomato, tartar sauce, and cilantro. It shouldn’t taste as good as it does, but clean local fish cooked well on bread is satisfying in an essential, basal way. Plus, that tartar sauce blows lesser tartars away. Conniff swaps out the pickle and onion for garlic, fresh parsley, and cilantro, so that it tastes closer to an herbed Baja crema. It should be criminalized and governed by people who make laws to atone for the lack of our own self-regulation.

The bowl of mussels and clams are the can’t-miss of Mitch’s—somewhere between French moules marinières, New England steamers, and Baja shellfish pots. The science: As shellfish steam, they release their own briny liquor, meaty ocean broth in a shell. The chef’s job is to complement that gift without clobbering it. Mitch’s uses white wine for acid and leeks (a milder, sweeter, more flavorful onion), Dijon, and butter. Their clams and mussels are bigger than normal, which brings stronger flavor, making that broth one of the best in the city, sopped with the baguette.

From the cold case, get the shrimp aguachile with housemade chips—a small bowl, green as radiator fluid, the chili water a light-pain blend of habaneros (the best tasting chili by a long shot), serranos, lime, and the soft, fat glove of avocado. They also serve a campechana—a Baja mariscos specialty with shrimp, Dungeness crab, octopus, and oysters in cocktail sauce and clamato. Important note here: Don’t eat either of these dishes right away. They come out fridge-cold (there are laws about storing raw seafood), which muzzles the flavor. Order them to sit. After 20 minutes, dig in.

The crab cakes get mixed reviews, but ours are delicious. They lean cake more than crab, which isn’t what you’d expect from a fisherman-chef’s stilt house, but that’s personal preference.

You’re going to order the fresh fish plate, blackened, because you’re good at ordering. It’s the truest expression of fisherman and fish. And what you’ll receive is a shockingly spartan plate—a paprika-crusted filet, a ramekin of slaw, some herb pistou. It is excellent, even if the universal governing body of wooden-spooned grandmas would suggest it needs a rice, a tater, a proper side dish.

My argument is that the slaw is side dishing. Coleslaw is, by and large, the great American fail. Most restaurants treat it like the younger sibling their parents made them bring along on a date. At Mitch’s, they treat slaw with respect. Starts with traditional cabbage, but then gets both fresh orange and lime juice, jicama, grilled corn, and cilantro. It’s Baja meets San Diego picnic food.

If, as dictated by the most basic laws of food criticism, I needed to find quibbles with Mitch’s, fine. I’ll be that guy who walks into a runaway hit dream of three local fishing families and pretends everything isn’t entirely perfect. I’ll express them in wishes.

I wish the baguette with the clams and mussels was lightly charred. The broth is nearly sweet, and sweet loves a good burn.

I wish there was an obscene amount of slaw with the fish plate. It’s that good, and the plate looks a bit bare.

I wish there was one housemade sauce in the condiment basket. You’ve got Heinz, Tabasco, Tapatío—all of which are fine and should stay. While I realize the kitchen is limited and the line of customers is eternal, Mitch’s would go up an even higher notch if there were squeeze bottles of one killer original dressing—housemade crema, a mojo, macha, or just an unending supply of that garlicky tartar. It feels a tad crimey to go through all this effort to source local fish and cook them well, and then top it with a sauce that has no San Diego or Baja or Mitch in it.

I honestly didn’t expect Mitch’s to be as good as it still is. Everything we ate (except maybe an octopus taco with tentacle bits fried into nubs) was good to excellent. The constant onslaught of locals and tourists and the excruciating intricacies of operating a business in California should have exhausted the will to live by now, let alone cook.

There’s a reason the birds are still outside, with crimes in their eyes and menu preferences.

I’m sitting in a slab of concrete under a freeway, eating a ceviche black as eyeliner.

There might be seven seats in this restaurant. Or maybe it’s 12 minus five. That area under the stairs might also be a couple seats, or it might just be a very inviting storage area with a flower vase. The restaurant is so small your core instinct is to count seats and tabulate if Alchemy – Choose Thy Poison is a real place with a sane business plan or if it’s a social art project designed to question the reality of restaurants and business plans.

There’s a large, floor-to-human-height window near our table. Through it, I notice someone didn’t make their bed this morning. It’s a decision I deeply empathize with. It’s moments like this that make you acutely aware that Alchemy is also technically the courtyard of a six-room micro-hotel called Narcissus. Not the kind of massagey boutique hotel you’re thinking of with soft woods, obscene amounts of linen, and opinions on bonsai therapy. It’s a near-Brutalist cube of base industrial materials—concrete and acrylics bent and molded into a series of alcoves, with pods to sleep in. Sculptures lie behind glass like Tilda Swinton circa 2013.

The window to the unmade bed forcibly crams light voyeurism into the dining experience. The hotel and Alchemy feel like the parts of Mexico I love the most. Although Mexico has its multimillion-dollar restaurants, a vast majority of the best street-level places feel like you’re temporarily recreating in a very lovely construction project.

Alchemy’s location is what most people comment on (“I can’t believe a place like this exists on a block like this.”)—jammed at the bottom of the freeway embankment on the northeast side of Barrio Logan. But that makes it distinctly Barrio, the historic cradle of San Diego’s Hispanic and Chicano culture. The I-5 freeway was built through Barrio in 1963—a fairly traumatic gashing of the neighborhood—and residents responded by painting epic murals on the ugly concrete belly of eminent domain. Where some would’ve just accepted the industrial blight, locals saw shade for a park. There is a deep history here of turning concrete into art, and Alchemy carries that on.

The vision for the property came from owner Benjamin Longwell, whose company—The Society of Master Craftsmen—sounds like it wears a monocle. Longwell is part of the new guard of developers who focus on urban infill. Instead of adding to the city sprawl, they find unused or underutilized parcels of land in established neighborhoods, then build creative mixed-use spaces that, in perfect scenarios, add something of value for locals.

I’m not making a case for architectural sainthood, but there isn’t a huge list of developers who would look at the line of cars exiting the freeway in front of Alchemy and think, “We must build here.” So in that sense, Narcissus and Alchemy feel additive to the community, not extractive.

It is fantastic—acidic but with a whole world of toasted, warm flavors, like ceviche that’s seen some things.

The menu from Cortes—a home cook his whole life, only having taken it professional a few years ago with his popular pop-up, Barracruda—is really a tour of specialties from various states in Mexico.

A crema de poblano has the blended ghost of rajas at its core: an emulsion of roasted poblanos with butter-sautéed onions and garlic, plus a touch of milk that’s topped with queso fresco, chile ancho, and morita oil. Morita—a smoky Mexican condiment made from dried and smoked red jalapeños for a less intense, fruitier cousin of chipotle—is the key here. It specializes in spiking fats (guacamole, fried eggs, burritos). Sop up the crema with house-baked garlic-rosemary sourdough, blackened from the ash of a corn husk.

Smoked tuna is a Baja gift that’s become an anchor for most San Diego taco shops, and Alchemy combines mesquite-smoked yellowtail with caramelized onions, sweet peppers, and Chihuahua cheese (the OG quesadilla filling), then stuffs it in a perfectly baked masa empanada. The result is somewhere between a TJ Oyster Bar taco, a calzone, and a tamale—but with extra flavor and more black hue from cuttlefish ink.

Alchemy’s huaraches de res is Cortes’ ode to where he’s from. Huaraches are the New Haven–style pizza of Mexican food—thick, oblong masa flatbread layered with refried beans and a payload inspired by the Mexico City markets the chef grew up roaming with his dad: braised beef (braseado), avocado salsa, pickled vegetables, salsa macha, and jocoque (Mexico’s fermented dairy product, like a cross between crema and labneh).

Alchemy’s seared tuna crudo gets a tad abused by the riot of big flavors: charred hibiscus salsa, avocado salsa, pickled grapes, pomegranate salsa macha, and chipotle aioli. It’s a fate that also tempers the joy of the zarandeado, with the adobo marinade on the shrimp fighting a bit with recado negro and chipotle crema. Sticking with curmudgeonly food critic notes, flies are a part of the Alchemy experience, at least during our visit. They’re fairly hard to evict from the outside world, but more measures could be taken to discourage their participation.

The oxtail tetelas—like a Mexican pupusa—are a diary note from Cortes’ travels to Tlaquepaque, where they famously superboost their salsa with a touch of instant coffee. First, Cortes braises the oxtail with beer and Mexican spices. Then he blends that braising liquid into a salsa with beef tallow, guajillo, charred onions, tomatoes, and black garlic. Keeping with the goth food theme, the oxtail goes into masa negra infused with squid ink.

Desserts are where you realize just how deeply Alchemy is committed to the art bit. Rarely do you see a neighborhood bistro trying to pull off trompe l’œil—the French specialty of making pastries and other desserts look like fruit or other everyday objects. (The phrase means “to deceive the eye” and is the historical precedent for the Is It Cake? phenomenon.) Pastry chef Catherinne Avila does, though. A “Naranja” comes out in the form of a mandarin, but inside is orange blossom mousse, apricot jelly, and sablée (a delicate, crumbly shortcrust). A “Philosopher’s Stone” comes in the form of a brick of gold with a serpent on top; inside are mango mousse, mango-Tajín jelly, and a coconut dacquoise.

As Barrio Logan enters an apprehensive phase—its creative culture and restaurant scene growing rapidly, bringing economic promise face-to-face with the need to protect the Chicano way of life—this concrete tuckaway from a Mexico City kid feels like a good step. The Barrio has a long history of making art in unexpected places, and Alchemy carries that a little further.

Photos Credit: Dee Sandoval

The Perfect Order: Vulture Martini | Potato Pavé | Crab Cake

Kory Stetina is a long way from learning what vegan food was through a pamphlet at punk-rock shows in his teens. He stands in his dream restaurant, Vulture, wearing a non-sportsy sports coat. He’s married with a child. There’s a very non-punk potato pavé on the monogrammed plate, the servers are in tux-adjacent attire, and this whole building in University Heights has been turned into a plant-based funhouse with formidable, obsessive style.

Despite the earmarks of midcentury continental formalism, five out of 10 people in here wear arcane t-shirts. Word got out early on that Vulture was a fine-dining experience, and while there’s a tableside Caesar and velvet curtains and soft, artful furniture, that was never the intent. Stetina had to do some PR legwork to pop the “special occasion” balloon that floated over the project—another collaboration between himself and Arsalun Tafazoli of CH Projects—and it seems to be working.

One of the t-shirt people I recognize: Justin Pearson of The Locust and Three One G Records. A thoughtful and progressive punk force in SD, he’s seated at a corner table with individuals who look like they’ve at least dabbled in if not dedicated their lives to graphic design and can casually play a theremin near a rare fern. Vulture captures that same dinner-party-for-creative-people mood that the Middletown bar Starlite first brought to the city.

It’s a place for grown-up punks, for ideas and ideals.

(Obtrusive but important note about punk rock and plant eaters: The rather genuine punk music of the 1970s and ’80s that eventually birthed Green Day and Nirvana and even, I guess, My Chemical Romance emerged from a philosophical and creative instinct to challenge status quos, which often meant expressing unpopular and political opinions in an excessively loud and urgent manner—pretty much exactly what Simon & Garfunkel were doing but far more invigorating and annoying. There were plenty of bands who got big because they had great hair and a good producer; there were other bands who got cult-famous based on the holy-wow way they expressed uncomfortable ideas, making people question the way they lived. Eating only plants was a part of this live-different worldview, and, like any good movement, it got co-opted by the tad too righteous, moral, and shame-mongery. It should be said that Stetina made his name in San Diego by being a philosophical vegan who’s un-mongery.)

To get to Vulture, you enter through Dreamboat, a well-lit, bright, Mr. Clean-ish, ’60s-era, plant-based, romantically American diner that’s all white and chrome and charm—poodle-skirt notions and connoisseur coffee and smoked potato latkes and Impossible burgers and baked goods and milkshakes and cocktails. Seating occupancy: one-and-a-half people on Ozempic (fine, it’s 10).

In the back corner of this tiny diner is an antique host stand. The host takes you through a velvet curtain, down the short hall, and through a door, until you enter into, what?

Some will call it a speakeasy, but it’s really just a fun surprise restaurant (“speakeasies” do still exist, but they’re not on OpenTable, and almost everyone with a project they call a “speakeasy” will, on their most honest days, admit it’s not a speakeasy).

You’ll step into cavernous, amber-glow, lava-lamp darkness. So, the first experience Vulture offers all of us is temporary blindness, followed by the opportunity to behold the shockingly slow ability of human eyes to adjust to radical shifts in light. The music is on point, a mix of obscure indie tracks and guilty-pleasure soft-rock bangers. Thanks to listening bars, restaurants have become the stereo-system showrooms of America. Remember that guy in high school who one day showed up with box speakers in his trunk and a $6,000 head unit, an amp, subwoofers, and EQs, and his car sounded like Dr. Dre’s and Rick Rubin’s place of business? That guy is restaurants.

It had been open six weeks when it got the Michelin star. At six weeks, a restaurant is a newborn. Newborns wail and struggle to breathe. They’re cracking open their first panic attack. Nine months in the flotation tank of the mom spa, then—blammo—the landlord shuts off the water and fairly traumatically evicts them into a drafty world that has no clue about mood lighting.

It’s old food critic wisdom that restaurants need six months to get running and ready for real analysis. Crew members will have lied on their resumes, narcissists will find themselves bored, the strangely emotional demands of diners will break newbies. It’s a fresh organism dedicated to executing nightly public theater, and it takes time for all the parts to learn how to operate as a fluid whole—develop mutually beneficial roles, nail the timing, speak the unspoken language.

Granted, the team at Lilo in Carlsbad aren’t newcomers, and they’ve had way more time than they ever wanted to plan this out. Plus, the partners—restaurateur John Resnick and chef Eric Bost—helped earn their restaurant across the street, Jeune et Jolie, a Michelin star (and they run its raved-about sister restaurant, Campfire, down the block).

“We’re lucky,” Resnick says. “About 80 percent of the people on our team, we either worked with immediately or they came back because they were excited about this project.”

The project is a 22-seat, tasting menu–only restaurant featuring Bost, longtime chef de cuisine Dusan Todic, wine director Savannah Riedler (formerly of Post Ranch Inn and two-Michelin-starred Saison), and beverage director Andrew Cordero (Jeune et Jolie and Campfire). It’s four years in the making. When a 10,000-square-foot building became available on State Street in 2021—the last of its kind on one of Carlsbad’s most up-and-coming drags—they jumped at it. The plan was to build a massive all-day restaurant (Wildland, now open) and, behind it, tiny Lilo, where they could showcase what their vision of the ultimate San Diego dinner experience could be. It’s the kind of James Beard Award and Michelin bait that ambitious restaurateurs dream of and makes basic sense when they have a chef-partner like Bost.

“Campfire and Jeune—from the time leases were signed to opening doors—took about 12 months,” Resnick says. “So I kind of felt like, alright, 18 months should be doable.” He pauses. “It was not.”

At that time, the pandemic was still slowly releasing its chokehold. Supply chains had been shot with a billion tranquilizer darts. Building two restaurants at a time while exhibiting a noble American amount of ambition was no picnic. The week after the project finally broke ground, the construction lead on the project—“the only person more essential to the buildout than us as owners,” Resnick says—departed. A fun idiosyncrasy of construction in North County is that most contractors live 40 minutes away and prefer freelance gigs closer to home. So, finding help was hard. Plus, a new ordinance had been passed in Carlsbad since Resnick opened his first two restaurants.

“I was down in Baja having lunch when I got an email about needing a ‘minor site development plan,’” Resnick remembers. “I was like, ‘Well, it’s got the word minor in it; it’s probably not a big deal.’ That one thing added nine months to the project.”

Project costs ballooned. Hems were hawed. The buzz on this project had been loud, and now the scene wondered and whispered. I ask Bost and Resnick if there was a time they considered giving up or drastically reducing the vision.

“It came up, yeah,” Resnick says. “At the end of the day, it was a ‘the only way out is through’ type of thing.”

They thought they’d launch in July 2023. The doors opened in April 2025.

The Redemption

For Bost, the unveiling of that restaurant was especially redeeming. In 2020, he’d lost what felt like everything. He’d spent 20 years working his way through some of the world’s best kitchens: Le Cirque, The Ritz-Carlton in St. Thomas, Alain Ducasse, and both The Lodge at Torrey Pines and The Inn at Rancho Santa Fe in San Diego. He hit the top when he was named executive chef for Guy Savoy, launching the famed French chef’s elaborate Vegas restaurant and then overseeing his places in Singapore. In 2017, ready to do his own thing, he returned to SoCal and spent two years developing the idea for his dream restaurant. He finally opened his unpretentious tasting-menu place, Auburn, in LA in 2019.

If you don’t know the name Christophe Rull yet, you will soon. Born and raised in Marseille in southern France, Rull started his apprenticeship at age 15 before five years of culinary school where he studied cooking and pastry. He bounced from Michelin-starred kitchens to luxury hotels to the École Nationale Supérieure de Pâtisserie (ENSP), the prestigious pastry school that Alain Ducasse (record holder for most awarded Michelin stars on the planet) founded in 1999.

After France, Rull opened Aria Resort & Casino in Las Vegas and worked at MGM Grand. He won season 7 of the Food Network’s Halloween Wars, followed by another win on Holiday Wars. He appeared on Bake Squad and then topped it all off with the title of U.S. Chocolate Master in 2021 and a fifth-place finish in the 2022 World Chocolate Masters.

So, all of this is to say, the guy can bake. And he’s about to open his first shop of his own. Christophe Rull Patisserie opens later this month in San Marcos. 

Rull can bake, sure. But he’s smart, too—he knows San Diego is the place to be for the best food and quality of life. After six years in Las Vegas, he accepted the role of executive pastry chef at the AAA Five Diamond Park Hyatt Aviara Resort, Golf Club & Spa in Carlsbad from 2016 to 2021. “I fell in love with this area,” he says. But after he quit to pursue his dream of competing at the world championship, he came back to the US jobless and unsure of what to do next.

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“It’s the same high as athletes—you go to the Olympic Games, and you’re sacrificing two years of your life to prepare for that big event, and once the event is done, then you’re done,” he laughs. So he asked himself “What am I doing now?” He ended up at the Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles as the executive pastry chef for a new concept, which allowed him hands-on decision making from development all the way to opening. Basically, it was a dress rehearsal for launching his own place. 

Rull decided on San Marcos for his first patisserie for a few reasons. One, he loves North County’s chill vibe. Two, he sees all the development potential over the next few years. Getting in now will pay off later, he’s betting. The North City suite is on the small side—around 1,200-square-feet total, with around one-third as kitchen space and the remainder front of house. But he doesn’t need a ton of space to realize his ethos of “simplicity well done.”

“I like to stay really fundamental, and to the classics, such as a good butter croissant or almond croissant,” he explains. His menu will include his famous cinnamon roll and sourdough bread, plus around a half dozen different breakfast pastries, croissants, French macarons, danishes, eclairs, chia seed pudding, cookies, and some sandwiches like a classic French ham and cheese and chicken pesto, all made with imported French butter and flour. 

He’ll offer around 10 eclairs at a time, ranging from classic vanilla and lemon meringue to passion fruit mango, salted caramel, tiramisu, and more. Coffee service will be simple, featuring Lavazza drip coffee and traditional espresso. 

It’s a family-run business, with his wife Wilma working side-by-side with him. They both decided to leave the luxury hotel world to take a chance on the dream, something that Rull says takes risk and sacrifice. “[This] is where I wanted to be,” he says. 

Christophe Rull Patisserie opens late August or early September at 251 North City Drive, Suite 121 in San Marcos. 

San Diego Restaurant News & Food Events

The (Brief) Return of Small Bar! 

For one-night only, everyone who has yearned for the return of University Heights’ Small Bar will get their wish. Better still, the pop-up is going to feature its famous fried chicken as orders of either half or full birds, and it’s all going down at Grand Ole BBQ in North Park on Monday, August 25 from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. I strongly suggest arriving beforehand, because my inner psychic is predicting a ridiculously fast sellout. 

Beth’s Bites

• Despite some premature reports in other outlets, Elizabeth Ruiz says her restaurant Todo Pa’ La Cruda is not opening a third location in Pacific Beach. The existing two locations on Imperial Avenue and Logan Avenue are still up and running, and while she’s not currently looking hard for a third location, you never know when the perfect spot will present itself. (It’s just not in PB, for now.)
• It always tickles me just a bit when a company with a specific location in its name moves outside of that location. (See: North Park Beer Company in Bankers Hill, for one.) Coronado Coffee Company is expanding off the island (that’s not technically an island) and opening a second location in Point Loma, bringing its specialty coffees, matchas, teas, steamers, and other goodies across the water. 
• If pop-ups defined the first half of 2025, visiting chef collaborations might be what’s happening the second half. Next up is chef Omar Hernandez from Ensenada’s Celida Cafe heading to Wildflour in Liberty Station, where he’ll work with Phillip Esteban on their first brunch takeover on Sunday, August 10. Expect some Baja-inspired brunch plates like crispy lamb with sunny side eggs, passion fruit French toast, and Mexican eggs benedict with habanero hollandaise. Light on calories, it will not be.

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