Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

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

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. 

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.”

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San Diego Restaurant News & Food Events

Beth’s Bites

• 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.

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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.

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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.

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The neon lights of Pekin Cafe Chop Suey restaurant in North Park have gone unlit for seven years. During that span, the neighborhood has seen massive changes—some good (the iconic New Orleans-style building on 30th finally got a new tenant), some marquee (top chef Brad Wise opened his French steakhouse), some mixed bag (the bike lane debate continues), and some bad (massive rent increases). 

But come December, if things go well, the landmark sign will light up once more to mark the opening of Chop Suey Lounge & Ginger Roots, a new take on the historic space from founding partners Jacquelyn Kelly and Jason Bess.

When the Fong family first opened The Pekin Cafe in 1931, chop suey was a dish on the rise. During the Gold Rush of 1848-1855, at least 20,000 Chinese immigrants came to California to work as miners and build the Central Pacific Railroad. When California began charging non-U.S. citizens extra fees to continue mining for gold, many immigrants began settling elsewhere or opening other businesses, like laundromats, pharmacies, and yes—restaurants. 

But when President Chester A. Arthur passed the wildly racist Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882 to restrict Chinese laborers from entering the U.S. (which wouldn’t be repealed until 1943), merchants figured out an ingenious loophole. By opening restaurants and rotating management responsibilities, new arrivals became eligible for merchant visas, completely avoiding the labor designation (and thus, the exclusion act). It was known as the “Lo Mein Loophole.” 

This fueled a huge boom of Chinese restaurants, especially in New York City and the West Coast. To accommodate a variety of Chinese and American palates, these new restaurateurs began to offer a mix of nostalgic dishes from back home as well as fusion dishes to appeal to a wider audience. 

An entirely new Chinese-American cuisine was born.

Chop suey, which roughly translates to “mixed pieces” or “odds and ends,” either originated in New York City or San Francisco, depending on who you ask. Either way, it’s a Chinese-American invention—meat and eggs mixed with vegetables over rice and topped with a thick, gravy-like sauce. It’s been so popular since the mid-19th century that the Fongs decided to plaster it on the front of their North Park building in even bigger letters than the actual name of the restaurant (which was later renamed The Peking Cafe). 

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From 1931 to 2019, three generations of the Fong family served old-school Chinese-American classics in an interior lit by tasseled palace lanterns—which only half-illuminated a collection of squeaky red high-backed booths. When the last generation retired, the family held onto the space, waiting for the right successor to come along. They found it in Kelly and Bess.

The pair describe the dual concept as an elevated lounge vibe in the front (Chop Suey Lounge) and private chef’s table tasting menu experience in the back (Ginger Roots). Kelly has over 15 years of experience in hospitality, including eight years at CH Projects with multiple stints as a general manager and director of operations. 

“We met the Fong family, and it was just like, ‘Oh my God How can we preserve this and tack on to their legacy that they’ve already had for 88 years?’” she says. “[This] combines everything I love”—like first-time ownership, the ability to reimagine an icon, and the chance to mix high-end food and cocktails with entertainment by acquiring a space with a cabaret license. 

Bess’ background is in construction. They’re working with interior designer Sally Rodrigues of Crave Design Company and architect Chris Bord from Room & Bord to rebuild the 3,500-square-foot space. For food, the vision is to serve upscale, Chinese-inspired finger foods in the front mid-century lounge space—along with live music and entertainment. In the reservation-only chef’s table at Ginger Roots, guests will get a different Pan-Asian-inspired tasting menu.

Neither one is of Asian descent, but both express a lifelong enthusiasm for Chinese-American food that started when they were growing up in New York. Figuring out a way to honor both the legacy of the space and the history of Chinese-American culinary tradition in a respectful way is their biggest challenge, Bess admits, but doing a lot of research “and finding strategic partners to help us do that was really key.” 

At the very least, it feels like a full circle moment. For Chop Suey in particular, to once more have the opportunity to act as a conduit of culture convergence to create something familiar, yet completely new. (Just please keep at least some of the red booths, please.) 

Chop Suey Lounge & Ginger Roots opens December 2026 at 2877 University Avenue in North Park.

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