I can’t really speak French, maybe 10 words or so, which all fall from my mouth in a confusing language pile. But in the sexy French bistro that is Wormwood, logic and skill are no match for the way it makes you feel. I am fluent. I am not me, a person raised in the cultural khaki-pants-ness of suburban Southern California, wearing but-of-course jeans and a button up that suggests an active distaste for fashion. My no-name clothes are Gautier and I may well be Proust, casually sniffing the air for bone marrow and French 75s.
The patio at Wormwood in North Park is about as charming of an urban oasis as you can find—a whole other, better world
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
The mid-afternoon light is abusive through the tiny windows of the minuscule Adams Avenue restaurant. We are eating in a solar flair. And somehow, that minor first-world suffering also feels a bit magical. On the verdant, shaded plant-wall patio out back—which has been the somewhat secret oasis of central San Diego for over a decade, when this place was the beloved Jayne’s Gastropub—two jazz musicians lightly strut and pluck while diners slurp oysters with absinthe foam. There’s an old wooden piano. If you’re not charmed, you may be a bit broken in places.
Wormwood is the newest project from the owners of mezcal haven Tahona, a mezcaleria-slash- Mexican restaurant that brought a little modernity to Old Town. Like their first project, this house is organized around spirits. First, the spirit of Jaynes, whose gift for elegant quainthood still lingers. There are new flairs—massive mirrors, slick faux taxidermy—but the subway-tiled floors and dark wainscotting are still there, the soul of a much-missed icon preserved.
The “show” is the absinthe tower, delivered with multiple kinds of absinthe and a server who explains the whole mythical process
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
The other spirit is absinthe. When opened, Wormwood was billed as “San Diego’s first absinthe bar.” That’s a tad reductive, because the kitchen is loaded with talent. Group culinary director Janina Garay and executive chef Danny Romero worked together at Michelin-star Addison, and before that, the now-defunct James Beard-nominated Bracero—and their French-Mexican menu is special. But at almost every table in the 1,700 square-foot restaurant are absinthe towers—ornate water challices with four spouts on each side. Servers crouch to explain how to absinthe: place a sugar cube on a brass absinthe spoon, slowly release a trickle of water, which dissolves the cube into the absinthe below. In the glass, a white cloud blooms (called “louching,” which just sounds devious).
Drinking absinthe, of course, causes you to hallucinate and descend into madness, and the only way out is to write terrible poetry. None of this is true, but the peyote-adjacent myths around the “green fairy” sure are fun. The spirit, originating in Switzerland, is just a potent, distinctive combo of wormwood, anise, and fennel. It tastes like intense and dynamic black licorice, if black licorice had the ability to gleefully impair your decision making and turn your motor skills into noodles.
Wagyu tartare with roasted bone marrow
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
The rumors about the bone marrow are true—it’s luminous. Actually, it’s a Wagyu tartare, tossed with Dijon, marrow (aka meat butter), and guajillo chiles served on the roasted bone. The marrow and mustard replace the creaminess traditionally provided by egg yolk, and this dish perfectly shows off the handshake between French and Mexican flavors that is the defining characteristic of Wormwood— Franco sauces, Baja flair.
The shocking thing about dining here is not just how tiny it is—like bistros in San Francisco or New York, the mere notion of elbow room is financially reckless. They also have to maximize guests-per-inch. Feet kicker- uppers may struggle, but the eating-on-top-of-strangers experience has an enlivening effect. It mandates a conviviality, a togetherness for everyone in the room.
Zucchini velouté with crab-mascarpone stuffed squash blossoms, orange crema, pickled ramps, and pepita oil
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
The real shock is how, in this smallness, they prioritize tableside presentations—like the pouring of the zucchini veloute, poured form decanter into a bowl with squash blossoms stuffed with crab and mascarpone, pickled ramps, orange crema, and pepita oil. The secret is that they don’t make their chicken stock for this with roasted bones; instead, they blanche them to rid impurities, then simmer for six hours. The luscious, tomatillo aguachile for the fruits de mer is also poured tableside—over lime-cured scallops and local kampachi, pickled red onions, peanuts soaked in Calabrian chile oil, and trout roe.
Now that we’re all plant-curious, Romero gives us a few winners. First, a duo of beets: red (simmered in thyme, orange, and black pepper) and golden (roasted in star anise, cinnamon, and juniper), plated with baby Pishori pistachios (a spendy treat on the pistachio scene, and worth it), avocado puree, mint, lemon vinaigrette, hyssop, cara cara orange, and dusted in raspberry powder.
Culinary director Janina Garay in full tweezer mode
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
Then the wild mushroom tartlets, stuffed with caramelized onions, pea butter, and potato puree, topped with mushrooms (golden thread and enoki), dusted in lime zest and mint. The orange golden threads look like tiny breadsticks, or pasta made of Tang.
Their pastas are a study in how French cream sauces have the ability to nullify the human restraint mechanism and how Wormwood tweaks classics. For their linguini and clams, they make a hollandaise from lobster shells, toss it with sea beans and espelette (the famed French pepper), and finish with a tomatillo consomme to cut the heaviness. The smoked duck confit is the star—house-cured duck smoked over mesquite, slow-cooked and shredded, served with Parisian gnocchi (no potato, and lighter) tossed with a banana beurre blanc.
Banana? In a cream sauce? You bet. Why not? Have fun. Try it. And they don’t overdo it, so it works.
Chefs Danny and his brother Dante (Wormwood’s chef de cuisine) used to host one of San Diego’s top underground dinner series, called Tortoise. If you look at Danny’s chef coat, you’ll notice a little turtle. And one of Wormwood’s excellent entrees came from Tortoise—the chicken roulade. Breast and tenderloins are wrapped in chicken skin, sous-vide, then flash fried and served with a sauce escabeche (basically the pickled veggies you get at a taco shop), sweet-sour carrots, and roasted cauliflower, all finished with wine and cream. Hard to know if the halibut is fantastic or if brown butter is just the answer to life. Specifically, it gets a celery root puree and hazelnut-and- brown butter sauce along with a red grape and caper salsa.
Crinkle cake—a hybrid of baklava and cheesecake—in saffron creme anglaise
Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger
Nearly everything they have is good to excellent: the flavors, the execution, the presentation, the booze, the service, the pretty little plates. My one complaint about the current menu is that it is a river of heavy cream—an unrepentant estuary of post-cow indulgence. Mexican influence aside, this is some of that old-school French cooking, when thick and luscious sauces are treated like duct tape: the fix for everything. While that may be true, some patrons may crave a few lighter dishes.
For dessert, you must try the cheeseklava: a crinkle cake that is a wonderful mutant of baklava and cheesecake—with the papery-thin pastry up top and the cake below—with a shallow pool of saffron creme anglaise and candied kumquats. If you’re more of a berries ‘n’ cream sort, go for the Baba a l’absinthe—a riff on the classic French rum cake. Wormwood soaks their cake in absinthe and serves it tableside with creme fraiche- flavored whip cream, fresh berries, and honeycomb toffee.
At Wormwood, the absinthe is the angle, the catch, and the elevator pitch that gets you in the door. The rest of it is why you won’t want to leave.
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.
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.
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
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.
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
I stare back at Alchemy’s ceviche negro, a glossy mound of halibut that looks inspired by the La Brea Tar Pits or melted vinyl records. Chef-owner and Mexico City–native Eddy Cortes saves all the trimmings of his dishes (garlic and onion skins, vegetable shavings), then chars them into an ash to create a recado negro—a Yucatán specialty that usually involves toasted chiles, achiote paste, vinegar, and a ton of warm spices. He tosses local halibut with squid ink, tamari, charred pineapple, and citrus. The usual charm of ceviche is that it’s light, bright, full of color. Not here.
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.
Photo Credit: Dee Sandoval
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.
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.
A perfectly designed home rarely happens by accident. Those kitchens that feel effortless and rooms that seem to tell a story the second you walk in? They’re usually the work of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
It’s knowing which ideas will actually work, which materials will hold up over time, and how to turn a collection of choices into a space that feels intentional. That’s where a professional interior designer comes in.
For the American Society of Interior Designers (ASID) California San Diego Chapter, the goal is to help people see interior design as more than just the finished look. Behind every well-designed space is a process built on technical expertise. Designers are educated in everything from professional software and construction details to building codes, space planning, materials, and functionality.
Courtesy of ASID
“People don’t always realize how much goes on behind the scenes,” Kirsten Recce , current president of the ASID California San Diego Chapter, says. “Our designers are not just doing furniture placement and color selection and picking out new fluffy pillows. That’s not what they’re trained for.”
ASID members bring formal education, continued learning, and industry knowledge to their projects, helping create spaces that are not only beautiful, but designed to work. A paint color that changes completely depending on the lighting. A material that looks beautiful in a showroom but doesn’t make sense for everyday life. A layout that photographs well but doesn’t function for the people living there. These are the details where professional guidance can make all the difference.
Still, one of the biggest misconceptions about hiring an interior designer is that it’s reserved for massive renovations, luxury homes, or people who already know exactly what they want. The process can feel intimidating. Where do you begin? Is a designer worth the investment? What if you only need help with one room?
ASID’s answer: start with one hour.
ASID’s Spruce Up events break down one of the biggest barriers between homeowners and professional design: knowing where to begin. Held twice a year, the community program gives homeowners the chance to work directly with an ASID designer through a one-hour, $125 consultation in their own home. Whether you’re looking for advice on furniture placement, window treatments, kitchen and bath updates, remodeling ideas, vacation rentals, color selections or something else entirely, the upcoming September 2026 event offers an approachable way to get expert guidance before committing to a full project. Signups are open through Sept. 7, with consultations taking place Sept. 21 through Oct. 31. Proceeds benefit ASID San Diego’s educational and community programs. Register here!
Courtesy of ASID
“It’s a great opportunity for people who are in that exploratory phase,” Recce says. “Maybe they’re not sure they want to hire an interior designer yet, or they think it sounds daunting or expensive. This gives them a chance to discover what working with a designer is actually like.”
Design is personal. A good designer isn’t just creating a beautiful room; they’re helping create a space that fits the way someone lives.
“We’re a resource to all of San Diego County,” Recce says. “It doesn’t cost anything to pick up the phone and call and ask. We’ll answer.”
When Kelsey and Amanda McNair opened North Park Beer Company in 2016—they knew their strengths. Kelsey was an accomplished and award-winning homebrewer several times over (his West Coast IPA Hop-Fu! has won more awards than any IPA in homebrew history). Amanda’s design sensibility and business acumen helped bring the now-signature mid-century aesthetic to life alongside Basile Studio.
They also knew their shortcomings.
“When I leased this location, I knew it had to have food,” explains McNair. But he’d never owned, run, or even worked in a restaurant. Rather than winging it, he partnered with Mastiff Kitchen, who for 10 years provided housemade sausages, giant Bavarian pretzels, chicken wings, and “pig fries” loaded with al pastor sausage, crispy pork belly, slow roasted pork, harissa aioli, cotija cheese, and cilantro.
Now, NP Beer Co’s two satellite tasting rooms have successfully launched their own food programs. In Bankers Hill, you can get one of the best smashburgers in town, plus 24-hour brined crispy chicken wings, twice-fried hand-cut cheesy bacon garlic fries, or a pulled pork sandwich on a toasted Martin’s potato roll. In its Crown Point location, McNair brought his pie obsession to life with New York-style pizza that uses Bianco di Napoli tomatoes and Ezzo pepperoni (the “cuppy” kind).
So when Mastiff’s lease came up for potential renewal, McNair decided it was time to bring the entire operation at NPBC HQ under one umbrella. For the first time, North Park Beer Company will launch its own food program at its flagship location in early June.
Director of culinary ops Sam Navarro says the menu will focus on global pub fare. “If you were going to different parts around the world and drinking beers, what would you be consuming?” he asks. In England, you could wash down a plate of fish and chips with a malty ale. In Japan, crispy chicken karaage goes marvelously with a dry Japanese lager. And tacos also go with beer—any beer.
Courtesy of North Park Beer Co.
Those will all be on the new menu, which is broken into sections for shareables (the huge space draws huge herds), salads, tacos, and mains. Highlights include the chicken karaage on Tokyo fries (Togarashi-seasoned, twice-fried Kennebec potato fries with miso aioli, tonkatsu sauce, sriracha drizzle, and topped with scallions and furikake), coconut curry fries, Nacho-Fu! nachos (with totopos chips, queso fundido, pickled jalapenos and onions, chipotle lime crema, cotija cheese, cilantro, and salsa verde)—plus vegetarian and vegan options.
Tacos range from Baja fish tacos to a traditional conchinita pibil—pork shoulder marinated for a day in its homemade adobo, then wrapped in banana leaves and roasted for a few hours, served with picked red onion, radish, and cilantro. “[We] want to be true to what it is and do it the best way possible we can, so you can take a trip to those locations around the world without leaving San Diego,” he says.
Some of the burgers are previous specials from Bankers Hill that have been “knock it out of the park hits,” says McNair, and now have a permanent place on the North Park menu. The Tokyo Smash features two smashed beef patties with Swiss cheese, ponzu-marinated and seared pork belly, miso aioli, and quick pickled cabbage. Another is the French Onion Smash with a veal-based aioli, caramelized onions, crispy fried onions, and melted cheese.“It’s like taking a bite into French onion soup in a burger,” promises Navarro.
Anyone lamenting the loss of Mastiff’s pork nugs, weep not—they’re still available at Mastiff in La Mesa and NPBC is introducing a shareable Chashu-style pork belly with maple-miso caramel, black sesame seeds, scallions, chili crisp, and pickled vegetables.
Official launch will coincide with North Park Beer Company’s 10th anniversary party on Tuesday, June 23 (soft launching beforehand). They’ll bring back some of the original beers for the shindig, including styles they haven’t brewed in eons.
“It feels natural to do this at this point in time,” he says. “This whole thing is really going to complete the vision for this location.”
Even though chef Travis Swikard has made a name for himself as one of the top chefs in the country with Callie, he’s never done a tasting menu in San Diego. He’s changing that at his new La Jolla spot Fleurette this month with Menu du Marché—a seven-course prix fixe experience in Fleurette’s Soleil Room. Based on the already-limited reservations, this one is going to go quick.
Flexibility is key when opening a new business, and who knows better than Victoria O’Bryan? The former wine director for three-star Michelin Addison announced her eagerly awaited wine shop and bar Electric Wines last year. Now they’ve shifted its opening location from Park Boulevard to 4644 30th Street (the former Lovesick Chapel space). Hopefully, this means she’s one step closer to opening, because I am ready to put myself in her expert hands.
North County is about to get a little more caffeinated. Ritzy Roast Coffee Company is opening this summer at 1830 Rancho del Oro, Suite 140 in Oceanside, just a hop and skip away from Frontwave Arena. Its Instagram promises that gelato will also be on the menu.
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.
If you lived in or around San Diego in the early ’90s, there’s a good chance you remember the legendary breadsticks at Pat & Oscar’s. Yes, I’m talking about those warm, glorious, soft, bizarrely addictive breadsticks served fresh to order with a side of dipping sauce that no one could resist. Gluten intolerance be damned.
I’m sure adults of that era ordered reasonable amounts of breadsticks and conducted themselves with at least the appearance of manners. But if you were between middle and high school age, it’s more likely you ripped through heaps of them like a pack of starving piranhas fighting over an abandoned carcass. It’s not like the restaurant was going to run out of them, but what if they did? Worst case scenario.
The breadsticks were the reason many people went to Pat & Oscar’s and what many people remember most after Sizzler bought the concept in 2000 and basically sucked the magic out of the family-owned business.
If your inner breadstick fiend hasn’t felt that same satisfaction in the better part of 30 years, prepare your salivary glands for a walk down memory lane. They still exist, and are ready to be devoured—straight from the Encontro kitchen in North Park.
Around 10 years ago, Encontro chef and owner Jason Hotchkiss catered the 60th anniversary party for Pat and Oscar Sarkisian—yes, that Pat and Oscar. Their son John was Hotchkiss’ business partner (and the original owner of Encontro before Hotchkiss and his sister Linde bought it in 2019) and helped design and set up some of the Sarkisian family restaurants. Rather than relegate Pat & Oscar’s classic recipes to the black hole of restaurant recipes lost in time, John had given some of them to Hotchkiss, who, somewhat nervously, decided to make the breadsticks for the party.
“Oscar’s eating the bread, and he goes, ‘Oh, my God, where’d you get this recipe?’” he recalls. “I said, ‘It’s yours.’ And he said, ‘No, this is much better.’”
Oscar would know—Encontro’s version is (mostly) true to the original in that it’s still all the same ingredients and cooked fresh to order, but pumped up with a bit more yeast, extra sea salt sprinkled on top, and served with a side of truffle or honey butter. But to guests yearning to relive the era of dial-up internet and Beanie Baby mania, Encontro’s golden buttery braid is a welcome (and incredibly close) re-creation.
To this day, Hotchkiss has guests who come in just for the bread and the memories it sparks—things like Little League parties, post-soccer game hangouts, family dinners, dates, and other formative experiences.
“People come in and they’re like, ‘Oh, my God, I can’t believe this. This brings back so many different memories that I have,’” he says. “I love being a part of that.”
Before influencers, foodie culture, and iPhones capturing every meal we eat, family-run restaurants like Pat & Oscar’s were local treasures. This is probably the closest you’ll ever get to those bygone days of breadstick glory. That is, unless you hike up to the only other place you can still find the original breadsticks—the last remaining Sarkisian family business, Oscar’s Brewing Company in Temecula. (Hilariously, the URL breadstick.com literally redirects to the Oscar’s Brewing Company website.) So if you’re ready to time-travel to the past via a portal of buttered, braided bread, Encontro has you covered.
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.
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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