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"content": "\u003cp>It was one of the most Taiwanese things I’d ever seen in the Bay: a crowd of hungry people lined up in front of a long, makeshift charcoal grill on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13901982/good-to-eat-dumplings-new-taiwanese-restaurant-emeryville\">Good to Eat Dumplings\u003c/a>’ string light–bedecked side patio, everyone gawking at the huge-ass chicken cutlets and Taiwanese sausages charring and sizzling over the flames. More than anything, what hit me was the distinctive smell of \u003ca href=\"https://tastecooking.com/there-is-no-substitute-for-shacha-sauce/\">shacha\u003c/a>, aka Taiwanese barbecue sauce, wafting through the air, smoky and a little bit spicy, undergirded with the pungency of dried fish — a smell intimately familiar to anyone who’s ever strolled through a Taiwanese night market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We missed that shacha-filled aroma,” says Angie Lin, who runs Good to Eat Dumplings along with her wife Tony Tung, the restaurant’s chef. “It made all of us so excited.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last September’s Taiwanese-style barbecue event at Good to Eat was probably \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13921917/best-dishes-bay-area-2022\">my favorite food event of the year\u003c/a>. This weekend, the Emeryville restaurant is running it back, this time for two nights — \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CvAqlQeyzLd/?img_index=1\">July 29 and 30\u003c/a> — instead of one, in hopes of satisfying what wound up being a huge demand. As it turns out, Lin and Tung weren’t the only ones nostalgic for Taiwanese barbecue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932058\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932058\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line.jpg\" alt=\"A line of customers waiting in front of a charcoal grill, where various Taiwanese barbecue items are cooking.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ambiance at Good to Eat’s inaugural Taiwanese BBQ event evoked a typical Taiwanese street food scene. \u003ccite>(Luke Tsai)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The inaugural edition of the event took place during the Mid-Autumn Festival, which for Taiwanese people is probably even more closely associated with outdoor grilling than the Fourth of July is for Americans. As Lin explains it, people in Taiwan have always loved grilling outdoors, but it became codified as a national pastime of sorts in the early ’80s, when a barbecue sauce company launched a big advertising campaign during the lead-up to Mid-Autumn Festival. Lin remembers TV commercials that emphasized how nice it was to sit and chat in the park while skewers of marinated meat sizzled on the grill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“For Taiwanese people, you need to get together [for Mid-Autumn Festival] anyway,” she says. “You want to stay outside to enjoy mooncake and watch the full moon. And during that whole season, the temperature in Taiwan is just right.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, almost everyone grills for Mid-Autumn Festival — and, really, all throughout the relatively cool and comfortable fall months. But Taiwanese grilling culture is a different beast from how most Americans think of grilling. The grills are small and portable, and the cuts of meat tend to be smaller too — no one is grilling thick steaks. One of my fondest memories from living in Taiwan was when my co-workers slapped a metal grate on top of the rim of a car tire for an impromptu grilling session. Squatting on the sidewalk while you devour a fistful of shacha-slathered meat skewers: That’s the quintessential Taiwanese experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932059\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn.jpg\" alt=\"Four ears of sauce-slathered corn cook on a grill.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Grilled corn slathered in shacha sauce is a Taiwanese street food classic. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Good to Eat Dumplings)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Then, there’s the unique Taiwanese taste. For many Americans, “barbecue sauce” tends to connote a sweet and tangy tomato- or vinegar-based condiment. Taiwanese shacha, on the other hand, is soy sauce–based, seasoned with an assortment of intensely flavored spices, aromatics and, usually, dried brill fish and dried shrimp. It’s a cousin of Southeast Asian satay, Lin explains — very savory and loaded with umami.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13897936,arts_13901982,arts_13915306']\u003c/span>Mid-Autumn Festival falls on Sept. 29 this year, but Lin and Tung figured they’d kick off their grilling season a little bit early. So, this weekend’s event will feature several staples of Taiwanese barbecue and night market culture. There will be grilled chicken cutlets or pork chops (they’re still deciding), corn on the cob, fish balls, fish cakes, pork blood cakes and foil packets filled with vegetables and mushrooms. Most of the items will get a liberal brush of shacha before they’re thrown onto the grill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each $55 ticket will buy you six tokens that you can use at various stations at the event — two tokens for a larger main course and one token for almost everything else. The idea, Lin says, is for each ticket to provide for a full, and very filling, meal for one person: say, a big, juicy grilled chicken cutlet, a couple of side dishes, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897498/mama-liu-lu-rou-fan-taiwanese-food-comic\">bowl of lu rou fan\u003c/a> and a cold beer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many of the items will be new to diners whose only exposure to Taiwanese food is boba or popcorn chicken or beef noodle soup — the handful of dishes that have \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897272/bay-area-taiwanese-food-scene-nostalgia\">gotten mainstream exposure\u003c/a>. And, really, what sets Good to Eat apart from the bulk of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897936/best-taiwanese-restaurants-sf-oakland-cupertino-bay-area\">Bay Area’s Taiwanese restaurants\u003c/a> is Lin and Tung’s commitment to sharing their love of the culture with their customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932060\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932060\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage.jpg\" alt=\"Skewers of zucchini and Taiwanese sausage in a metal tray.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Not only will guests be able to eat these sausages, they’ll be able to gamble for them too. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Good to Eat Dumplings)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Toward that end, they’ve added another fun wrinkle to this barbecue event: a Taiwanese sausage station where they’ll not only introduce diners to plump, sweet Taiwanese sausages but also to the very Taiwanese game of sausage \u003ci>gambling\u003c/i>. At every traditional sausage stand in Taiwan, Lin explains, they’ll always have a bowl with four dice and the option to bet against the sausage stand owner. If you get a lucky roll? “You can win a lot of sausages.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“For us, it’s not for gambling; it’s more for fun,” Lin says. Guests at this weekend’s event are sure to walk away with full stomachs — and, if they’re lucky, they might even get three sausages for the price of one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Good to Eat Dumplings (1298 65th St., Emeryville) will host its Taiwanese barbecue event on Sat., July 29 and Sunday, July 30, from 4:30–9:30 p.m. \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.goodtoeatdumplings.com/events\">\u003ci>Tickets for specific time slots are available online\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> (and are expected to sell out early).\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>It was one of the most Taiwanese things I’d ever seen in the Bay: a crowd of hungry people lined up in front of a long, makeshift charcoal grill on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13901982/good-to-eat-dumplings-new-taiwanese-restaurant-emeryville\">Good to Eat Dumplings\u003c/a>’ string light–bedecked side patio, everyone gawking at the huge-ass chicken cutlets and Taiwanese sausages charring and sizzling over the flames. More than anything, what hit me was the distinctive smell of \u003ca href=\"https://tastecooking.com/there-is-no-substitute-for-shacha-sauce/\">shacha\u003c/a>, aka Taiwanese barbecue sauce, wafting through the air, smoky and a little bit spicy, undergirded with the pungency of dried fish — a smell intimately familiar to anyone who’s ever strolled through a Taiwanese night market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We missed that shacha-filled aroma,” says Angie Lin, who runs Good to Eat Dumplings along with her wife Tony Tung, the restaurant’s chef. “It made all of us so excited.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last September’s Taiwanese-style barbecue event at Good to Eat was probably \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13921917/best-dishes-bay-area-2022\">my favorite food event of the year\u003c/a>. This weekend, the Emeryville restaurant is running it back, this time for two nights — \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CvAqlQeyzLd/?img_index=1\">July 29 and 30\u003c/a> — instead of one, in hopes of satisfying what wound up being a huge demand. As it turns out, Lin and Tung weren’t the only ones nostalgic for Taiwanese barbecue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932058\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932058\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line.jpg\" alt=\"A line of customers waiting in front of a charcoal grill, where various Taiwanese barbecue items are cooking.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_line-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ambiance at Good to Eat’s inaugural Taiwanese BBQ event evoked a typical Taiwanese street food scene. \u003ccite>(Luke Tsai)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The inaugural edition of the event took place during the Mid-Autumn Festival, which for Taiwanese people is probably even more closely associated with outdoor grilling than the Fourth of July is for Americans. As Lin explains it, people in Taiwan have always loved grilling outdoors, but it became codified as a national pastime of sorts in the early ’80s, when a barbecue sauce company launched a big advertising campaign during the lead-up to Mid-Autumn Festival. Lin remembers TV commercials that emphasized how nice it was to sit and chat in the park while skewers of marinated meat sizzled on the grill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“For Taiwanese people, you need to get together [for Mid-Autumn Festival] anyway,” she says. “You want to stay outside to enjoy mooncake and watch the full moon. And during that whole season, the temperature in Taiwan is just right.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, almost everyone grills for Mid-Autumn Festival — and, really, all throughout the relatively cool and comfortable fall months. But Taiwanese grilling culture is a different beast from how most Americans think of grilling. The grills are small and portable, and the cuts of meat tend to be smaller too — no one is grilling thick steaks. One of my fondest memories from living in Taiwan was when my co-workers slapped a metal grate on top of the rim of a car tire for an impromptu grilling session. Squatting on the sidewalk while you devour a fistful of shacha-slathered meat skewers: That’s the quintessential Taiwanese experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932059\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn.jpg\" alt=\"Four ears of sauce-slathered corn cook on a grill.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_corn-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Grilled corn slathered in shacha sauce is a Taiwanese street food classic. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Good to Eat Dumplings)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Then, there’s the unique Taiwanese taste. For many Americans, “barbecue sauce” tends to connote a sweet and tangy tomato- or vinegar-based condiment. Taiwanese shacha, on the other hand, is soy sauce–based, seasoned with an assortment of intensely flavored spices, aromatics and, usually, dried brill fish and dried shrimp. It’s a cousin of Southeast Asian satay, Lin explains — very savory and loaded with umami.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>Mid-Autumn Festival falls on Sept. 29 this year, but Lin and Tung figured they’d kick off their grilling season a little bit early. So, this weekend’s event will feature several staples of Taiwanese barbecue and night market culture. There will be grilled chicken cutlets or pork chops (they’re still deciding), corn on the cob, fish balls, fish cakes, pork blood cakes and foil packets filled with vegetables and mushrooms. Most of the items will get a liberal brush of shacha before they’re thrown onto the grill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each $55 ticket will buy you six tokens that you can use at various stations at the event — two tokens for a larger main course and one token for almost everything else. The idea, Lin says, is for each ticket to provide for a full, and very filling, meal for one person: say, a big, juicy grilled chicken cutlet, a couple of side dishes, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897498/mama-liu-lu-rou-fan-taiwanese-food-comic\">bowl of lu rou fan\u003c/a> and a cold beer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many of the items will be new to diners whose only exposure to Taiwanese food is boba or popcorn chicken or beef noodle soup — the handful of dishes that have \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897272/bay-area-taiwanese-food-scene-nostalgia\">gotten mainstream exposure\u003c/a>. And, really, what sets Good to Eat apart from the bulk of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897936/best-taiwanese-restaurants-sf-oakland-cupertino-bay-area\">Bay Area’s Taiwanese restaurants\u003c/a> is Lin and Tung’s commitment to sharing their love of the culture with their customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932060\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932060\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage.jpg\" alt=\"Skewers of zucchini and Taiwanese sausage in a metal tray.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/good-to-eat_sausage-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Not only will guests be able to eat these sausages, they’ll be able to gamble for them too. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Good to Eat Dumplings)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Toward that end, they’ve added another fun wrinkle to this barbecue event: a Taiwanese sausage station where they’ll not only introduce diners to plump, sweet Taiwanese sausages but also to the very Taiwanese game of sausage \u003ci>gambling\u003c/i>. At every traditional sausage stand in Taiwan, Lin explains, they’ll always have a bowl with four dice and the option to bet against the sausage stand owner. If you get a lucky roll? “You can win a lot of sausages.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“For us, it’s not for gambling; it’s more for fun,” Lin says. Guests at this weekend’s event are sure to walk away with full stomachs — and, if they’re lucky, they might even get three sausages for the price of one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Good to Eat Dumplings (1298 65th St., Emeryville) will host its Taiwanese barbecue event on Sat., July 29 and Sunday, July 30, from 4:30–9:30 p.m. \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.goodtoeatdumplings.com/events\">\u003ci>Tickets for specific time slots are available online\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> (and are expected to sell out early).\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "This Self-Taught Bay Area Pitmaster Is Slanging Saucy, Hawaiian-Inspired Barbecue",
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"content": "\u003cp>No one has ever gone to Old Oakland’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rusticales_oaklandarbor/?hl=en\">Sante Adairius\u003c/a> to grub on an island-style carnitas quesadilla. The narrow, wood-laden bar, whose quaint interior somehow reminds me of a scene from \u003ci>The\u003c/i> \u003ci>Lord of the Rings\u003c/i>, is better known for rustic ales.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But thanks to Olivier Grandvoinet and his pop-up, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/islandbaycocina/\">Island Bay Cocina\u003c/a>, it’ll be possible to combine a German Maibock-style Günther with a bite of wood-smoked, guava-and-habanero-drenched pork this Saturday afternoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The pairing may sound uncommon. That’s because Grandvoinet — a mixed-race Black man who was born in Oregon, raised in Hawaii and came of age in San Francisco’s North Beach, where he mostly befriended immigrant and first-generation Latinos while attending high school in Potrero Hill — isn’t your average mainland American. His unique upbringing shows in his hard-to-categorize recipes. One thing is consistent, though: The man loves \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">barbecuing\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I bring that Hawaiian spirit and a love for slow cooking,” says Grandvoinet. “I treat pork like it’s royalty, with the care it needs to be transformed into something special.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After leaving his career in tech to pursue full-time food making during the pandemic, Grandvoinet has committed himself to the pursuit of soulful relaxation and liberated joy through serving his community — literally. And what food provides a more hands-off, share-your-plate, kick-back-and-enjoy-life’s-leisurely-pleasures vibe than wood-smoked barbecue?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929958\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929958\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"a rack of carnitas in the smoker\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A rack of “carnitas” (which are smoked for 10 hours) being prepared for quesadillas. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Olivier G.)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Growing up, I felt a huge lack of barbecue from the Bay. Da’ Pitt on Divisadero was the best back in the day, but then it got replaced by some wack gentrified barbecue. I was bummed. I knew I needed to make some good barbecue,” Grandvoinet says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As someone who grew up in a single-parent home “eating food off EBT in a wealthy San Francisco neighborhood,” Grandvoinet became a tech worker to help his mom keep up with the rising costs of living. But after four years, Grandvoinet felt unfulfilled and tokenized in the industry. After a layoff during the pandemic, he never looked back and dove into life as an aspiring pitmaster. Like many late-twentysomethings, he used YouTube and the internet to learn his new craft. Now, Grandvoinet embraces his non-traditional approach to the pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13911062,arts_13915646,arts_13929494']\u003c/span>What does that taste like? Besides his flagship “Fat Daddy Quesadilla” (which includes the aforementioned fat-slicked carnitas, crispy jack cheese, cilantro, onions and homemade guava habanero barbecue sauce), the “Big Kahuna” is Grandvoinet’s signature plate: a grilled all-beef hot dog topped with an intimidating amount of pulled pork, island slaw and barbecue sauce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On other occasions, the chef might cook up Spam musubi (always under $5, he proudly emphasizes) or empanadas filled with chopped 14-hour brisket and diced jalapeños. Or he might serve a kalua pork sando with a side of five-cheese macaroni. And of course, he slangs hella racks of ribs, most notably at the popular San Francisco day party, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rnbandribs/?hl=en\">R&B and Ribs\u003c/a>,” where he has been one of the rotating chefs since 2022.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When he’s not working as a self-taught chef, Grandvoinet tours the Bay Area to amplify other small food businesses through his social media channel, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/oli_be_eatin/\">Oli Be Eatin\u003c/a>. His Mexican American sous chef and business partner, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/drea.eats_/\">Drea Eats\u003c/a>, also contributes to the brand with her Latinx perspective and flavors. Together, they’re eating and cooking as a way to exchange cultural flavors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929959\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929959\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-800x600.jpg\" alt='a photo of \"the Big Kahuna\" which consists of a beef hot dog topped with pulled pork and island-style coleslaw' width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The “Big Kahuna” consists of a beef hot dog topped with pulled pork and island-style slaw. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Olivier G. )\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“When I moved here [from Hawaii], I didn’t have a community to fall into. Most of my friends were Mexican American, Peruvian, Salvadoran. As a non-Latino, I never try to pose as something I’m not. But the cocina is where I learned so much about cooking — in the kitchen of my best friend’s home,” he says. \u003ci>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From starting out in an immigrant’s cocina to supplying his own food concoctions for the Bay Area’s diverse masses at various locations around the region, Grandvoinet is simply on a quest to answer his own question: “Where’s the good barbecue at?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12127869 aligncenter\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/islandbaycocina/\">\u003ci>Island Bay Cocina\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> will be at \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rusticales_oaklandarbor/\">\u003ci>Sante Adairius Oakland Arbor\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> (460 8th St., Oakland) on Sat., June 3 from 2 p.m. to 8 p.m. or until sold out. Follow on \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/islandbaycocina/\">Instagram\u003c/a> for more information on future locations and events. For catering services, contact IslandBayCocina@gmail.com.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>No one has ever gone to Old Oakland’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rusticales_oaklandarbor/?hl=en\">Sante Adairius\u003c/a> to grub on an island-style carnitas quesadilla. The narrow, wood-laden bar, whose quaint interior somehow reminds me of a scene from \u003ci>The\u003c/i> \u003ci>Lord of the Rings\u003c/i>, is better known for rustic ales.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But thanks to Olivier Grandvoinet and his pop-up, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/islandbaycocina/\">Island Bay Cocina\u003c/a>, it’ll be possible to combine a German Maibock-style Günther with a bite of wood-smoked, guava-and-habanero-drenched pork this Saturday afternoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The pairing may sound uncommon. That’s because Grandvoinet — a mixed-race Black man who was born in Oregon, raised in Hawaii and came of age in San Francisco’s North Beach, where he mostly befriended immigrant and first-generation Latinos while attending high school in Potrero Hill — isn’t your average mainland American. His unique upbringing shows in his hard-to-categorize recipes. One thing is consistent, though: The man loves \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">barbecuing\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I bring that Hawaiian spirit and a love for slow cooking,” says Grandvoinet. “I treat pork like it’s royalty, with the care it needs to be transformed into something special.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After leaving his career in tech to pursue full-time food making during the pandemic, Grandvoinet has committed himself to the pursuit of soulful relaxation and liberated joy through serving his community — literally. And what food provides a more hands-off, share-your-plate, kick-back-and-enjoy-life’s-leisurely-pleasures vibe than wood-smoked barbecue?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929958\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929958\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"a rack of carnitas in the smoker\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-carnitas.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A rack of “carnitas” (which are smoked for 10 hours) being prepared for quesadillas. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Olivier G.)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Growing up, I felt a huge lack of barbecue from the Bay. Da’ Pitt on Divisadero was the best back in the day, but then it got replaced by some wack gentrified barbecue. I was bummed. I knew I needed to make some good barbecue,” Grandvoinet says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>What does that taste like? Besides his flagship “Fat Daddy Quesadilla” (which includes the aforementioned fat-slicked carnitas, crispy jack cheese, cilantro, onions and homemade guava habanero barbecue sauce), the “Big Kahuna” is Grandvoinet’s signature plate: a grilled all-beef hot dog topped with an intimidating amount of pulled pork, island slaw and barbecue sauce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On other occasions, the chef might cook up Spam musubi (always under $5, he proudly emphasizes) or empanadas filled with chopped 14-hour brisket and diced jalapeños. Or he might serve a kalua pork sando with a side of five-cheese macaroni. And of course, he slangs hella racks of ribs, most notably at the popular San Francisco day party, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rnbandribs/?hl=en\">R&B and Ribs\u003c/a>,” where he has been one of the rotating chefs since 2022.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When he’s not working as a self-taught chef, Grandvoinet tours the Bay Area to amplify other small food businesses through his social media channel, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/oli_be_eatin/\">Oli Be Eatin\u003c/a>. His Mexican American sous chef and business partner, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/drea.eats_/\">Drea Eats\u003c/a>, also contributes to the brand with her Latinx perspective and flavors. Together, they’re eating and cooking as a way to exchange cultural flavors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929959\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929959\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-800x600.jpg\" alt='a photo of \"the Big Kahuna\" which consists of a beef hot dog topped with pulled pork and island-style coleslaw' width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/island-bay-cocina-hot-dog.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The “Big Kahuna” consists of a beef hot dog topped with pulled pork and island-style slaw. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Olivier G. )\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“When I moved here [from Hawaii], I didn’t have a community to fall into. Most of my friends were Mexican American, Peruvian, Salvadoran. As a non-Latino, I never try to pose as something I’m not. But the cocina is where I learned so much about cooking — in the kitchen of my best friend’s home,” he says. \u003ci>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From starting out in an immigrant’s cocina to supplying his own food concoctions for the Bay Area’s diverse masses at various locations around the region, Grandvoinet is simply on a quest to answer his own question: “Where’s the good barbecue at?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12127869 aligncenter\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/islandbaycocina/\">\u003ci>Island Bay Cocina\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> will be at \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rusticales_oaklandarbor/\">\u003ci>Sante Adairius Oakland Arbor\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> (460 8th St., Oakland) on Sat., June 3 from 2 p.m. to 8 p.m. or until sold out. Follow on \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/islandbaycocina/\">Instagram\u003c/a> for more information on future locations and events. For catering services, contact IslandBayCocina@gmail.com.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "No Immigrants, No Spice: An Oakland Fundraiser Celebrates the Diversity of Barbecue",
"headTitle": "No Immigrants, No Spice: An Oakland Fundraiser Celebrates the Diversity of Barbecue | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>A wafting scent of familiar food can transport someone back home faster than Dorothy’s red slippers. If I smell chicken \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicken_inasal\">inasal\u003c/a>, a form of barbecue from my island province of Iloilo, all those memories come flooding back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For immigrants like me, food is one of the ways to preserve cultural traditions and keep that connection to home alive. Whether we immigrated at will or under duress, our paths led us to America for want of building a life better than what we had. And part of what made this country the promised land was that it was this physical melting pot of cultures — all made possible, and more flavorful, by immigrants.\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13915306,arts_13915312,arts_13928085']\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the idea behind the second annual \u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bbq-without-borders-2023-tickets-593388891147\">BBQ Without Borders\u003c/a>, a food-based fundraiser that brings the community together to celebrate immigration through dance, music, art and, of course, barbecue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Did someone say lechon, kebab and yakitori?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The event — which will take place on May 13 at the Oakland Museum — is the brainchild of \u003ca href=\"https://noimmigrantsnospice.org/\">No Immigrants No Spice\u003c/a>, an Oakland-based nonprofit that supports immigrant food entrepreneurs and celebrates the diversity and joy that they bring to this country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Food is our common denominator and serves as a profound vehicle to inspire curiosity about another culture. We can learn so much about each other through the foods we eat if we do so mindfully,” says founder Vibha Gupta, an ER physician, mother and first-generation Indian American who lives in the East Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928808\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 1707px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928808\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A chef holds yakitori skewers over a Japanese charcoal grill.\" width=\"1707\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-scaled.jpg 1707w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-1365x2048.jpg 1365w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1707px) 100vw, 1707px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tadayuki Furui of San Francisco’s Family Cafe (now closed) carefully grills traditional Japanese yakitori skewers. \u003ccite>(Lara Kaur)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Gupta created the nonprofit as a response to the rise of racism and xenophobia during the Trump presidency. Laughing, she credits \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOt5SmHf2aE\">one of Trevor Noah’s stand-up routines\u003c/a> — in which he says people who hate immigrants shouldn’t be allowed to eat their food — as her inspiration. Think \u003ca href=\"https://www.thedailybeast.com/obsessed/aggretsuko-is-one-of-netflixs-best-shows-heres-the-proof\">Aggretsuko rage-screaming\u003c/a> about her boss’ abuses, but in a more humanitarian way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Gupta, nothing is more American than barbecue, a culinary tradition that has always encompassed a wide range of different cultures. After all, the word barbecue itself comes from the Arawak word “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915646/barbacoa-mejia-richmond-flea-market\">barbacoa,\u003c/a>” which refers to the wooden structure that the \u003ca href=\"https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/what-became-of-the-taino-73824867/#:~:text=Their%20world%2C%20which%20had%20its,on%20the%20island%20of%20Hispaniola\">Taino-Arawak people of the Caribbean\u003c/a> used for cooking meat many centuries ago. What most Americans think of as barbecue today is an evolution of indigenous traditions, techniques brought over to the U.S. by enslaved Africans and, more recently, a host of different immigrant influences.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What better way to celebrate American diversity, then, than through the unifying lens of barbecue?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This year’s edition of BBQ Without Borders will celebrate immigrant food traditions with roots in Cuba, India and Japan, as chefs Lilly Duran of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925774/new-west-oakland-farmers-market-healthy-foods-harvindar-singh\">Oakland’s Clandestina Cocina\u003c/a>, Ron Dumra of Hayward’s \u003ca href=\"https://wahjeewah.live/\">Wah Jee Wah\u003c/a> and Tadayuki Furui of \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/food/restaurants/article/S-F-s-charming-Family-Cafe-one-of-the-city-s-16764614.php\">Family Cafe North Beach\u003c/a> (now closed) will each showcase their own form of barbecue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928823\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1707px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928823\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Indian kebabs on a wooden board, with a plate of chutneys on the side.\" width=\"1707\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-scaled.jpg 1707w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-1365x2048.jpg 1365w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1707px) 100vw, 1707px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Wah Jee Wah chef Ron Dumra shows off a selection of his Indian-style tikka kebabs. \u003ccite>(Lara Kaur)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Duran’s menu, for instance, will feature Cuban-style whole roast pig (lechon) and grilled fish. Dumra will serve his grilled Punjabi chicken tikka kebab. And Furui will offer a selection of yakitori skewers, including grilled chicken thigh, tsukune (meatball) and rice balls. All of the chefs will offer at least one vegetarian entrée, and, to top it all off, Third Culture Bakery will provide dessert.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The three featured chefs will also serve as the inspiration for an immersive “sanctuaries” exhibit that will be set up outdoors in the Oakland Museum’s garden. Each interactive structure will show how the chefs “cultivate home.” For instance, Duran’s sacred space is an exploration of the Cuban family home. Furui’s part of the exhibit will show how he finds solace and inspiration in his sewing and woodwork studio. For Dumra, a combination of his mother’s kitchen and his father’s Indian-style grills epitomizes the meaning of home. Each sanctuary space will feature personal found objects, important mementos and photographs that provide a deeper dive into who the chefs are and what immigration has meant for them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to the delicious barbecue and heartwarming cultural celebration, BBQ Without Borders also supports a good cause. The event is a fundraising partnership with Fruitvale’s \u003ca href=\"https://unitycouncil.org/\">Unity Council\u003c/a> to raise funds to support Bay Area front-line workers, especially those whose documentation status has put them in a vulnerable position during the pandemic. This Resilience Fund supports those folks via unrestricted $500 micro-grants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Gupta puts it, “This event is a way to inspire folks through their palates — to enjoy the food but also hopefully find a deeper connection to the immigrants who contribute in innumerable and invisible ways to the social fabric of this country.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>BBQ Without Borders 2023 will take place at the Oakland Museum (1000 Oak St., Oakland) on Sat., May 13, from 5 to 9 p.m. Tickets are $32–$125 and can be purchased via \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bbq-without-borders-2023-tickets-593388891147\">\u003ci>Eventbrite\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the idea behind the second annual \u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bbq-without-borders-2023-tickets-593388891147\">BBQ Without Borders\u003c/a>, a food-based fundraiser that brings the community together to celebrate immigration through dance, music, art and, of course, barbecue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Did someone say lechon, kebab and yakitori?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The event — which will take place on May 13 at the Oakland Museum — is the brainchild of \u003ca href=\"https://noimmigrantsnospice.org/\">No Immigrants No Spice\u003c/a>, an Oakland-based nonprofit that supports immigrant food entrepreneurs and celebrates the diversity and joy that they bring to this country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Food is our common denominator and serves as a profound vehicle to inspire curiosity about another culture. We can learn so much about each other through the foods we eat if we do so mindfully,” says founder Vibha Gupta, an ER physician, mother and first-generation Indian American who lives in the East Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928808\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 1707px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928808\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A chef holds yakitori skewers over a Japanese charcoal grill.\" width=\"1707\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-scaled.jpg 1707w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/yakitori_Laura-Kaur-1365x2048.jpg 1365w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1707px) 100vw, 1707px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tadayuki Furui of San Francisco’s Family Cafe (now closed) carefully grills traditional Japanese yakitori skewers. \u003ccite>(Lara Kaur)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Gupta created the nonprofit as a response to the rise of racism and xenophobia during the Trump presidency. Laughing, she credits \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOt5SmHf2aE\">one of Trevor Noah’s stand-up routines\u003c/a> — in which he says people who hate immigrants shouldn’t be allowed to eat their food — as her inspiration. Think \u003ca href=\"https://www.thedailybeast.com/obsessed/aggretsuko-is-one-of-netflixs-best-shows-heres-the-proof\">Aggretsuko rage-screaming\u003c/a> about her boss’ abuses, but in a more humanitarian way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Gupta, nothing is more American than barbecue, a culinary tradition that has always encompassed a wide range of different cultures. After all, the word barbecue itself comes from the Arawak word “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915646/barbacoa-mejia-richmond-flea-market\">barbacoa,\u003c/a>” which refers to the wooden structure that the \u003ca href=\"https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/what-became-of-the-taino-73824867/#:~:text=Their%20world%2C%20which%20had%20its,on%20the%20island%20of%20Hispaniola\">Taino-Arawak people of the Caribbean\u003c/a> used for cooking meat many centuries ago. What most Americans think of as barbecue today is an evolution of indigenous traditions, techniques brought over to the U.S. by enslaved Africans and, more recently, a host of different immigrant influences.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What better way to celebrate American diversity, then, than through the unifying lens of barbecue?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This year’s edition of BBQ Without Borders will celebrate immigrant food traditions with roots in Cuba, India and Japan, as chefs Lilly Duran of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925774/new-west-oakland-farmers-market-healthy-foods-harvindar-singh\">Oakland’s Clandestina Cocina\u003c/a>, Ron Dumra of Hayward’s \u003ca href=\"https://wahjeewah.live/\">Wah Jee Wah\u003c/a> and Tadayuki Furui of \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/food/restaurants/article/S-F-s-charming-Family-Cafe-one-of-the-city-s-16764614.php\">Family Cafe North Beach\u003c/a> (now closed) will each showcase their own form of barbecue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928823\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1707px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928823\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Indian kebabs on a wooden board, with a plate of chutneys on the side.\" width=\"1707\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-scaled.jpg 1707w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/wah-jee-wah_lara-kaur-1365x2048.jpg 1365w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1707px) 100vw, 1707px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Wah Jee Wah chef Ron Dumra shows off a selection of his Indian-style tikka kebabs. \u003ccite>(Lara Kaur)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Duran’s menu, for instance, will feature Cuban-style whole roast pig (lechon) and grilled fish. Dumra will serve his grilled Punjabi chicken tikka kebab. And Furui will offer a selection of yakitori skewers, including grilled chicken thigh, tsukune (meatball) and rice balls. All of the chefs will offer at least one vegetarian entrée, and, to top it all off, Third Culture Bakery will provide dessert.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The three featured chefs will also serve as the inspiration for an immersive “sanctuaries” exhibit that will be set up outdoors in the Oakland Museum’s garden. Each interactive structure will show how the chefs “cultivate home.” For instance, Duran’s sacred space is an exploration of the Cuban family home. Furui’s part of the exhibit will show how he finds solace and inspiration in his sewing and woodwork studio. For Dumra, a combination of his mother’s kitchen and his father’s Indian-style grills epitomizes the meaning of home. Each sanctuary space will feature personal found objects, important mementos and photographs that provide a deeper dive into who the chefs are and what immigration has meant for them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to the delicious barbecue and heartwarming cultural celebration, BBQ Without Borders also supports a good cause. The event is a fundraising partnership with Fruitvale’s \u003ca href=\"https://unitycouncil.org/\">Unity Council\u003c/a> to raise funds to support Bay Area front-line workers, especially those whose documentation status has put them in a vulnerable position during the pandemic. This Resilience Fund supports those folks via unrestricted $500 micro-grants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Gupta puts it, “This event is a way to inspire folks through their palates — to enjoy the food but also hopefully find a deeper connection to the immigrants who contribute in innumerable and invisible ways to the social fabric of this country.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>BBQ Without Borders 2023 will take place at the Oakland Museum (1000 Oak St., Oakland) on Sat., May 13, from 5 to 9 p.m. Tickets are $32–$125 and can be purchased via \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bbq-without-borders-2023-tickets-593388891147\">\u003ci>Eventbrite\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "davey-jones-deli-sandwiches-sausalito-hella-hungry",
"title": "Davey Jones Deli is Sausalito’s Hidden Sandwich Paradise",
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"headTitle": "Davey Jones Deli is Sausalito’s Hidden Sandwich Paradise | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003ci>¡Hella Hungry! is a column about Bay Area foodmakers, exploring the region’s culinary cultures through the mouth of a first-generation local.\u003c/i>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a certain feeling of escape whenever I cross the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge into the more affluent areas of the North Bay, where ocean views extend peacefully from the base of Mount Tamalpais towards the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco’s glittered skyline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet behind every Instagram-worthy glamour shot in these high-end destinations, there’s also a blue-collar grit: sailors, dock workers, immigrants, farm laborers, wanderers and the general working class who’ve taken refuge away from the larger nearby cities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davey Jones Deli is an example of that — an old-school sandwich shop inside a Sausalito liquor store on the literal edge of land, founded by a man who lives on a boat. It’s where the “waterfront people” go to eat, stock up on fishing supplies and pick up their favorite alcohols. It’s not exactly where you’d expect to find some of the North Bay’s best sandos. But it’s where X marks the spot, and for much of the Bay Area, this quirky nautical eatery is only a short drive (or ferry ride) away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The veteran sandwich maker and owner, David “Davey Jones” Johnson, is more seaman than landwalker, and perhaps the friendliest pirate soul you’ll ever meet. (He might even draw you a map of the area and label it a “treasure map,” divulging his favorite locations for local walks with ocean views).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m a part of the waterfront, the working waterfront,” he says. “People live on boats and work with their hands. And then there’s the wealth of the hills. But this is part of the waterfront here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside the shop you can explore crab traps, octopus hooks, snatch swivels, rope and an array of other fishermen’s equipment while waiting to load up on a barbecue brisket sandwich or veggie delight stuffed between sourdough. Afterward, it’s worth wandering around the surrounding area to enjoy the nearby vistas for an ideal lunch. Trust me, even if the treasure isn’t the kind that pirates bury, those views are worth the trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927895\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927895\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop.jpg\" alt=\"A cook prepares a sandwich in a deli kitchen\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-1020x638.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-768x480.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-1536x960.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">David Johnson, the owner of Davey Jones Deli, prepares a sandwich. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Here’s the skinny on how this sailor built a paradise for sandwich lovers in an unlikely hideout.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This interview has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: center\">\u003ci>********\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Chazaro: So Davey Jones isn’t your name, huh? Where did that come from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>David Johnson:\u003c/b> Growing up I was David. Dave sounded too much like a farmer from Iowa, where I grew up. After college, I spent four years in South Africa, working. My partner was a fisherman, I was a sailor. We were running a bar in a jungle. He asked me if I’d met Davey Jones. I just said yeah, that I did. So everyone started calling me that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You ran a bar in a jungle?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, it was wild. My buddy was building a community and he wanted to create something for backpackers. I just wanted to hang around. We helped out by taking the tourist money and giving it back to the community. I imported my food and sold a lot of local fish. We had a little fish market with peanuts and fruits and things. Off the grid. Heated our own water. We had a hundred people using toilets and showers. We’d compost everything and work with the locals and became self-sustainable. We talk about organic food in the U.S.? That was no comparison. That experience taught me about DIY, build it yourself. Use what you got. The deli is like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927899\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13927899 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"an employee at Davey Jones Deli prepares a whole roasted turkey\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-1365x2048.jpg 1365w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-scaled.jpg 1707w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An employee at Davey Jones Deli prepares a whole roasted turkey before the lunch hour rush arrives. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You’ve been operating Davey Jones Deli for 13 years now — how did that happen? How did you end up in Sausalito? \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I kept going back to boating, tried to live in New Orleans, Milwaukee, always on a boat in places that had water. The Great Lakes. All up and down the East Coast. Prince Edward Islands. Boston, Philly, Charleston. The great East Coast cities by the sea. At one point, in 2009, I was working on a yacht in Yoruba. I was on Facebook and got connected to my best friend from high school, who’s now my wife. She was living on a houseboat in Sausalito. I’d never considered it and had never been [to San Francisco]. I said, why not?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, I had no idea where I was. I didn’t know Sausalito was a rich city. I just knew there were farms, and I used that to my advantage. I found a reasonable houseboat situation, and my plan was to just sell soup to my neighbors, which I did for a while. [At the time] I would just be breezing through the bait shop to buy firewood, and the owner approached me to run his deli one day. I never noticed it before, to be honest; the lights were always off. It was covered in grease, and I just laughed it off and didn’t take it seriously. But after thinking about it, I went back. I decided to run it my own way, with poetic license. I was a chef at the time. My personal clients were not happy since they thought it was gross. They thought I’d spend a couple of years there and attract investors and just move on, but it has been so comfortable and I’ve been here ever since. I walk to work and it’s a super diverse community — one of the most racially diverse spots in southern Marin. I like that East Coast bodega vibe. It’s loud, fun, unlikely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>When did your passion for food making begin?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started while working on educational tall ships. There’s one in Sausalito called the Matthew Turner. We take students and scientists out. I actually have a degree in Environmental Science, and I wanted to be a captain at one point. But this one time, we had a terrible cook, and it just destroyed our bodies (laughs). I took over and served some healthier organic foods and inadvertently became a sea cook. It’s tricky with our budget — there isn’t much money in nonprofit, educational tall ships. A lot of wheeling and dealing in port towns. You get creative — meeting fishermen, getting clammers and steamers by trades, finding unlikely food places.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927898\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927898\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-800x533.jpg\" alt='a handdrawn \"treasure map\" with local sites to visit' width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Johnson’s hand-drawn ‘treasure map.’ \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Did you have any cooking experience before that?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I cooked my way through college. I didn’t just work anywhere. I was interested in particular scenes and worked my way through some cool restaurants. I picked up knife skills, things like that. I had \u003ci>The Joy of Cooking\u003c/i> memorized by the time I was on the sea. I started working at a vegetarian restaurant back then near the university. Imagine quinoa in Iowa in ‘98. Seitan burritos. Things like that. It’s not like today. We were next to a university, and here I am in the courtyard serving shiitake corn soup and people are asking me about sodium. We had some really challenging customers. But you take that to sea. You can’t have everything you want. And food should make you feel well emotionally, spiritually, economically, physically — you shouldn’t live on a militant diet forever. Chicken dumplings will get you right, know what I mean?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927942\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1707px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927942\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A middle-aged woman in glasses stands behind sa deli counter, her blonde hair tied in a bun.\" width=\"1707\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-scaled.jpg 1707w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-1365x2048.jpg 1365w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1707px) 100vw, 1707px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A deli employee is ready take down a sandwich order. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We’re here to nourish people and give. It’s all about giving. Whoever is trying to prove themselves with food, I’m not interested. My 75-year-old neighbor will roast the hell out of a chicken, that’s what I’m into. The best food is at home, hands down. I only go to restaurants when I’m lazy or for social reasons, maybe the food makes me feel good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.331fish.com/\">Fish\u003c/a> — that’s a restaurant here in Sausalito — it makes me feel amazing. It’s sustainable with crazy views, but don’t go in the middle of a rush. Hit that up in the side hours.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You have creatively named sandwiches on \u003c/b>\u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyjonesdeli.com/menu\">\u003cb>your menu\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cb> with a notable array of options — from the housemade hummus in the “Vulcan Wrap” to the veggielicious “Kerouwhack” or the BBQ brisket and bacon in the “Mr. L.” Where do these original names and ideas come from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hate sandwiches named after famous people like athletes (laughs). These are named after staff workers and former employees. Each one reminds me of them. Mr. L was a staff member here, who was re-entering society. He would just make sandwiches. Kerouwahck came from a fun guy, Pinky — he wanted to become a vegetarian, so he made that [sandwich] as a savory and sweet affair. These workers pretty much invented the sandwiches themselves using my kits. Some of them were jokes. A guy came in the door once and stared at all the ingredients on the menu for about 10 minutes, then ordered his sandwich. We named it after him, and will name them [after customers] if they’re fucking clever. [That particular customer] just looked like someone’s uncle, so that’s what we named it “Uncle’s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We only have two rules here. Rule #1: no fire, no fryer. Rule #2: no additives or preservatives. That’s why we’re not in the salami game. I like it, but it’s not very healthy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927900\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927900\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap.jpg\" alt=\"David Johnson prepares a vegan wrap in his deli's kitchen\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Johnson prepares a vegan ‘Vulcan Wrap,’ the most popular item on the menu. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>San Francisco is famous for its sourdough loaves. Where does Davey Jones get bread from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our local bakery is \u003ca href=\"https://www.cbsnews.com/sanfrancisco/news/san-rafael-bakery-celebrates-100-years-of-making-sourdough/\">Bordenave [a 105-year-old bakery in San Rafael]\u003c/a>. Their bread is local; they’re our neighbors. Sourdough rolls are hard, and if we’re putting 16 ingredients in, it just squishes out. We rip most of the bread out of the middle to add more spinach, sprouts, cucumbers, nutrients. We can stuff delicious veggies over the bread. [Bread is] just a wrapper. The business of sandwiches is an expression of self. Dr. Jones is a bit different — we don’t do sandwiches at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What’s Dr. Jones?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s private catering I do on beaches, barbecues on the waterfront or on boats, picnics on Angel Island, that sort of stuff. I do it all around Sonoma, Napa — outdoor cooking. The deli can only pay my bills, and I like to travel internationally, so I like to cater. We have a website called \u003ca href=\"https://www.portandprovisions.com/\">Port and Provisions\u003c/a> that just highlights our catering cohort, nothing serious. We don’t answer emails or phones. I just like being an outdoor chef. It’s not a company, just me and some chef friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"David Johnson\"]“One night, I was working late and the sandwich gods whispered in my ear and said, ‘Bro, you’re a sandwich deli.’ When the sandwich gods speak directly to you, you listen.”[/pullquote]\u003cb>What’s the secret for making a perfect Bay Area sandwich?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, here’s a secret: Sandwiches are not really a passion of mine. I make them a lot when I travel, especially at my mom’s house. It’s lazy food. There are sandwich aficionados on Instagram, and I love that they love it that much. But I don’t go out of my way for a sandwich. When I was trying to figure out what the deli was, I was doing smoothies, porridge, quiche, lasagnas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One night, I was working late and the sandwich gods whispered in my ear and said, “Bro, you’re a sandwich deli.” When the sandwich gods speak directly to you, you listen. At that point, I started to wonder about the world’s best sandwiches: the Reuben, Cuban, so on. I started out making the famous ones. I got busier and had too many ingredients so had to pare it down. We have no fire, no frying, no additives here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927897\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13927897 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_fishing_720.jpg\" alt=\"an array of fishermen's supplies available inside a liquor store in Sausalito\" width=\"720\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_fishing_720.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_fishing_720-160x107.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An array of fishermen’s supplies are available inside New Bait Shop Market. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13926749,arts_13909648,arts_13899700']\u003c/span>It’s not really about the sandwiches; I’m just a pretty good cook, and I’m nice to my people, and that is more magic than anything. I thought I might work in environmental remediation or environmental justice at one point but got no responses to any of the several hundred applications I sent out. It was like a “whoops” when I became a chef. It’s been comfy though — no commute, space for my catering. [The food industry] can be very brutal, so I have to also take care of myself. Watching those rotator cuffs (laughs).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Immigrants come here and build a restaurant or work in kitchens, and we [Americans] tell our kids that it’s not honorable to sweep or mop — that being in food isn’t honorable. But my uncle once told me that the only honorable work on this planet is food — farming — and it’s true. They’re the only real producers. Everyone else is just taking and being a user. I don’t think there’s any honor in the craft of charging subscription fees (laughs). I’d just like people to honor chefs and the kitchen rather than hoping kids can do something better. Food is our first basic need.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12127869 aligncenter\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"http://www.daveyjonesdeli.com/\">Davey Jones Deli\u003c/a> is located inside New Bait Shop Market (1 Gate 6 Rd., Sausalito). The deli is open daily from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. (or until sold out). \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003ci>¡Hella Hungry! is a column about Bay Area foodmakers, exploring the region’s culinary cultures through the mouth of a first-generation local.\u003c/i>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a certain feeling of escape whenever I cross the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge into the more affluent areas of the North Bay, where ocean views extend peacefully from the base of Mount Tamalpais towards the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco’s glittered skyline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet behind every Instagram-worthy glamour shot in these high-end destinations, there’s also a blue-collar grit: sailors, dock workers, immigrants, farm laborers, wanderers and the general working class who’ve taken refuge away from the larger nearby cities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davey Jones Deli is an example of that — an old-school sandwich shop inside a Sausalito liquor store on the literal edge of land, founded by a man who lives on a boat. It’s where the “waterfront people” go to eat, stock up on fishing supplies and pick up their favorite alcohols. It’s not exactly where you’d expect to find some of the North Bay’s best sandos. But it’s where X marks the spot, and for much of the Bay Area, this quirky nautical eatery is only a short drive (or ferry ride) away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The veteran sandwich maker and owner, David “Davey Jones” Johnson, is more seaman than landwalker, and perhaps the friendliest pirate soul you’ll ever meet. (He might even draw you a map of the area and label it a “treasure map,” divulging his favorite locations for local walks with ocean views).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m a part of the waterfront, the working waterfront,” he says. “People live on boats and work with their hands. And then there’s the wealth of the hills. But this is part of the waterfront here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside the shop you can explore crab traps, octopus hooks, snatch swivels, rope and an array of other fishermen’s equipment while waiting to load up on a barbecue brisket sandwich or veggie delight stuffed between sourdough. Afterward, it’s worth wandering around the surrounding area to enjoy the nearby vistas for an ideal lunch. Trust me, even if the treasure isn’t the kind that pirates bury, those views are worth the trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927895\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927895\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop.jpg\" alt=\"A cook prepares a sandwich in a deli kitchen\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-1020x638.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-768x480.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_david_johnson_crop-1536x960.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">David Johnson, the owner of Davey Jones Deli, prepares a sandwich. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Here’s the skinny on how this sailor built a paradise for sandwich lovers in an unlikely hideout.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This interview has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: center\">\u003ci>********\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Alan Chazaro: So Davey Jones isn’t your name, huh? Where did that come from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>David Johnson:\u003c/b> Growing up I was David. Dave sounded too much like a farmer from Iowa, where I grew up. After college, I spent four years in South Africa, working. My partner was a fisherman, I was a sailor. We were running a bar in a jungle. He asked me if I’d met Davey Jones. I just said yeah, that I did. So everyone started calling me that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You ran a bar in a jungle?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, it was wild. My buddy was building a community and he wanted to create something for backpackers. I just wanted to hang around. We helped out by taking the tourist money and giving it back to the community. I imported my food and sold a lot of local fish. We had a little fish market with peanuts and fruits and things. Off the grid. Heated our own water. We had a hundred people using toilets and showers. We’d compost everything and work with the locals and became self-sustainable. We talk about organic food in the U.S.? That was no comparison. That experience taught me about DIY, build it yourself. Use what you got. The deli is like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927899\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13927899 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"an employee at Davey Jones Deli prepares a whole roasted turkey\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-1365x2048.jpg 1365w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_turkey-scaled.jpg 1707w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An employee at Davey Jones Deli prepares a whole roasted turkey before the lunch hour rush arrives. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You’ve been operating Davey Jones Deli for 13 years now — how did that happen? How did you end up in Sausalito? \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I kept going back to boating, tried to live in New Orleans, Milwaukee, always on a boat in places that had water. The Great Lakes. All up and down the East Coast. Prince Edward Islands. Boston, Philly, Charleston. The great East Coast cities by the sea. At one point, in 2009, I was working on a yacht in Yoruba. I was on Facebook and got connected to my best friend from high school, who’s now my wife. She was living on a houseboat in Sausalito. I’d never considered it and had never been [to San Francisco]. I said, why not?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, I had no idea where I was. I didn’t know Sausalito was a rich city. I just knew there were farms, and I used that to my advantage. I found a reasonable houseboat situation, and my plan was to just sell soup to my neighbors, which I did for a while. [At the time] I would just be breezing through the bait shop to buy firewood, and the owner approached me to run his deli one day. I never noticed it before, to be honest; the lights were always off. It was covered in grease, and I just laughed it off and didn’t take it seriously. But after thinking about it, I went back. I decided to run it my own way, with poetic license. I was a chef at the time. My personal clients were not happy since they thought it was gross. They thought I’d spend a couple of years there and attract investors and just move on, but it has been so comfortable and I’ve been here ever since. I walk to work and it’s a super diverse community — one of the most racially diverse spots in southern Marin. I like that East Coast bodega vibe. It’s loud, fun, unlikely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>When did your passion for food making begin?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started while working on educational tall ships. There’s one in Sausalito called the Matthew Turner. We take students and scientists out. I actually have a degree in Environmental Science, and I wanted to be a captain at one point. But this one time, we had a terrible cook, and it just destroyed our bodies (laughs). I took over and served some healthier organic foods and inadvertently became a sea cook. It’s tricky with our budget — there isn’t much money in nonprofit, educational tall ships. A lot of wheeling and dealing in port towns. You get creative — meeting fishermen, getting clammers and steamers by trades, finding unlikely food places.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927898\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927898\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-800x533.jpg\" alt='a handdrawn \"treasure map\" with local sites to visit' width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_map.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Johnson’s hand-drawn ‘treasure map.’ \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Did you have any cooking experience before that?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I cooked my way through college. I didn’t just work anywhere. I was interested in particular scenes and worked my way through some cool restaurants. I picked up knife skills, things like that. I had \u003ci>The Joy of Cooking\u003c/i> memorized by the time I was on the sea. I started working at a vegetarian restaurant back then near the university. Imagine quinoa in Iowa in ‘98. Seitan burritos. Things like that. It’s not like today. We were next to a university, and here I am in the courtyard serving shiitake corn soup and people are asking me about sodium. We had some really challenging customers. But you take that to sea. You can’t have everything you want. And food should make you feel well emotionally, spiritually, economically, physically — you shouldn’t live on a militant diet forever. Chicken dumplings will get you right, know what I mean?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927942\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1707px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927942\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A middle-aged woman in glasses stands behind sa deli counter, her blonde hair tied in a bun.\" width=\"1707\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-scaled.jpg 1707w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey-jones_worker-1365x2048.jpg 1365w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1707px) 100vw, 1707px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A deli employee is ready take down a sandwich order. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We’re here to nourish people and give. It’s all about giving. Whoever is trying to prove themselves with food, I’m not interested. My 75-year-old neighbor will roast the hell out of a chicken, that’s what I’m into. The best food is at home, hands down. I only go to restaurants when I’m lazy or for social reasons, maybe the food makes me feel good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.331fish.com/\">Fish\u003c/a> — that’s a restaurant here in Sausalito — it makes me feel amazing. It’s sustainable with crazy views, but don’t go in the middle of a rush. Hit that up in the side hours.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You have creatively named sandwiches on \u003c/b>\u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyjonesdeli.com/menu\">\u003cb>your menu\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cb> with a notable array of options — from the housemade hummus in the “Vulcan Wrap” to the veggielicious “Kerouwhack” or the BBQ brisket and bacon in the “Mr. L.” Where do these original names and ideas come from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hate sandwiches named after famous people like athletes (laughs). These are named after staff workers and former employees. Each one reminds me of them. Mr. L was a staff member here, who was re-entering society. He would just make sandwiches. Kerouwahck came from a fun guy, Pinky — he wanted to become a vegetarian, so he made that [sandwich] as a savory and sweet affair. These workers pretty much invented the sandwiches themselves using my kits. Some of them were jokes. A guy came in the door once and stared at all the ingredients on the menu for about 10 minutes, then ordered his sandwich. We named it after him, and will name them [after customers] if they’re fucking clever. [That particular customer] just looked like someone’s uncle, so that’s what we named it “Uncle’s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We only have two rules here. Rule #1: no fire, no fryer. Rule #2: no additives or preservatives. That’s why we’re not in the salami game. I like it, but it’s not very healthy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927900\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927900\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap.jpg\" alt=\"David Johnson prepares a vegan wrap in his deli's kitchen\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_wrap-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Johnson prepares a vegan ‘Vulcan Wrap,’ the most popular item on the menu. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>San Francisco is famous for its sourdough loaves. Where does Davey Jones get bread from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our local bakery is \u003ca href=\"https://www.cbsnews.com/sanfrancisco/news/san-rafael-bakery-celebrates-100-years-of-making-sourdough/\">Bordenave [a 105-year-old bakery in San Rafael]\u003c/a>. Their bread is local; they’re our neighbors. Sourdough rolls are hard, and if we’re putting 16 ingredients in, it just squishes out. We rip most of the bread out of the middle to add more spinach, sprouts, cucumbers, nutrients. We can stuff delicious veggies over the bread. [Bread is] just a wrapper. The business of sandwiches is an expression of self. Dr. Jones is a bit different — we don’t do sandwiches at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What’s Dr. Jones?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s private catering I do on beaches, barbecues on the waterfront or on boats, picnics on Angel Island, that sort of stuff. I do it all around Sonoma, Napa — outdoor cooking. The deli can only pay my bills, and I like to travel internationally, so I like to cater. We have a website called \u003ca href=\"https://www.portandprovisions.com/\">Port and Provisions\u003c/a> that just highlights our catering cohort, nothing serious. We don’t answer emails or phones. I just like being an outdoor chef. It’s not a company, just me and some chef friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cb>What’s the secret for making a perfect Bay Area sandwich?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, here’s a secret: Sandwiches are not really a passion of mine. I make them a lot when I travel, especially at my mom’s house. It’s lazy food. There are sandwich aficionados on Instagram, and I love that they love it that much. But I don’t go out of my way for a sandwich. When I was trying to figure out what the deli was, I was doing smoothies, porridge, quiche, lasagnas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One night, I was working late and the sandwich gods whispered in my ear and said, “Bro, you’re a sandwich deli.” When the sandwich gods speak directly to you, you listen. At that point, I started to wonder about the world’s best sandwiches: the Reuben, Cuban, so on. I started out making the famous ones. I got busier and had too many ingredients so had to pare it down. We have no fire, no frying, no additives here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927897\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13927897 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_fishing_720.jpg\" alt=\"an array of fishermen's supplies available inside a liquor store in Sausalito\" width=\"720\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_fishing_720.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/davey_jones_fishing_720-160x107.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An array of fishermen’s supplies are available inside New Bait Shop Market. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>It’s not really about the sandwiches; I’m just a pretty good cook, and I’m nice to my people, and that is more magic than anything. I thought I might work in environmental remediation or environmental justice at one point but got no responses to any of the several hundred applications I sent out. It was like a “whoops” when I became a chef. It’s been comfy though — no commute, space for my catering. [The food industry] can be very brutal, so I have to also take care of myself. Watching those rotator cuffs (laughs).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Immigrants come here and build a restaurant or work in kitchens, and we [Americans] tell our kids that it’s not honorable to sweep or mop — that being in food isn’t honorable. But my uncle once told me that the only honorable work on this planet is food — farming — and it’s true. They’re the only real producers. Everyone else is just taking and being a user. I don’t think there’s any honor in the craft of charging subscription fees (laughs). I’d just like people to honor chefs and the kitchen rather than hoping kids can do something better. Food is our first basic need.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12127869 aligncenter\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"http://www.daveyjonesdeli.com/\">Davey Jones Deli\u003c/a> is located inside New Bait Shop Market (1 Gate 6 Rd., Sausalito). The deli is open daily from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. (or until sold out). \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Flint’s Barbecue Reopens for a One-Day Pop-up in Berkeley",
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"content": "\u003cp>Most of the time, no one really remembers a restaurant 10 or 20 years after it closes. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/flintsbarbecue/\">Flint’s Barbecue\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13894423/flints-an-icon-of-oakland-barbecue-plots-return-to-original-location\">a Bay Area legend\u003c/a> in the art of finger-licking sauce and slow-smoked meats, is the exception that proves the rule: Even though the restaurant’s heyday was back in the 1970s and ’80s, old-timers in Oakland will \u003ci>still\u003c/i> talk your head off about that ’cue to this very day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That legacy is why folks were so excited when Crystal Martin, the granddaughter of Flint’s founder Willie Flintroy, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13894423/flints-an-icon-of-oakland-barbecue-plots-return-to-original-location\">revived the family business\u003c/a> back in 2019, albeit mostly in the form of occasional pop-ups. And it’s why each of those pop-ups has been a sold-out, line-around-the-block affair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13894423,arts_13915387']\u003c/span>Mark April 30 on your calendar, then, if you’re a hardcore Flint’s head — or if you just want to see what your OG uncle from around the block has been making such a fuss about. That’s when Flint’s will hold its spring pop-up event in Berkeley. It’ll be the first time its barbecue has been available for purchase by the general public in the past seven months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, Martin says she’s thinking about limiting the pop-up to a once-a-year tradition. These days, most of her business comes from catering and private events, and she doesn’t want the pop-ups to detract from her search for a more permanent brick-and-mortar home for Flint’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31.jpg\" alt=\"Crystal Martin of Flint's Barbecue at DeFremery Park in West Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Crystal Martin of Flint’s Barbecue. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That search has mostly been a disappointment. Martin’s original plan, to open in the original West Oakland Flint’s location on San Pablo Avenue, fell through. Then, the restaurant had a short-lived stint at a ghost kitchen facility in North Oakland. Apart from that, she’s looked at a string of locations that are way too expensive for her and her sisters to afford. “I’m beginning to get discouraged,” Martin says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s reached the point now where Martin has resigned herself to the likelihood that if Flint’s reopens, it’ll have to be far outside of Oakland. The city of Concord has reached out to her about relocating Flint’s to there. The city of Fairfield has reached out. Thus far, however, Martin says she hasn’t had any offer of assistance from the city of Oakland or any of its local community organizations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m surprised because everybody loves Flint’s so much — but I haven’t heard from any of the higher-ups,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13894446\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13894446\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_.jpg\" alt=\"Two trays full of Flint's house-made links.\" width=\"800\" height=\"646\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_-160x129.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_-768x620.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Coarse-ground links are one of Flint’s signature items. \u003ccite>(Flint's Barbecue)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The April 30 pop-up will be held at the barbecue spot’s current commercial kitchen location on Shattuck Avenue. Each $42.50 plate will come with ribs, chicken, links, a separate plate of sides and a drink. The new downtown Berkeley kitchen doesn’t have any place for people to dine in, but Martin says she’s had customers walk their food over to the UC Berkeley campus to enjoy a picnic-style barbecue feast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customers looking to stock up on the famous Flint’s barbecue sauce will have to be patient. Martin says she usually has a separate sauce pop-up just before the winter holidays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/flintsbarbecue/\">\u003ci>Flint’s Barbecue\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> will pop up at 2428 Shattuck Ave. in Berkeley on Sun., April 30, 1–5 p.m. Customers must \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://flintsbarbecuepopups.simpletix.com/\">\u003ci>buy tickets in advance\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>, with pickup times available at 1, 2, 3 and 4 p.m. Ticket sales end on April 16.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Most of the time, no one really remembers a restaurant 10 or 20 years after it closes. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/flintsbarbecue/\">Flint’s Barbecue\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13894423/flints-an-icon-of-oakland-barbecue-plots-return-to-original-location\">a Bay Area legend\u003c/a> in the art of finger-licking sauce and slow-smoked meats, is the exception that proves the rule: Even though the restaurant’s heyday was back in the 1970s and ’80s, old-timers in Oakland will \u003ci>still\u003c/i> talk your head off about that ’cue to this very day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That legacy is why folks were so excited when Crystal Martin, the granddaughter of Flint’s founder Willie Flintroy, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13894423/flints-an-icon-of-oakland-barbecue-plots-return-to-original-location\">revived the family business\u003c/a> back in 2019, albeit mostly in the form of occasional pop-ups. And it’s why each of those pop-ups has been a sold-out, line-around-the-block affair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>Mark April 30 on your calendar, then, if you’re a hardcore Flint’s head — or if you just want to see what your OG uncle from around the block has been making such a fuss about. That’s when Flint’s will hold its spring pop-up event in Berkeley. It’ll be the first time its barbecue has been available for purchase by the general public in the past seven months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, Martin says she’s thinking about limiting the pop-up to a once-a-year tradition. These days, most of her business comes from catering and private events, and she doesn’t want the pop-ups to detract from her search for a more permanent brick-and-mortar home for Flint’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31.jpg\" alt=\"Crystal Martin of Flint's Barbecue at DeFremery Park in West Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/Image-from-iOS-31-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Crystal Martin of Flint’s Barbecue. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That search has mostly been a disappointment. Martin’s original plan, to open in the original West Oakland Flint’s location on San Pablo Avenue, fell through. Then, the restaurant had a short-lived stint at a ghost kitchen facility in North Oakland. Apart from that, she’s looked at a string of locations that are way too expensive for her and her sisters to afford. “I’m beginning to get discouraged,” Martin says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s reached the point now where Martin has resigned herself to the likelihood that if Flint’s reopens, it’ll have to be far outside of Oakland. The city of Concord has reached out to her about relocating Flint’s to there. The city of Fairfield has reached out. Thus far, however, Martin says she hasn’t had any offer of assistance from the city of Oakland or any of its local community organizations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m surprised because everybody loves Flint’s so much — but I haven’t heard from any of the higher-ups,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13894446\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13894446\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_.jpg\" alt=\"Two trays full of Flint's house-made links.\" width=\"800\" height=\"646\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_-160x129.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/03/FlintSlinks.Crop_-768x620.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Coarse-ground links are one of Flint’s signature items. \u003ccite>(Flint's Barbecue)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The April 30 pop-up will be held at the barbecue spot’s current commercial kitchen location on Shattuck Avenue. Each $42.50 plate will come with ribs, chicken, links, a separate plate of sides and a drink. The new downtown Berkeley kitchen doesn’t have any place for people to dine in, but Martin says she’s had customers walk their food over to the UC Berkeley campus to enjoy a picnic-style barbecue feast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customers looking to stock up on the famous Flint’s barbecue sauce will have to be patient. Martin says she usually has a separate sauce pop-up just before the winter holidays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/flintsbarbecue/\">\u003ci>Flint’s Barbecue\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> will pop up at 2428 Shattuck Ave. in Berkeley on Sun., April 30, 1–5 p.m. Customers must \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://flintsbarbecuepopups.simpletix.com/\">\u003ci>buy tickets in advance\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>, with pickup times available at 1, 2, 3 and 4 p.m. Ticket sales end on April 16.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Searching for Barbacoa: Underground Lessons From the Richmond Flea Market",
"headTitle": "Searching for Barbacoa: Underground Lessons From the Richmond Flea Market | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]I[/dropcap]f you cruise to the ends of North Richmond—past the auto body garages, tire junkyards and glass repair shops—you’ll pass a threshold where the residential neighborhood suddenly shifts. In its place, a post-apocalyptic sprawl of industrial patches cram themselves between criss-crossing train tracks and the San Pablo Bay. RV encampments huddle beneath overpasses and the horizon is punctuated by a Chevron refinery spewing smoke into the atmosphere.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To most outsiders, it isn’t a destination point; as a local resident, I’ll admit there isn’t much reason to visit unless you’ve had your window bipped and need a cheap fix. But this outermost section of Contra Costa County is home to one of the largest immigrant Latinx populations in the Bay Area, where an amalgamation of mechanics, construction laborers, business owners, food vendors, elders, students and community workers represent generations of scrappy hustle and grit.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On weekends, it’s where the Richmond Flea Market, or La Pulga, buzzes with merchants and wildly assorted products—second-hand power saws, bootleg Warriors merch, parakeets, knock-off Nikes and vintage cassette players—all sold at bargain prices. At this open-air hub for community gatherings and under-the-table transactions, you can snag a bicycle or stereo system, or both, in the parking lot, before you even enter the official grounds. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And yet there’s more hidden behind all that concrete, steel and backdoor miscellany than meets the eye. This makeshift pueblo’s most enticing draw, which attracts customers from all over Northern California, isn’t what you might expect. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This flea market’s secret sauce? Barbacoa.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In its simplest form, barbacoa is a style of indigenous barbecue derived from pre-Hispanic methods of slow-roasting lamb, goat, cow head, chicken or other proteins inside an earthy pit. Modern methods still retain the essence of the past: An oven is prepared by digging a hole, lining it with bricks and burning wood to heat the “horno” (furnace). The meat is then wrapped in leaves of maguey—a sturdy Mexican cactus—or banana leaves, and steamed with water. The entire setup is designed to funnel run-off juices from the meat that are later served as a delicious consomé. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915660\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915660\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of barbacoa on the bone, with a bowl of consomé on the side.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Barbacoa with a side of consomé. The pit-roasting process is designed to funnel the juices of the meat in order to make this flavorful broth. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Once the oven is covered with steel and dirt, the cooking occurs beneath the soil, slow-burning through the night until a pitmaster skillfully removes it all to be served fresh with \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">tortillas. Regional interpretations vary across states like Chihuahua, Guanajuato, Hidalgo, Oaxaca and Queretaro, and depending on who and where you get your barbacoa from, the accompanying sides might include adobo, garlic, stomach, tripe, onion, chile, salsa or nopales. The commonality is the slow-cook method—and the end result of a juicy, tender, pull-apart meat. Because of its laborious, old world demands, the truest versions of it aren’t easy to find north of the border.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bill Esparza is a Mexican American food writer who has dedicated his massive appetite to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://la.eater.com/22421212/california-barbacoa-mexican-tacos-los-angeles-bay-area-central-coast\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">the pursuit of barbacoa across California. \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Over the phone, he tells me his innermost reflections on the elusive, hard-to-find dish: \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“[Barbacoa is] an ongoing thing. In a way, no one really understands the diversity of it. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sometimes in the transnational exchange, people haven’t gone back or even been [to the original regions]. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Some people have interpretations but have never been back themselves. There’s a whole process of how they prepare it, too, that gets changed because of legal codes and the challenges our communities have [here in California]. We still don’t really understand regional barbacoa.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In other words, barbacoa is whatever it needs to be for the people and context that produce it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915661\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915661\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Plates of blue corn tortilla tacos stacked on top of each other next to styrofoam containers of consomé.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Barbacoa tacos on handmade blue corn tortillas paired with big cups of consomé—a classic combination. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As a Mexican American myself whose parents aren’t from a barbacoa region, I’ve never been able to fully grasp what constitutes barbacoa. Sure, I’ve eaten it at roadside stands in pueblos during family trips around Mexico. But it’s as multitudinous as the people who prepare it. And the more I studied up on the dish, the clearer it became that the most essential aspect of barbacoa is to actually cook the meat underground as part of a traditional process—and that’s not something you’ll casually find in the Bay.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Bill Esparza\"]“[Barbacoa is] an ongoing thing. In a way, no one really understands the diversity of it.”[/pullquote]In the United States, however, the amount of labor, patience, equipment and expertise required to prepare barbacoa in this way can be difficult to come by—especially here in the Bay Area, a region more known for internet algorithms and self-driving cars than working-class, backyard throwdowns. Finding the right person with the ability and willingness to do it requires a certain dedication and insider knowledge.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After days on the hunt, I finally came close.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Family Tradition\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Euphoria doesn’t have a flavor. But if it did, it would taste like slow-cooked barbacoa de borrego, stuffed into the earth’s hot belly and wrapped in maguey stalks to be steamed overnight and devoured at sunrise with an accompaniment of handmade tortillas, pancita and consomé—served by the hands of a pitmaster who oversees each sweat-producing step of the process. I imagine it would tingle with smoke and succulence and a slickened age-old philosophy of indigenous utilitarianism repurposed into the 21st century.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I wouldn’t know about that in California, though. Not exactly.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the span of two weeks, I went from restaurant to restaurant, corner to corner, along Richmond’s “El Viente Tres”—23rd Avenue—in search of this specialized, pit-birthed barbacoa. But more often than not, the meal I ate was prepared in a conventional oven or kitchen steamer. It’s easier, quicker and more cost-efficient to ditch the traditional rigors for these modernized methods. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915668\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915668\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A signboard for El Chaparro, a barbacoa stand in the flea market.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign advertising the barbacoa at El Chaparro, one of several barbacoa stands at the flea market. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Along this journey, I met Pablo “El Chaparro” Perez, owner of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://el-chaparro-barbacoa-original.negocio.site/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Restaurant El Chaparro\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> on 23rd, which serves “barbacoa estilo Hidalgo” each day of the week. Saturdays and Sundays, he also posts up at two of the most frequented food stands inside La Pulga. In the words of a patron at one of his flea market locations, “Chaparro’s barbacoa is my favorite.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Although El Chaparro’s Hidalgo-style tacos de barbacoa are flavor-soaked—literally dripping with fatty oils and generous squeezes of lime—they aren’t cooked in the earth, as I’d hoped. As delicious as his kitchen-prepared barbacoa was, it was also yet another reminder of how much of a dying art true backyard barbacoa is.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After searching, I found at least one person at the flea market who’s practicing the old style of barbacoa—a construction worker from Hidalgo named Omar Mejia.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“To make [barbacoa] in a pot is very different,” says Mejia, who runs a barbacoa joint in the same aisle as El Chaparro.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/barbacoa_mejia/?hl=en\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Barbacoa Mejia\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is a weekend-exclusive eatery at the Richmond Flea Market—with limited pop-up services privately available. Mejia proudly operates on nearly 70 years of family tradition that can be traced back to his grandfather, father, brothers and cousins in Tulancingo, Hidalgo, where they continue to serve locals their original recipes. In Mejia tradition, barbacoa is an art form, and the paintbrush is a slow-scorching flame.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915663\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915663\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Alondra Montaño and Omar Mejia pose for a portrait in front of their barbacoa stand.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alondra Montaño and Omar Mejia run the Barbacoa Mejia stand at the Richmond flea market every weekend. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After talking to Mejia, I finally understood why many people consider barbacoa to be the true root of barbecue as we know it in the United States today. In fact, the word “barbecue” itself originates from native Taínos (now Puerto Rico) word, though “barbacoa” initially did not refer to roasting meats over a fire. Instead, the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/mundo/noticias-46887091#:~:text=En%20ta%C3%ADno%2C%20%22barbacoa%22%20se,ser%20alcanzada%20por%20los%20animales.\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">barbacoa itself was a contraption developed to suspend meat above ground\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, out of reach from other carnivores. Eventually, with the arrival of the Spanish and the colonization of more groups, the vocabulary was applied to cooking methods used by other indigenous people, such as the Aztecs, and evolved into its contemporary state. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Since then, barbacoa has transformed across time and locations as a lifeblood for many. Over centuries, it has slow-wandered over boundaries on the backs of immigrants who’ve traversed la frontera to pursue higher-paying careers in an ever-expanding global economy—while still yearning for the nostalgia of their past. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The way Mejia practices it, you can see the direct lineage of barbecue’s everlasting tradition of “pitmasters”: Long before there were \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915489/gstacks-smokers-barbecue-welder-american-made\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">elaborate smokers to prepare smackin’ ribs\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, there was barbacoa simmering inside literal pits.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915659\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of barbacoa, white on one side, red on the other, on a rainbow striped tablecloth.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Barbacoa Mejia’s red and white barbacoa can both be purchased by the pound. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“[Eating barbacoa steamed in a pot] is like eating a steak from a pan rather than an outdoor grill with coals. You lose that smokiness,” he says about substitute versions.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In a sleepy American Canyon suburb, Mejia has converted a sliver of his backyard into a living memory of—and tribute to—his faraway home in Tulancingo.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There, he serves his family’s pancita blanca (cleaned-out tripe with onion, garlic and chile piquin) plus consomé (a bone-in lamb broth with rice, garbanzo and spices) to go with the showstopping pit-roasted lamb (and on occasion or by request \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://la.eater.com/22536605/ximbo-chicken-barbacoa-hidalgo-style-east-bay-sf\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">an even rarer version of barbacoa known as ximbó\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which uses whole chickens). \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“Long before there were elaborate smokers to prepare smackin’ ribs, there was barbacoa simmering inside literal pits.”[/pullquote]Mejia prepares everything himself, or with the extra hands of his family—a college-aged son and daughter—just as he was taught as a young adult by his elders. It’s a lineage he hopes to carry forward, despite being 2,243 miles from Hidalgo.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He starts by preparing the pit one night in advance, stoking the flames for up to six hours before layering meat, maguey and a cluster\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">of seasoned ingredients that are carefully positioned to drip into a flavorful consomé. It’s a labor of love—and one that can sometimes yield poor results if mishandled.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can undercook the meat,” he tells me. “It doesn’t matter if you leave it there for three or more consecutive days and nights. If you aren’t heating it properly, it will remain raw in the middle.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915666\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915666\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At Barbacoa Mejia, señoras make blue corn tortillas by hand a few feet from families celebrating over all varieties of plates. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With over 15 years of experience preparing pit-style barbacoa in the United States (and a lifetime of exposure as a family apprentice in Mexico), Mejia doesn’t worry about undercooking his lamb anymore. But it’s still a demanding, days-long task, especially for a man who works at construction sites in the morning.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On a typical day, he gets up before 7 am to check on his cooking. Once it looks and smells finished to his liking, he pulls it out to be served or packaged for immediate delivery. Every order starts from scratch, requiring at least a week’s advance notice to gather everything needed. Though slow to prepare, the finished product moves fast from hand to mouth to gut.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“There’s a freshness you can taste in the flavor,” says Mejia. “Nothing is frozen. It’s all handled by us, directly from our ranch. We do everything ourselves. It’s a family labor.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is where I’ll admit my biggest failure, dear reader: I was never able to see or experience the full process with Mejia. Our schedules never synced, and by the time he was ready to host me, I was boarding a plane to Mexico to visit my own family below the border. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Missing out on this Mejia family tradition makes me want to dig my own pit and crawl inside of it. And when I emerge, I hope I’ll appreciate what barbacoa is truly all about.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915667\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915667\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"People walk past a flea market taco stand.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A view of Barbacoa Mejia’s setup in the Richmond flea market, which buzzes with merchants and wildly assorted products each weekend. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Paradise Awaits\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thankfully, the flea market was my saving grace, a sanctuary where I could get blessed by the holy taste of barbacoa. As Esparza wrote in his account of his epic quest across California, “Richmond’s La Pulga is a barbacoa lover’s dream.” Though none of it is prepared by pit-roast, in part due to coding regulations, there are comparable variations. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13915581,arts_13915387,arts_13915312' label='More BBQ']As part of his weekend menu, Mejia prepares the meats in a custom-made brick and clay oven that mimics the earth-buried flavor without the time-consuming labor of digging an actual hole in the earth. It’s a method that saves him time during his busiest days, while still allowing him to produce the quantity (and quality) of dishes needed for his high-demand business.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I ate a few barbacoa tacos at his DIY bistro. It’s a worthwhile experience in itself: You’ll see señoras making blue corn tortillas by hand a few feet from where you dine while families celebrate over all varieties of plates. Other patrons simply line up to order pounds of barbacoa for the road. And you certainly can’t miss the deliciously aromatic consomé.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Besides Mejia and El Chaparro, there are more barbacoa stands like \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/tacosytortas.carlos\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tacos Y Tortas Carlos\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The popularity of each vendor is a testament to this veritable barbacoa belt that has taken root at the Richmond-based market.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915662\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915662\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A diner in an Oakland A's jersey sits in front of a spread of blue corn tortilla tacos and all of their accompaniments, including a plate of onions, lime and cilantro.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A diner sits down to a plate of tacos at Barbacoa Mejia. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I got the legit meat sweats after that barbacoa trip,” Esparza, the Los Angeles-based food journalist, says of his own visit to the flea market. “I was shivering, sweating. That was from all the meat we ate.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If a barbacoa expert who uses his literal gut to survey the many profiles of barbacoa is calling the Richmond Flea Market one of the most formidable barbacoa epicenters in all of America, I believe him. More importantly, his words are reflected by the many locals who return each week, in many cases buying pounds of barbacoa to take home with them. For these folks, it’s the closest connection they have to the culinary traditions, flavors and memories of a faraway home. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If that’s not the highest form of barbecue’s sustenance, what is?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Alan Chazaro is a food reporter at KQED. He’s the author of three poetry collections and currently adjuncts at the University of San Francisco. He’s a fan of bichons frises, the Golden State Warriors and BB-8 in Star Wars.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>f you cruise to the ends of North Richmond—past the auto body garages, tire junkyards and glass repair shops—you’ll pass a threshold where the residential neighborhood suddenly shifts. In its place, a post-apocalyptic sprawl of industrial patches cram themselves between criss-crossing train tracks and the San Pablo Bay. RV encampments huddle beneath overpasses and the horizon is punctuated by a Chevron refinery spewing smoke into the atmosphere.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To most outsiders, it isn’t a destination point; as a local resident, I’ll admit there isn’t much reason to visit unless you’ve had your window bipped and need a cheap fix. But this outermost section of Contra Costa County is home to one of the largest immigrant Latinx populations in the Bay Area, where an amalgamation of mechanics, construction laborers, business owners, food vendors, elders, students and community workers represent generations of scrappy hustle and grit.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On weekends, it’s where the Richmond Flea Market, or La Pulga, buzzes with merchants and wildly assorted products—second-hand power saws, bootleg Warriors merch, parakeets, knock-off Nikes and vintage cassette players—all sold at bargain prices. At this open-air hub for community gatherings and under-the-table transactions, you can snag a bicycle or stereo system, or both, in the parking lot, before you even enter the official grounds. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And yet there’s more hidden behind all that concrete, steel and backdoor miscellany than meets the eye. This makeshift pueblo’s most enticing draw, which attracts customers from all over Northern California, isn’t what you might expect. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This flea market’s secret sauce? Barbacoa.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In its simplest form, barbacoa is a style of indigenous barbecue derived from pre-Hispanic methods of slow-roasting lamb, goat, cow head, chicken or other proteins inside an earthy pit. Modern methods still retain the essence of the past: An oven is prepared by digging a hole, lining it with bricks and burning wood to heat the “horno” (furnace). The meat is then wrapped in leaves of maguey—a sturdy Mexican cactus—or banana leaves, and steamed with water. The entire setup is designed to funnel run-off juices from the meat that are later served as a delicious consomé. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915660\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915660\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of barbacoa on the bone, with a bowl of consomé on the side.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56954_007_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Barbacoa with a side of consomé. The pit-roasting process is designed to funnel the juices of the meat in order to make this flavorful broth. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Once the oven is covered with steel and dirt, the cooking occurs beneath the soil, slow-burning through the night until a pitmaster skillfully removes it all to be served fresh with \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">tortillas. Regional interpretations vary across states like Chihuahua, Guanajuato, Hidalgo, Oaxaca and Queretaro, and depending on who and where you get your barbacoa from, the accompanying sides might include adobo, garlic, stomach, tripe, onion, chile, salsa or nopales. The commonality is the slow-cook method—and the end result of a juicy, tender, pull-apart meat. Because of its laborious, old world demands, the truest versions of it aren’t easy to find north of the border.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bill Esparza is a Mexican American food writer who has dedicated his massive appetite to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://la.eater.com/22421212/california-barbacoa-mexican-tacos-los-angeles-bay-area-central-coast\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">the pursuit of barbacoa across California. \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Over the phone, he tells me his innermost reflections on the elusive, hard-to-find dish: \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“[Barbacoa is] an ongoing thing. In a way, no one really understands the diversity of it. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sometimes in the transnational exchange, people haven’t gone back or even been [to the original regions]. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Some people have interpretations but have never been back themselves. There’s a whole process of how they prepare it, too, that gets changed because of legal codes and the challenges our communities have [here in California]. We still don’t really understand regional barbacoa.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In other words, barbacoa is whatever it needs to be for the people and context that produce it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915661\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915661\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Plates of blue corn tortilla tacos stacked on top of each other next to styrofoam containers of consomé.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56955_011_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Barbacoa tacos on handmade blue corn tortillas paired with big cups of consomé—a classic combination. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As a Mexican American myself whose parents aren’t from a barbacoa region, I’ve never been able to fully grasp what constitutes barbacoa. Sure, I’ve eaten it at roadside stands in pueblos during family trips around Mexico. But it’s as multitudinous as the people who prepare it. And the more I studied up on the dish, the clearer it became that the most essential aspect of barbacoa is to actually cook the meat underground as part of a traditional process—and that’s not something you’ll casually find in the Bay.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the United States, however, the amount of labor, patience, equipment and expertise required to prepare barbacoa in this way can be difficult to come by—especially here in the Bay Area, a region more known for internet algorithms and self-driving cars than working-class, backyard throwdowns. Finding the right person with the ability and willingness to do it requires a certain dedication and insider knowledge.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After days on the hunt, I finally came close.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Family Tradition\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Euphoria doesn’t have a flavor. But if it did, it would taste like slow-cooked barbacoa de borrego, stuffed into the earth’s hot belly and wrapped in maguey stalks to be steamed overnight and devoured at sunrise with an accompaniment of handmade tortillas, pancita and consomé—served by the hands of a pitmaster who oversees each sweat-producing step of the process. I imagine it would tingle with smoke and succulence and a slickened age-old philosophy of indigenous utilitarianism repurposed into the 21st century.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I wouldn’t know about that in California, though. Not exactly.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the span of two weeks, I went from restaurant to restaurant, corner to corner, along Richmond’s “El Viente Tres”—23rd Avenue—in search of this specialized, pit-birthed barbacoa. But more often than not, the meal I ate was prepared in a conventional oven or kitchen steamer. It’s easier, quicker and more cost-efficient to ditch the traditional rigors for these modernized methods. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915668\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915668\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A signboard for El Chaparro, a barbacoa stand in the flea market.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56976_031_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign advertising the barbacoa at El Chaparro, one of several barbacoa stands at the flea market. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Along this journey, I met Pablo “El Chaparro” Perez, owner of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://el-chaparro-barbacoa-original.negocio.site/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Restaurant El Chaparro\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> on 23rd, which serves “barbacoa estilo Hidalgo” each day of the week. Saturdays and Sundays, he also posts up at two of the most frequented food stands inside La Pulga. In the words of a patron at one of his flea market locations, “Chaparro’s barbacoa is my favorite.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Although El Chaparro’s Hidalgo-style tacos de barbacoa are flavor-soaked—literally dripping with fatty oils and generous squeezes of lime—they aren’t cooked in the earth, as I’d hoped. As delicious as his kitchen-prepared barbacoa was, it was also yet another reminder of how much of a dying art true backyard barbacoa is.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After searching, I found at least one person at the flea market who’s practicing the old style of barbacoa—a construction worker from Hidalgo named Omar Mejia.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“To make [barbacoa] in a pot is very different,” says Mejia, who runs a barbacoa joint in the same aisle as El Chaparro.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/barbacoa_mejia/?hl=en\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Barbacoa Mejia\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is a weekend-exclusive eatery at the Richmond Flea Market—with limited pop-up services privately available. Mejia proudly operates on nearly 70 years of family tradition that can be traced back to his grandfather, father, brothers and cousins in Tulancingo, Hidalgo, where they continue to serve locals their original recipes. In Mejia tradition, barbacoa is an art form, and the paintbrush is a slow-scorching flame.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915663\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915663\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Alondra Montaño and Omar Mejia pose for a portrait in front of their barbacoa stand.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56961_015_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alondra Montaño and Omar Mejia run the Barbacoa Mejia stand at the Richmond flea market every weekend. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After talking to Mejia, I finally understood why many people consider barbacoa to be the true root of barbecue as we know it in the United States today. In fact, the word “barbecue” itself originates from native Taínos (now Puerto Rico) word, though “barbacoa” initially did not refer to roasting meats over a fire. Instead, the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/mundo/noticias-46887091#:~:text=En%20ta%C3%ADno%2C%20%22barbacoa%22%20se,ser%20alcanzada%20por%20los%20animales.\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">barbacoa itself was a contraption developed to suspend meat above ground\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, out of reach from other carnivores. Eventually, with the arrival of the Spanish and the colonization of more groups, the vocabulary was applied to cooking methods used by other indigenous people, such as the Aztecs, and evolved into its contemporary state. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Since then, barbacoa has transformed across time and locations as a lifeblood for many. Over centuries, it has slow-wandered over boundaries on the backs of immigrants who’ve traversed la frontera to pursue higher-paying careers in an ever-expanding global economy—while still yearning for the nostalgia of their past. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The way Mejia practices it, you can see the direct lineage of barbecue’s everlasting tradition of “pitmasters”: Long before there were \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915489/gstacks-smokers-barbecue-welder-american-made\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">elaborate smokers to prepare smackin’ ribs\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, there was barbacoa simmering inside literal pits.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915659\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of barbacoa, white on one side, red on the other, on a rainbow striped tablecloth.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56948_003_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Barbacoa Mejia’s red and white barbacoa can both be purchased by the pound. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“[Eating barbacoa steamed in a pot] is like eating a steak from a pan rather than an outdoor grill with coals. You lose that smokiness,” he says about substitute versions.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In a sleepy American Canyon suburb, Mejia has converted a sliver of his backyard into a living memory of—and tribute to—his faraway home in Tulancingo.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There, he serves his family’s pancita blanca (cleaned-out tripe with onion, garlic and chile piquin) plus consomé (a bone-in lamb broth with rice, garbanzo and spices) to go with the showstopping pit-roasted lamb (and on occasion or by request \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://la.eater.com/22536605/ximbo-chicken-barbacoa-hidalgo-style-east-bay-sf\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">an even rarer version of barbacoa known as ximbó\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which uses whole chickens). \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Mejia prepares everything himself, or with the extra hands of his family—a college-aged son and daughter—just as he was taught as a young adult by his elders. It’s a lineage he hopes to carry forward, despite being 2,243 miles from Hidalgo.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He starts by preparing the pit one night in advance, stoking the flames for up to six hours before layering meat, maguey and a cluster\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">of seasoned ingredients that are carefully positioned to drip into a flavorful consomé. It’s a labor of love—and one that can sometimes yield poor results if mishandled.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can undercook the meat,” he tells me. “It doesn’t matter if you leave it there for three or more consecutive days and nights. If you aren’t heating it properly, it will remain raw in the middle.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915666\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915666\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56972_027_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At Barbacoa Mejia, señoras make blue corn tortillas by hand a few feet from families celebrating over all varieties of plates. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With over 15 years of experience preparing pit-style barbacoa in the United States (and a lifetime of exposure as a family apprentice in Mexico), Mejia doesn’t worry about undercooking his lamb anymore. But it’s still a demanding, days-long task, especially for a man who works at construction sites in the morning.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On a typical day, he gets up before 7 am to check on his cooking. Once it looks and smells finished to his liking, he pulls it out to be served or packaged for immediate delivery. Every order starts from scratch, requiring at least a week’s advance notice to gather everything needed. Though slow to prepare, the finished product moves fast from hand to mouth to gut.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“There’s a freshness you can taste in the flavor,” says Mejia. “Nothing is frozen. It’s all handled by us, directly from our ranch. We do everything ourselves. It’s a family labor.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is where I’ll admit my biggest failure, dear reader: I was never able to see or experience the full process with Mejia. Our schedules never synced, and by the time he was ready to host me, I was boarding a plane to Mexico to visit my own family below the border. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Missing out on this Mejia family tradition makes me want to dig my own pit and crawl inside of it. And when I emerge, I hope I’ll appreciate what barbacoa is truly all about.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915667\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915667\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"People walk past a flea market taco stand.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56973_028_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A view of Barbacoa Mejia’s setup in the Richmond flea market, which buzzes with merchants and wildly assorted products each weekend. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Paradise Awaits\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thankfully, the flea market was my saving grace, a sanctuary where I could get blessed by the holy taste of barbacoa. As Esparza wrote in his account of his epic quest across California, “Richmond’s La Pulga is a barbacoa lover’s dream.” Though none of it is prepared by pit-roast, in part due to coding regulations, there are comparable variations. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>As part of his weekend menu, Mejia prepares the meats in a custom-made brick and clay oven that mimics the earth-buried flavor without the time-consuming labor of digging an actual hole in the earth. It’s a method that saves him time during his busiest days, while still allowing him to produce the quantity (and quality) of dishes needed for his high-demand business.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I ate a few barbacoa tacos at his DIY bistro. It’s a worthwhile experience in itself: You’ll see señoras making blue corn tortillas by hand a few feet from where you dine while families celebrate over all varieties of plates. Other patrons simply line up to order pounds of barbacoa for the road. And you certainly can’t miss the deliciously aromatic consomé.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Besides Mejia and El Chaparro, there are more barbacoa stands like \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/tacosytortas.carlos\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tacos Y Tortas Carlos\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The popularity of each vendor is a testament to this veritable barbacoa belt that has taken root at the Richmond-based market.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915662\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915662\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A diner in an Oakland A's jersey sits in front of a spread of blue corn tortilla tacos and all of their accompaniments, including a plate of onions, lime and cilantro.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/RS56957_012_KQEDArts_RichmondBarbacoa_06262022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A diner sits down to a plate of tacos at Barbacoa Mejia. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I got the legit meat sweats after that barbacoa trip,” Esparza, the Los Angeles-based food journalist, says of his own visit to the flea market. “I was shivering, sweating. That was from all the meat we ate.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If a barbacoa expert who uses his literal gut to survey the many profiles of barbacoa is calling the Richmond Flea Market one of the most formidable barbacoa epicenters in all of America, I believe him. More importantly, his words are reflected by the many locals who return each week, in many cases buying pounds of barbacoa to take home with them. For these folks, it’s the closest connection they have to the culinary traditions, flavors and memories of a faraway home. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If that’s not the highest form of barbecue’s sustenance, what is?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Alan Chazaro is a food reporter at KQED. He’s the author of three poetry collections and currently adjuncts at the University of San Francisco. He’s a fan of bichons frises, the Golden State Warriors and BB-8 in Star Wars.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "For Filipino Americans, Lechon Is at the Heart of Every Party",
"headTitle": "For Filipino Americans, Lechon Is at the Heart of Every Party | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here’s a fiesta happening at the Winslow Center in Concord to celebrate a young bio science major’s graduation from UC Irvine. Upstairs, in the decorated banquet hall, Marilu Pho welcomes guests to her daughter Taylor’s graduation party while Polynesian dancers hurriedly get dressed before their performance begins. “Sorry, the boba people aren’t here yet,” Pho apologizes, detailing all the food she ordered. In addition to the boba station, there’s also a taco bar and a company on hand to make Filipino-style paella. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the star of the spread—and of any Filipino party—is the crackly, golden-skinned roast pig known as lechon. Spanish colonizers in the 1600s chose that name to describe the suckling pigs they saw native Filipinos slowly roasting whole over coals. But people in the Philippines have been serving some version of lechon to mark special occasions since well before that, starting when their Austronesian ancestors settled in the islands and brought domesticated pigs and other animals. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For their daughter’s graduation party, the Pho family has ordered their lechon from Concord’s Oriental Food Market, a Filipino grocer and catering company, whose owners cooked the 60-pound pig in an industrial-sized roaster just a few hours before the party. It makes for a beautiful centerpiece: perfectly golden-brown skin on all sides, steaming in places where the meat is falling away from the bone, from its snout and perma-grin to the end of its piggy tail.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With large gatherings suspended for more than two years because of COVID-19, this particular pig seems even more celebratory than usual. I ask Marilu, “Why the lechon?” After all, the rest of the party’s multicultural spread is as modern as it is diverse. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">She says simply, “Because it’s tradition, you know?”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Filipino Americans like me, lechon isn’t only a tradition passed down by our parents and grandparents; it’s also a point of pride. I come from a region in the Philippines called Pampanga, which the late chef Anthony Bourdain praised for having the best food in the entire country. “Pampanga first, Philippines second?” he asked his host the first time his show \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No Reservations\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> filmed an episode in Manila. In other words, we Kampampangans know our food. But for Filipinos, our love of lechon transcends even regional loyalties. Like it did with our ancestors, this allegiance traveled with us to America to remind us of home, no matter how far we actually were from our loved ones. There is no fiesta worth having without our lechon—it’s our national dish, alongside adobo and lumpia.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"The head of roast pig, still attached, next to a tray that holds the pig's crispy skin.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The lechon is ready to be served. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In that same episode of \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No Reservations\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Bourdain travels to Cebu—the birthplace of lechon—and declares it “the best pig ever,” thus cementing his legacy as the Philippines’ favorite American chef. It meant something for him to say that: Bourdain had traveled the world 10 times over; he’d eaten the most delicious things in the most iconic food cities. But he’d decided that lechon was the best. And of course, he was right.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Taste of Childhood\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back to the party: It’s Ed Pho’s first time breaking down the lechon, but he’s done his research. Everyone stands around to watch him pull one whole side of the crunchy skin away from the succulent meat, which is still hot from being taken off the spit less than an hour before. For early-arriving guests, it’s a rare opportunity to see this process; usually, the pig seems to just arrive already divided and ready to eat. While he works at the pig with a pair of big kitchen shears, Ed regales us with his knowledge of lechon. His ethnic background is Vietnamese, but he married into Marilu’s big Filipino family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In Cebu, they stuff it with lots of herbs and lemongrass,” he says, “but this one is done Manila-style.” The Manila style relies less on stuffing the pig with tamarind and lemongrass and more on classic preparation: garlic salt, bay leaves, fresh-cracked pepper. But it’s all about the lechon sauce. As he nears the bottom of the pig, he pulls off a tender morsel for me to taste. “This is the best part,” he says excitedly, gesturing toward the plates for me to do the honors of the first official bite. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915593\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915593\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Man cuts a piece of meat from a whole roast pig while a woman wearing a face mask watches.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ed Pho, right, serves lechon to the author. Pho ordered the lechon from Oriental Food Market for his daughter’s college graduation celebration. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I take the piece in reverence and spoon over some homemade lechon sauce—a sweet, liver-based gravy that Oriental Food Market chef Alex Gaerlan had sent along with the pig. I sandwich the meat between two pieces of crackling and take a loud, obnoxiously crispy bite.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It tastes like childhood to me. When I was a kid, a whole lechon was reserved only for weddings and golden anniversaries. I remember being eye-level to many of these lechons at family parties, macabrely willing myself into a staring contest while I wondered whose family dog would get to enjoy an ear, maybe even a leftover hind quarter. And as a Philippine-born, American-raised citizen, as I got older, I started to realize that the tradition of serving lechon at family parties seemed to be happening less and less often. Maybe it’s the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13914750/inay-dalisay-world-famous-lechon-vegan-filipino-play-bindlestiff\">health-consciousness of Filipino Americans\u003c/a> who are adopting more plant-based diets, or the fact that we no longer live barangay-style, in clans of large extended families. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“We are Filipinos. We roast and eat pig. This Is What We Do.”[/pullquote]The last lechon I remember eating was one I chose myself in the backyard of my grandparents’ home in Concepcion, Tarlac, when I was 15 years old. I chose the fattest of two pigs in the sty and sprayed it off with the hose. The next morning, I was awakened by the squealing pig being taken to the slaughter. When it returned a few hours later in the bottom of my cousin’s tricycle, it was already flayed and ready to be roasted. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When that lechon was presented at the fiesta for my Lolo and Lola’s 50th anniversary, the guilt of swine assassination made way to furtive acceptance: We are Filipinos. We roast and eat pig. This Is What We Do.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sari-Sari Store\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Where, then, do Bay Area Filipino Americans go when they need a whole pig for a party? In the Concord area, the answer is clear: Oriental Food Market. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A few hours before the Pho family’s graduation fiesta, co-owner Sherrie Gaerlan welcomes patrons to the shop while keeping an eye on her husband Alex as he roasts the lechon in the back. The front of the store is Sherrie’s domain. It’s where she sells small tubs of garlic peanuts, rents out Filipino DVDs and even helps customers purchase the “cheapest air fares to Philippines,” according to the yellow sign emblazoned over the front window. There are two clocks on the wall showing the time difference between the Philippines and California and a stack of business cards with both her and her husband’s names on the front. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915595\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915595\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Woman stands behind the counter of a small Filipino grocery store.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From behind the front counter of Concord’s Oriental Food Market, co-owner Sherrie Gaerlan rents out Filipino DVDs, arranges air travel and occasionally even plays matchmaker for customers. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It was my idea to buy this business,” Gaerlan says, recalling her decision to take over the grocery store that had served Concord’s Fil-Am community since 1983. She remembers eying the gem of a location on her way to work as a subrogation specialist at the car insurance company AAA down the street. Eventually, Alex also left his job as a contractor for FedEx and began cooking in the back to help out. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">According to Sherrie, the persistence required for her position as a subrogation specialist—to go after at-fault drivers’ insurance companies to recoup costs for accident victims—gave her the resolve to eventually take over Oriental Food Market. “If I put this same amount of work in my own business,” she remembers thinking back then, “I may be able to go somewhere, so that’s what encouraged me to look for a business to run.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we took the business over, Oriental Food Market, they kept the name. I was never really a fan of that name,” the Gaerlans’ eldest child, Graham, says, laughing. “It’s been around, it was a staple in the community for a long time. It was really all over the place. But they figured it out.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When the family immigrated from the Philippines in 1991, Graham remembers being home after school with his younger sister and waiting all day for his parents to come home. Still, he grappled with why his mom would purchase such a fixer-upper of a business during his senior year of high school. “I didn’t really understand the passion for starting a business that had so many different avenues. You’re talking about a sari-sari store,” he says, using the Tagalog term for a neighborhood convenience store. “It can also be catering and cooked food.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915592\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915592\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Exterior facade of Oriental Food Market, with signs in the window advertising lumpia and cheap airfare to the Philippines.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Oriental Food Market has been a touchpoint for Filipino Americans in the Concord area since 1983. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Judging from the wide array of services Sherrie offers at the front of the store, OFM still provides a touchpoint for many Filipinos longing for home. Graham, who credits his own work ethic to watching his parents grind, likens their boldness and “entrepreneur spirit” to the sacrificial decisions many immigrants make leaving their motherland. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we were in the Philippines, my mom would often tell me that when she was pregnant with me, she would go around and sell pre-packed sandwiches at the bank she worked at. This is her, 21 years old, hustling. My mom has always been that way.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Competing With Giants\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the end, the roast pigs are what saved the business.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alex lifts the finished lechon out of the industrial roaster he bought over a decade ago. He rests the pig inside of three coconut milk boxes lined with banana leaves. This particular specimen is 10 pounds heavier than most of the pigs he roasts, and he likes it that way. When Alex taught himself how to cook Filipino food and, later, lechon, he looked for a high-quality supplier that took care of the animals from feed to slaughter. He found it in Oakland-based company \u003ca href=\"http://pacagri.com/\">PacAgri Foods\u003c/a>. He wanted to rid the Filipino catering world of skinny tableside lechons. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915588\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915588\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A whole roast pig, its skin golden-brown, still mounted on a spit-roaster.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A few hours before the start of the Pho family’s party, the lechon had just finished roasting at Oriental Food Market. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was this passion for quality that allowed OFM to survive in the catering world, where Alex took the basics he learned growing up in the Philippines and applied it to their new venture. “My mom is from Pampanga but she grew up in Manila already. Usually Kapampangans, they love to cook, right? You know, my mom doesn’t know how to cook.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Still, Alex’s self-taught repertoire was good enough to compete with the “giants” who moved into Concord in 2009: Seafood City and Ranch 99. These large-chain Asian mega-supermarkets swallowed up nearly every Filipino and small Asian grocer in the area. Back then, Sherrie \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2009/09/11/small-asian-groceries-face-new-competition-in-chains/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">hadn’t yet figured out what might save her business\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, with the “giants” not just competing with their vast inventory and cheaper prices, but also poaching customers who wanted the other services that OFM provided, like passport renewal and sending remittances home. Sherrie and Alex didn’t know it then, but the lechon catering services that they introduced around that time were what would keep their little store going for another decade plus.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s that same adaptability and ingenuity that has sustained the market through a tragic two years of COVID-related business closures in the restaurant industry. “The catering stopped, because no one wants to do any other parties because of COVID,” Sherrie explains. “But what made us survive was all these apps: DoorDash, UberEats and Postmates. We never closed.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915591\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915591\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Man cuts a piece of pork belly lechon from behind the counter of the grocer's steam table display.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lechon is also one of the turo turo steam table offerings at Oriental Food Market. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Even as many of their neighbors were forced to close their doors, she recalls, the steady stream of online orders kept Oriental Food Market afloat: “So I told my husband, ‘See how the Good Lord helped us? When one door closes, three doors open.’ I’m almost crying now, to remember those times, ‘cause it’s not easy, you know?” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13915312,arts_13915387,arts_13915489' label='More BBQ']For now, even as the Filipino parties have started up again, Alex can only handle two orders of lechon a weekend. He’s having trouble finding help, like every restaurant has after the pandemic. But his lechon business is still known for being the best in the area. For now, it’s also one of the only fully operational sites that’s still roasting whole pigs. While Sherrie used to do all of the cooking at home, now she won’t even step into the back kitchen—Alex’s domain—because knowing their roles well is what helped this mom-and-pop survive two decades.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Even when he cooks sinigang\u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he puts good gulay,” Sherrie says of her husband’s kitchen skills. “It’s not like nalanta, or already old. He doesn’t want to compromise on the ingredients because he said, ‘I can be a good cook, but it may not turn out good if I put not-so-good ingredients.’” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915586\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915586\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Husband and wife stand behind the front counter of their small Filipino grocer and takeout shop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Owners Alex and Sherrie Gaerlan stand at the front counter of Oriental Food Market. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You can still find Sherrie in her domain—the front of the shop—as she focuses on her clientele that she’s remained close with. She knows that with Seafood City and Ranch 99, the employees just work there. They don’t really care about each and every customer that walks in the door. “I used to be a matchmaker here, I used to be ‘Sister Sherrie’ ’cause people would come and just pour their hearts out. Where can you get that? That a person would trust their innermost problems, and then tell you and then get their worries [out], and you provide them your advice. But that’s just me,” she laughs. “That’s how I do business, the personal touch. There’s a story behind each bite.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All the Gusto\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back at the graduation party, the lechon tasting gives way to more offerings of food and drink—more ways for the host to show they care about their guests like a true Filipino. Though the food is a bridge back home for many of us balikbayans, it’s the sincere hospitality and warmth for everyone at the party that makes us family, even if we are not. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Have you eaten yet?” the elders ask, and you must always pretend you have not. No matter how full you are, how stuffed to the brim with party food you become, you must not turn down a piece of the prized lechon because you never know when a party like this will come again—if we are even allowed to gather like this again. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So you take a plate, you take a bite, and you savor it the way it’s meant to be appreciated—with panache and all the gusto of your ancestors’ spirit. Just don’t forget the sauce.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915597\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915597\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Filipino lechon with the meat and skin removed; the head is still attached and intact.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The lechon is all carved and ready to eat. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.rockyrivera.com/\">Rocky Rivera\u003c/a> is a journalist, emcee, author and activist from San Francisco. She has four musical projects out, three of those with her label Beatrock Music. She released her first book last year, entitled \u003c/em>Snakeskin: Essays by Rocky Rivera\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "For Concord's Oriental Food Market, the whole roast pigs are a matter of tradition. They also may have saved the business.",
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"title": "For Filipino Americans, Lechon Is at the Heart of Every Party | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>here’s a fiesta happening at the Winslow Center in Concord to celebrate a young bio science major’s graduation from UC Irvine. Upstairs, in the decorated banquet hall, Marilu Pho welcomes guests to her daughter Taylor’s graduation party while Polynesian dancers hurriedly get dressed before their performance begins. “Sorry, the boba people aren’t here yet,” Pho apologizes, detailing all the food she ordered. In addition to the boba station, there’s also a taco bar and a company on hand to make Filipino-style paella. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the star of the spread—and of any Filipino party—is the crackly, golden-skinned roast pig known as lechon. Spanish colonizers in the 1600s chose that name to describe the suckling pigs they saw native Filipinos slowly roasting whole over coals. But people in the Philippines have been serving some version of lechon to mark special occasions since well before that, starting when their Austronesian ancestors settled in the islands and brought domesticated pigs and other animals. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For their daughter’s graduation party, the Pho family has ordered their lechon from Concord’s Oriental Food Market, a Filipino grocer and catering company, whose owners cooked the 60-pound pig in an industrial-sized roaster just a few hours before the party. It makes for a beautiful centerpiece: perfectly golden-brown skin on all sides, steaming in places where the meat is falling away from the bone, from its snout and perma-grin to the end of its piggy tail.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With large gatherings suspended for more than two years because of COVID-19, this particular pig seems even more celebratory than usual. I ask Marilu, “Why the lechon?” After all, the rest of the party’s multicultural spread is as modern as it is diverse. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">She says simply, “Because it’s tradition, you know?”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Filipino Americans like me, lechon isn’t only a tradition passed down by our parents and grandparents; it’s also a point of pride. I come from a region in the Philippines called Pampanga, which the late chef Anthony Bourdain praised for having the best food in the entire country. “Pampanga first, Philippines second?” he asked his host the first time his show \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No Reservations\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> filmed an episode in Manila. In other words, we Kampampangans know our food. But for Filipinos, our love of lechon transcends even regional loyalties. Like it did with our ancestors, this allegiance traveled with us to America to remind us of home, no matter how far we actually were from our loved ones. There is no fiesta worth having without our lechon—it’s our national dish, alongside adobo and lumpia.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"The head of roast pig, still attached, next to a tray that holds the pig's crispy skin.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-24-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The lechon is ready to be served. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In that same episode of \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No Reservations\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Bourdain travels to Cebu—the birthplace of lechon—and declares it “the best pig ever,” thus cementing his legacy as the Philippines’ favorite American chef. It meant something for him to say that: Bourdain had traveled the world 10 times over; he’d eaten the most delicious things in the most iconic food cities. But he’d decided that lechon was the best. And of course, he was right.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Taste of Childhood\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back to the party: It’s Ed Pho’s first time breaking down the lechon, but he’s done his research. Everyone stands around to watch him pull one whole side of the crunchy skin away from the succulent meat, which is still hot from being taken off the spit less than an hour before. For early-arriving guests, it’s a rare opportunity to see this process; usually, the pig seems to just arrive already divided and ready to eat. While he works at the pig with a pair of big kitchen shears, Ed regales us with his knowledge of lechon. His ethnic background is Vietnamese, but he married into Marilu’s big Filipino family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In Cebu, they stuff it with lots of herbs and lemongrass,” he says, “but this one is done Manila-style.” The Manila style relies less on stuffing the pig with tamarind and lemongrass and more on classic preparation: garlic salt, bay leaves, fresh-cracked pepper. But it’s all about the lechon sauce. As he nears the bottom of the pig, he pulls off a tender morsel for me to taste. “This is the best part,” he says excitedly, gesturing toward the plates for me to do the honors of the first official bite. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915593\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915593\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Man cuts a piece of meat from a whole roast pig while a woman wearing a face mask watches.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-22-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ed Pho, right, serves lechon to the author. Pho ordered the lechon from Oriental Food Market for his daughter’s college graduation celebration. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I take the piece in reverence and spoon over some homemade lechon sauce—a sweet, liver-based gravy that Oriental Food Market chef Alex Gaerlan had sent along with the pig. I sandwich the meat between two pieces of crackling and take a loud, obnoxiously crispy bite.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It tastes like childhood to me. When I was a kid, a whole lechon was reserved only for weddings and golden anniversaries. I remember being eye-level to many of these lechons at family parties, macabrely willing myself into a staring contest while I wondered whose family dog would get to enjoy an ear, maybe even a leftover hind quarter. And as a Philippine-born, American-raised citizen, as I got older, I started to realize that the tradition of serving lechon at family parties seemed to be happening less and less often. Maybe it’s the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13914750/inay-dalisay-world-famous-lechon-vegan-filipino-play-bindlestiff\">health-consciousness of Filipino Americans\u003c/a> who are adopting more plant-based diets, or the fact that we no longer live barangay-style, in clans of large extended families. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The last lechon I remember eating was one I chose myself in the backyard of my grandparents’ home in Concepcion, Tarlac, when I was 15 years old. I chose the fattest of two pigs in the sty and sprayed it off with the hose. The next morning, I was awakened by the squealing pig being taken to the slaughter. When it returned a few hours later in the bottom of my cousin’s tricycle, it was already flayed and ready to be roasted. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When that lechon was presented at the fiesta for my Lolo and Lola’s 50th anniversary, the guilt of swine assassination made way to furtive acceptance: We are Filipinos. We roast and eat pig. This Is What We Do.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sari-Sari Store\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Where, then, do Bay Area Filipino Americans go when they need a whole pig for a party? In the Concord area, the answer is clear: Oriental Food Market. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A few hours before the Pho family’s graduation fiesta, co-owner Sherrie Gaerlan welcomes patrons to the shop while keeping an eye on her husband Alex as he roasts the lechon in the back. The front of the store is Sherrie’s domain. It’s where she sells small tubs of garlic peanuts, rents out Filipino DVDs and even helps customers purchase the “cheapest air fares to Philippines,” according to the yellow sign emblazoned over the front window. There are two clocks on the wall showing the time difference between the Philippines and California and a stack of business cards with both her and her husband’s names on the front. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915595\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915595\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Woman stands behind the counter of a small Filipino grocery store.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-27-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From behind the front counter of Concord’s Oriental Food Market, co-owner Sherrie Gaerlan rents out Filipino DVDs, arranges air travel and occasionally even plays matchmaker for customers. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It was my idea to buy this business,” Gaerlan says, recalling her decision to take over the grocery store that had served Concord’s Fil-Am community since 1983. She remembers eying the gem of a location on her way to work as a subrogation specialist at the car insurance company AAA down the street. Eventually, Alex also left his job as a contractor for FedEx and began cooking in the back to help out. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">According to Sherrie, the persistence required for her position as a subrogation specialist—to go after at-fault drivers’ insurance companies to recoup costs for accident victims—gave her the resolve to eventually take over Oriental Food Market. “If I put this same amount of work in my own business,” she remembers thinking back then, “I may be able to go somewhere, so that’s what encouraged me to look for a business to run.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we took the business over, Oriental Food Market, they kept the name. I was never really a fan of that name,” the Gaerlans’ eldest child, Graham, says, laughing. “It’s been around, it was a staple in the community for a long time. It was really all over the place. But they figured it out.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When the family immigrated from the Philippines in 1991, Graham remembers being home after school with his younger sister and waiting all day for his parents to come home. Still, he grappled with why his mom would purchase such a fixer-upper of a business during his senior year of high school. “I didn’t really understand the passion for starting a business that had so many different avenues. You’re talking about a sari-sari store,” he says, using the Tagalog term for a neighborhood convenience store. “It can also be catering and cooked food.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915592\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915592\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Exterior facade of Oriental Food Market, with signs in the window advertising lumpia and cheap airfare to the Philippines.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-19-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Oriental Food Market has been a touchpoint for Filipino Americans in the Concord area since 1983. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Judging from the wide array of services Sherrie offers at the front of the store, OFM still provides a touchpoint for many Filipinos longing for home. Graham, who credits his own work ethic to watching his parents grind, likens their boldness and “entrepreneur spirit” to the sacrificial decisions many immigrants make leaving their motherland. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we were in the Philippines, my mom would often tell me that when she was pregnant with me, she would go around and sell pre-packed sandwiches at the bank she worked at. This is her, 21 years old, hustling. My mom has always been that way.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Competing With Giants\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the end, the roast pigs are what saved the business.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alex lifts the finished lechon out of the industrial roaster he bought over a decade ago. He rests the pig inside of three coconut milk boxes lined with banana leaves. This particular specimen is 10 pounds heavier than most of the pigs he roasts, and he likes it that way. When Alex taught himself how to cook Filipino food and, later, lechon, he looked for a high-quality supplier that took care of the animals from feed to slaughter. He found it in Oakland-based company \u003ca href=\"http://pacagri.com/\">PacAgri Foods\u003c/a>. He wanted to rid the Filipino catering world of skinny tableside lechons. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915588\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915588\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A whole roast pig, its skin golden-brown, still mounted on a spit-roaster.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-7-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A few hours before the start of the Pho family’s party, the lechon had just finished roasting at Oriental Food Market. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was this passion for quality that allowed OFM to survive in the catering world, where Alex took the basics he learned growing up in the Philippines and applied it to their new venture. “My mom is from Pampanga but she grew up in Manila already. Usually Kapampangans, they love to cook, right? You know, my mom doesn’t know how to cook.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Still, Alex’s self-taught repertoire was good enough to compete with the “giants” who moved into Concord in 2009: Seafood City and Ranch 99. These large-chain Asian mega-supermarkets swallowed up nearly every Filipino and small Asian grocer in the area. Back then, Sherrie \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2009/09/11/small-asian-groceries-face-new-competition-in-chains/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">hadn’t yet figured out what might save her business\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, with the “giants” not just competing with their vast inventory and cheaper prices, but also poaching customers who wanted the other services that OFM provided, like passport renewal and sending remittances home. Sherrie and Alex didn’t know it then, but the lechon catering services that they introduced around that time were what would keep their little store going for another decade plus.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s that same adaptability and ingenuity that has sustained the market through a tragic two years of COVID-related business closures in the restaurant industry. “The catering stopped, because no one wants to do any other parties because of COVID,” Sherrie explains. “But what made us survive was all these apps: DoorDash, UberEats and Postmates. We never closed.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915591\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915591\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Man cuts a piece of pork belly lechon from behind the counter of the grocer's steam table display.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-16-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lechon is also one of the turo turo steam table offerings at Oriental Food Market. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Even as many of their neighbors were forced to close their doors, she recalls, the steady stream of online orders kept Oriental Food Market afloat: “So I told my husband, ‘See how the Good Lord helped us? When one door closes, three doors open.’ I’m almost crying now, to remember those times, ‘cause it’s not easy, you know?” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>For now, even as the Filipino parties have started up again, Alex can only handle two orders of lechon a weekend. He’s having trouble finding help, like every restaurant has after the pandemic. But his lechon business is still known for being the best in the area. For now, it’s also one of the only fully operational sites that’s still roasting whole pigs. While Sherrie used to do all of the cooking at home, now she won’t even step into the back kitchen—Alex’s domain—because knowing their roles well is what helped this mom-and-pop survive two decades.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Even when he cooks sinigang\u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he puts good gulay,” Sherrie says of her husband’s kitchen skills. “It’s not like nalanta, or already old. He doesn’t want to compromise on the ingredients because he said, ‘I can be a good cook, but it may not turn out good if I put not-so-good ingredients.’” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915586\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915586\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Husband and wife stand behind the front counter of their small Filipino grocer and takeout shop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-3-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Owners Alex and Sherrie Gaerlan stand at the front counter of Oriental Food Market. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You can still find Sherrie in her domain—the front of the shop—as she focuses on her clientele that she’s remained close with. She knows that with Seafood City and Ranch 99, the employees just work there. They don’t really care about each and every customer that walks in the door. “I used to be a matchmaker here, I used to be ‘Sister Sherrie’ ’cause people would come and just pour their hearts out. Where can you get that? That a person would trust their innermost problems, and then tell you and then get their worries [out], and you provide them your advice. But that’s just me,” she laughs. “That’s how I do business, the personal touch. There’s a story behind each bite.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All the Gusto\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back at the graduation party, the lechon tasting gives way to more offerings of food and drink—more ways for the host to show they care about their guests like a true Filipino. Though the food is a bridge back home for many of us balikbayans, it’s the sincere hospitality and warmth for everyone at the party that makes us family, even if we are not. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Have you eaten yet?” the elders ask, and you must always pretend you have not. No matter how full you are, how stuffed to the brim with party food you become, you must not turn down a piece of the prized lechon because you never know when a party like this will come again—if we are even allowed to gather like this again. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So you take a plate, you take a bite, and you savor it the way it’s meant to be appreciated—with panache and all the gusto of your ancestors’ spirit. Just don’t forget the sauce.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915597\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915597\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Filipino lechon with the meat and skin removed; the head is still attached and intact.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/KQED-Lechon-06182022-Murakoshi-26-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The lechon is all carved and ready to eat. \u003ccite>(Kristen Murakoshi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.rockyrivera.com/\">Rocky Rivera\u003c/a> is a journalist, emcee, author and activist from San Francisco. She has four musical projects out, three of those with her label Beatrock Music. She released her first book last year, entitled \u003c/em>Snakeskin: Essays by Rocky Rivera\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "American Alchemy: The Bay Area Welder Who's Building Smokers and Changing Lives",
"headTitle": "American Alchemy: The Bay Area Welder Who’s Building Smokers and Changing Lives | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he term “American made” brings to mind images of Paul Bunyan types: pickup trucks, sledge hammers, plaid shirts and beer. It’s the idea of Rosie the Riveter—you know, prideful blue collar work to support this country’s wartime efforts. It’s athletes and entertainers like Babe Ruth, Marylin Monroe and Bruce Springtsteen. “American made,” it has a certain \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">brand\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Inside a single-story warehouse in the delta town of Suisun City, just 20 miles northeast of Vallejo, there’s a craftsman who makes uniquely refined barbecue grills—or rather, smokers, trailers and pits. He’s serious about his tools, knows all about the quality of his metal, and he’s a physicist when it comes to discussing how airflow and indirect heat impact the taste of ribs. His work has taken him from being down bad to b\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">eing on the up-and-up with some of the top dogs. His name is Garnet Geoffroy, and he’s the owner of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.gstackspits.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">GStacks Professional Smokers and Pits\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy, or GStacks, has\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> locs that drape down to his muscular shoulders, black-framed glasses and beat-up, wheat-colored work boots. His hands are grease-stained and rough from years of labor, but still welcoming when exchanging that handshake we both instinctively know as Black men.“What’s up, King?” he says as he greets me.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He, too, is American made.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I’m a welder, a fabricator,” says Geoffroy in an unmistakably Bay Area accent. “And I speak life into people.” He’s a constant soul-searcher who holds near and dear his ability to create. And because of his spirituality, he knows that his mission is bigger than barbecue. But right now, he’s using that as his vessel. “In the food industry,” Geoffroy says, “so many of us have this God-given talent of being able to please somebody through food… and that’s priceless.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915537\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915537\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"Man looks up pensively as he works with metal equipment.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">G Stacks works on a custom BBQ smoker at his warehouse in Suisun City on June 16, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before getting to Geoffroy’s larger life goals, though, you’ve got to understand his current success and where it all started. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I’ve got units at \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Vegan Mob in Oakland, KC’s BBQ in Berkeley, Smokin Woods, Flip N Soul, Ruby Jewels, M.C.M. Kitchen Vallejo,” Geoffroy says, naming well-known eateries as easily as Bubba rattled off the names of different types of shrimp in \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Forrest Gump\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Dawgie Dog’s in Vallejo, Pig in a Pickle in Corte Madera, River Rock Casino, Pacific Coast Producers, Local Q 707 in Petaluma—they’re great.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He mentions DJ’s Tri-Tip in Stockton and Tank House BBQ and Bar in Sacramento’s midtown, followed by the names of some of his high profile customers: Marshawn Lynch and E-40. Then he tells the story of working with a well-known rapper and producer from Long Beach.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When I got the call, I looked at my phone and I was like, ‘Warren Griffin?’ Who’s got Warren G’s name?” Geoffroy jokes. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That was 2016. Since then Geoffroy has produced eight different smokers for Warren G, a barbecue connoisseur and owner of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/sniffingriffinsbbq/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sniffin Griffins BBQ\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. “The ninth one is in my shop right now,” he says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915532\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915532\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"A black and white barbecue smoker on wheels in an empty lot; a red smoker is behind it.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Custom smokers of various shapes and sizes sit outside GStacks’ warehouse.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I have to say that this is a very incredible unit,” says Warren G \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGt5CSVn-2U\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">in a 2017 video\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, where he’s standing next to a custom-made smoker that has a working sound system and a wood-grain steering wheel as a handle. Warren G praises the build out—and the chicken that GStacks cooked in it—noting that he had seen the smoker on Instagram, but that wasn’t enough: “I had to come and witness it.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Years before he was making barbecue trailers and smokers for the creator of the West Coast hip-hop subgenre of G-Funk, Geoffroy, who was raised in Vallejo, was in and out of incarceration. Over a span of seven years \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy was locked up,\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> first in youth detention and then adult jail. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I didn’t do ‘lost time,’” Geoffroy says sharply. “I got wise. Every time I got locked up, I got into the welding program.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At 18, he was locked up in Fouts Springs Youth Facility. While there, he noticed a pattern: “The white boys would get up early and go to program. The Black boys in there would just kick it all day.” He made his choice to get up early and take classes with the white kids. He made his mistakes at times, like wearing the wrong welding hood– a safety issue that put his eyes in jeopardy, but corrections were made and the losses rapidly became valuable lessons. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915535\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915535\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"A man kneels on the ground welding something, as blue sparks fly.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A longtime employee at GStacks’ warehouse welds a steel frame for a BBQ smoker. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Three years later, \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy spent\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> his 21st birthday inside Sacramento’s Rio Cosumnes Correctional Center, where he further refined his welding ability. After he got out, he found his path—but it wasn’t without a few twists and turns.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy spent time in the streets, living the fast life and making money through channels he was familiar with given the environment he was raised in. A series of unfortunate events, including the deaths of a few close friends, led him to the church. That’s where things started to change.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Through the church he learned about Cypress Mandela Training Center, a vocational training program in West Oakland. He credits that community, specifically the older Black men who taught classes, for his full-blown introduction to the craft of welding.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Around 2005 he finished the pre-apprenticeship training program, got certified and became an ironworker. He did structural steel erection, assisting with the creation of bridges, colleges, hospitals and more.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He was in the Iron Workers Union for a year and a half before things went awry. “I got run over by a forklift by a drunk foreman on a night job,” says Geoffroy, pulling up his right pant leg to reveal a lengthy scar on his inner calf. “I almost lost my leg.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After surgery and rehabilitation, Geoffroy says, “\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">like a dummy I went back to work, because that’s all I knew.” And then, four years later, a second major injury occurred, this time to his back.\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He got workers’ compensation, but the cash wasn’t sustainable, and definitely not worth two lifelong scars. He hit a wall.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915534\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915534\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"A man looks up as he uses a band saw to cut a steel beam.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Geoffroy cuts steel beams for the frame of a smoker. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I went fishing for three years, sitting on the Bay in a boat, trying to figure out my next play,” Geoffroy reflects. A father of twin girls, he was also married at the time. His now ex-wife pushed him to find a new job. Geoffroy questioned, “How do I get a job when my body is mangled?”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He went back to what he knows best: welding. This time for himself. He started in his garage, making a \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">welding cart to wheel around his materials and fix a neighbor’s boat trailer. Then, he got the idea to make barbecue pits. It was something he’d done as a side gig one time while he was still working in the union, turning a 55-gallon barrel into a grill for a brother who attended his church. He was underpaid for that one, but the seed was planted. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Years later, unemployed, injured and in a financial situation that had his back against the wall, he found some odd pieces—an old jet ski trailer and two water tanks from a seller in Santa Rosa—and made his first barbecue trailer, then posted it on Craigslist. It sold to a woman who smokes turkeys in Pittsburg, and from there the requests started rolling in. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This was 2012. Geoffroy started his business and the money was starting to come in. But even as his entrepreneurial endeavors began to grow, he came to the realization that he still had some work to do on himself.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915533\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915533\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Plans and measurements for a future smoker. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">During a 2017 trip to Mexico for a cousin’s wedding, he hit rock bottom. Overweight and indulging in alcohol, he says he didn’t eat any food at the resort he was staying in because he had noticed that there was a clowder of cats living in one of the refrigerators the hotel was using. His friends neverminded it, but he couldn’t stomach it. So, he compensated by drinking more. “At that time I was 333 pounds,” says Geoffroy, pointing to pictures of himself from that era. “I had an epiphany that I can’t live like this.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After the trip he implemented portion-controlled diets and cut out alcohol and sugary drinks. Now his only vice is an order of chips and queso from Chipotle. Otherwise, he doesn’t do fast food, but he does do barbecue. And he’s a huge advocate for sea moss.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Beyond controlling his consumption, Geoffroy is ever mindful of how his time is used. Mondays and Thursdays are the only days he allows people to talk to him; otherwise, he’s working. His creations take time. Geoffroy says, “each smoker is different,” as they’re all handmade, often using quarter-inch to eighth-inch steel. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sometimes he and a duo of private contractors work to refurbish old units, remixing the elements that are already in place. He’s built pieces that funnel out the taste of charcoal and others that are completely electric. Some trailers have working water spouts and others have custom embroidery. He says he doesn’t rely on blueprints, but will take a measure of the customer and try to create a unit that speaks to their personality. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Again, Geoffroy stresses the time it takes to create these build outs. “I can’t just blow these things into existence.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]W[/dropcap]arren G’s 1994 track “Do You See” starts with a sample of Gil Scott-Heron’s “Bicentennial Blues.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>But the blues has always been totally American\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>As American as apple pie\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>As American as the blues\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>As American as apple pie\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>The question is why?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Why should the blues be so at home here?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Well, America provided the atmosphere\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Scott-Heron recites the lyrics as a synthesizer hums in the background, right before the drums kick. In the song, Warren G goes on to rap about his environment and the ups and downs he and his circle of friends are facing, mentioning his cousin, Snoop Dogg, who was incarcerated at the time. On the final verse, the man who penned “Regulate” says:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Well as time goes past, slowly we try to make it\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>But things are gettin hectic, I just can’t take it\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Should I A: Go back to slangin’ dope?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Or should I B: Maintain and try to cope?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Or should I C: Just get crazy and wild?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>But no I chose D: Create the G-Child\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In this country, the ability to create and then recreate yourself, in spite of your environment, is more than just being “American made,” it’s American alchemy—just like barbecue itself is a form of alchemy. And \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> knows that it doesn’t end with him. He’s looking to pay it forward. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Garnet Geoffroy\"]“I come from helping the ones who struggle, the ones who are wounded…I want to reach the sick, not the ones who are healed.”[/pullquote]He says his end goal isn’t to sell barbecue pits to famous people or make the best-tasting ribs on record. He wants to buy a youth facility, where he can introduce young folks to skilled trades, similar to the space where he learned how to weld at the \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fouts Springs Youth Facility. He even aims to work with the same population.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The ones whose backs are already up against the wall, that’s who I want to work with,” says Geoffroy in a voice that lets you know he’s been to church a few times. “I come from helping the ones who struggle, the ones who are wounded…I want to reach the sick, not the ones who are healed.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915539\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915539\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt='A man seen through an opening in a a barbecue smoker emblazoned with the website \"GStackspits.com\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">GStacks works on a BBQ smoker outside of his warehouse in Suisun City. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13915312,arts_13915387,arts_13915306' label='More BBQ']Beyond teaching craftsmanship, he wants to instill character and morale, and expose people to things they might not see in their immediate environment. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Business-wise, he’s competing with “American made” big names like Weber and Traeger. The latter of the two is based in the U.S. but manufactures its units overseas. “\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Their box is from America. My product is,” says \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Of course, even the saying “as American as apple pie” is a misnomer—the dessert was created in England. But Geoffroy, a person who had hiccups in American schools and spent time in American jails, has learned to make something out of nothing, the American way. And now he uses his creations to assist people in making food that has the power to heal. Well, that’s a tale as American as G-Funk.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pendarvis Harshaw is the host of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/rightnowish\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rightnowish\u003c/a> on KQED-FM, a columnist at KQED Arts, and the author of OG Told Me, a memoir about growing up in Oakland.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Garnet Geoffroy, aka GStacks, counts E-40 and Warren G among his clients—but cares more about inspiring young people.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>he term “American made” brings to mind images of Paul Bunyan types: pickup trucks, sledge hammers, plaid shirts and beer. It’s the idea of Rosie the Riveter—you know, prideful blue collar work to support this country’s wartime efforts. It’s athletes and entertainers like Babe Ruth, Marylin Monroe and Bruce Springtsteen. “American made,” it has a certain \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">brand\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Inside a single-story warehouse in the delta town of Suisun City, just 20 miles northeast of Vallejo, there’s a craftsman who makes uniquely refined barbecue grills—or rather, smokers, trailers and pits. He’s serious about his tools, knows all about the quality of his metal, and he’s a physicist when it comes to discussing how airflow and indirect heat impact the taste of ribs. His work has taken him from being down bad to b\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">eing on the up-and-up with some of the top dogs. His name is Garnet Geoffroy, and he’s the owner of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.gstackspits.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">GStacks Professional Smokers and Pits\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy, or GStacks, has\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> locs that drape down to his muscular shoulders, black-framed glasses and beat-up, wheat-colored work boots. His hands are grease-stained and rough from years of labor, but still welcoming when exchanging that handshake we both instinctively know as Black men.“What’s up, King?” he says as he greets me.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He, too, is American made.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I’m a welder, a fabricator,” says Geoffroy in an unmistakably Bay Area accent. “And I speak life into people.” He’s a constant soul-searcher who holds near and dear his ability to create. And because of his spirituality, he knows that his mission is bigger than barbecue. But right now, he’s using that as his vessel. “In the food industry,” Geoffroy says, “so many of us have this God-given talent of being able to please somebody through food… and that’s priceless.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915537\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915537\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"Man looks up pensively as he works with metal equipment.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/023_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">G Stacks works on a custom BBQ smoker at his warehouse in Suisun City on June 16, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before getting to Geoffroy’s larger life goals, though, you’ve got to understand his current success and where it all started. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I’ve got units at \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Vegan Mob in Oakland, KC’s BBQ in Berkeley, Smokin Woods, Flip N Soul, Ruby Jewels, M.C.M. Kitchen Vallejo,” Geoffroy says, naming well-known eateries as easily as Bubba rattled off the names of different types of shrimp in \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Forrest Gump\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Dawgie Dog’s in Vallejo, Pig in a Pickle in Corte Madera, River Rock Casino, Pacific Coast Producers, Local Q 707 in Petaluma—they’re great.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He mentions DJ’s Tri-Tip in Stockton and Tank House BBQ and Bar in Sacramento’s midtown, followed by the names of some of his high profile customers: Marshawn Lynch and E-40. Then he tells the story of working with a well-known rapper and producer from Long Beach.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When I got the call, I looked at my phone and I was like, ‘Warren Griffin?’ Who’s got Warren G’s name?” Geoffroy jokes. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That was 2016. Since then Geoffroy has produced eight different smokers for Warren G, a barbecue connoisseur and owner of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/sniffingriffinsbbq/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sniffin Griffins BBQ\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. “The ninth one is in my shop right now,” he says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915532\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915532\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"A black and white barbecue smoker on wheels in an empty lot; a red smoker is behind it.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/001_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Custom smokers of various shapes and sizes sit outside GStacks’ warehouse.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I have to say that this is a very incredible unit,” says Warren G \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGt5CSVn-2U\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">in a 2017 video\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, where he’s standing next to a custom-made smoker that has a working sound system and a wood-grain steering wheel as a handle. Warren G praises the build out—and the chicken that GStacks cooked in it—noting that he had seen the smoker on Instagram, but that wasn’t enough: “I had to come and witness it.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Years before he was making barbecue trailers and smokers for the creator of the West Coast hip-hop subgenre of G-Funk, Geoffroy, who was raised in Vallejo, was in and out of incarceration. Over a span of seven years \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy was locked up,\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> first in youth detention and then adult jail. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I didn’t do ‘lost time,’” Geoffroy says sharply. “I got wise. Every time I got locked up, I got into the welding program.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At 18, he was locked up in Fouts Springs Youth Facility. While there, he noticed a pattern: “The white boys would get up early and go to program. The Black boys in there would just kick it all day.” He made his choice to get up early and take classes with the white kids. He made his mistakes at times, like wearing the wrong welding hood– a safety issue that put his eyes in jeopardy, but corrections were made and the losses rapidly became valuable lessons. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915535\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915535\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"A man kneels on the ground welding something, as blue sparks fly.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/012_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A longtime employee at GStacks’ warehouse welds a steel frame for a BBQ smoker. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Three years later, \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy spent\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> his 21st birthday inside Sacramento’s Rio Cosumnes Correctional Center, where he further refined his welding ability. After he got out, he found his path—but it wasn’t without a few twists and turns.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy spent time in the streets, living the fast life and making money through channels he was familiar with given the environment he was raised in. A series of unfortunate events, including the deaths of a few close friends, led him to the church. That’s where things started to change.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Through the church he learned about Cypress Mandela Training Center, a vocational training program in West Oakland. He credits that community, specifically the older Black men who taught classes, for his full-blown introduction to the craft of welding.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Around 2005 he finished the pre-apprenticeship training program, got certified and became an ironworker. He did structural steel erection, assisting with the creation of bridges, colleges, hospitals and more.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He was in the Iron Workers Union for a year and a half before things went awry. “I got run over by a forklift by a drunk foreman on a night job,” says Geoffroy, pulling up his right pant leg to reveal a lengthy scar on his inner calf. “I almost lost my leg.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After surgery and rehabilitation, Geoffroy says, “\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">like a dummy I went back to work, because that’s all I knew.” And then, four years later, a second major injury occurred, this time to his back.\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He got workers’ compensation, but the cash wasn’t sustainable, and definitely not worth two lifelong scars. He hit a wall.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915534\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915534\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"A man looks up as he uses a band saw to cut a steel beam.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/008_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Geoffroy cuts steel beams for the frame of a smoker. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I went fishing for three years, sitting on the Bay in a boat, trying to figure out my next play,” Geoffroy reflects. A father of twin girls, he was also married at the time. His now ex-wife pushed him to find a new job. Geoffroy questioned, “How do I get a job when my body is mangled?”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He went back to what he knows best: welding. This time for himself. He started in his garage, making a \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">welding cart to wheel around his materials and fix a neighbor’s boat trailer. Then, he got the idea to make barbecue pits. It was something he’d done as a side gig one time while he was still working in the union, turning a 55-gallon barrel into a grill for a brother who attended his church. He was underpaid for that one, but the seed was planted. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Years later, unemployed, injured and in a financial situation that had his back against the wall, he found some odd pieces—an old jet ski trailer and two water tanks from a seller in Santa Rosa—and made his first barbecue trailer, then posted it on Craigslist. It sold to a woman who smokes turkeys in Pittsburg, and from there the requests started rolling in. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This was 2012. Geoffroy started his business and the money was starting to come in. But even as his entrepreneurial endeavors began to grow, he came to the realization that he still had some work to do on himself.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915533\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915533\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/006_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Plans and measurements for a future smoker. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">During a 2017 trip to Mexico for a cousin’s wedding, he hit rock bottom. Overweight and indulging in alcohol, he says he didn’t eat any food at the resort he was staying in because he had noticed that there was a clowder of cats living in one of the refrigerators the hotel was using. His friends neverminded it, but he couldn’t stomach it. So, he compensated by drinking more. “At that time I was 333 pounds,” says Geoffroy, pointing to pictures of himself from that era. “I had an epiphany that I can’t live like this.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After the trip he implemented portion-controlled diets and cut out alcohol and sugary drinks. Now his only vice is an order of chips and queso from Chipotle. Otherwise, he doesn’t do fast food, but he does do barbecue. And he’s a huge advocate for sea moss.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Beyond controlling his consumption, Geoffroy is ever mindful of how his time is used. Mondays and Thursdays are the only days he allows people to talk to him; otherwise, he’s working. His creations take time. Geoffroy says, “each smoker is different,” as they’re all handmade, often using quarter-inch to eighth-inch steel. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sometimes he and a duo of private contractors work to refurbish old units, remixing the elements that are already in place. He’s built pieces that funnel out the taste of charcoal and others that are completely electric. Some trailers have working water spouts and others have custom embroidery. He says he doesn’t rely on blueprints, but will take a measure of the customer and try to create a unit that speaks to their personality. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Again, Geoffroy stresses the time it takes to create these build outs. “I can’t just blow these things into existence.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">W\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>arren G’s 1994 track “Do You See” starts with a sample of Gil Scott-Heron’s “Bicentennial Blues.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>But the blues has always been totally American\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>As American as apple pie\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>As American as the blues\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>As American as apple pie\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>The question is why?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Why should the blues be so at home here?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Well, America provided the atmosphere\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Scott-Heron recites the lyrics as a synthesizer hums in the background, right before the drums kick. In the song, Warren G goes on to rap about his environment and the ups and downs he and his circle of friends are facing, mentioning his cousin, Snoop Dogg, who was incarcerated at the time. On the final verse, the man who penned “Regulate” says:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Well as time goes past, slowly we try to make it\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>But things are gettin hectic, I just can’t take it\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Should I A: Go back to slangin’ dope?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Or should I B: Maintain and try to cope?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Or should I C: Just get crazy and wild?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>But no I chose D: Create the G-Child\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In this country, the ability to create and then recreate yourself, in spite of your environment, is more than just being “American made,” it’s American alchemy—just like barbecue itself is a form of alchemy. And \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> knows that it doesn’t end with him. He’s looking to pay it forward. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“I come from helping the ones who struggle, the ones who are wounded…I want to reach the sick, not the ones who are healed.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>He says his end goal isn’t to sell barbecue pits to famous people or make the best-tasting ribs on record. He wants to buy a youth facility, where he can introduce young folks to skilled trades, similar to the space where he learned how to weld at the \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fouts Springs Youth Facility. He even aims to work with the same population.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The ones whose backs are already up against the wall, that’s who I want to work with,” says Geoffroy in a voice that lets you know he’s been to church a few times. “I come from helping the ones who struggle, the ones who are wounded…I want to reach the sick, not the ones who are healed.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915539\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915539\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg\" alt='A man seen through an opening in a a barbecue smoker emblazoned with the website \"GStackspits.com\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/034_KQEDArts_GStacksCustomSmokers_06162022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">GStacks works on a BBQ smoker outside of his warehouse in Suisun City. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Beyond teaching craftsmanship, he wants to instill character and morale, and expose people to things they might not see in their immediate environment. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Business-wise, he’s competing with “American made” big names like Weber and Traeger. The latter of the two is based in the U.S. but manufactures its units overseas. “\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Their box is from America. My product is,” says \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Geoffroy.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Of course, even the saying “as American as apple pie” is a misnomer—the dessert was created in England. But Geoffroy, a person who had hiccups in American schools and spent time in American jails, has learned to make something out of nothing, the American way. And now he uses his creations to assist people in making food that has the power to heal. Well, that’s a tale as American as G-Funk.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pendarvis Harshaw is the host of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/rightnowish\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rightnowish\u003c/a> on KQED-FM, a columnist at KQED Arts, and the author of OG Told Me, a memoir about growing up in Oakland.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "The BBQ King of Pleasant Hill",
"headTitle": "The BBQ King of Pleasant Hill | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915393\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-00.jpg\" alt=\"Black-and-white images of a man grilling pork ribs, sitting next to a smoker. The text reads, "The BBQ King of Pleasant Hill, by Raynato Castro (Color by Alex Culang). \" width=\"600\" height=\"508\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-00.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-00-160x135.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915394\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-01.jpg\" alt=\"A man loads boxes into the truck of his car. Text reads, "It's early, Saturday morning. Everyone's asleep." "Aagh, I need a bigger car." "OK, if I win this cook-off, I'm selling the hatchback and buying a truck."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-01.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-01-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915395\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-02.jpg\" alt=\"A cooler and other equipment sit in the trunk of the car in the half-darkness. Text reads, "Today is the 'Back 40 Texas Barbecue 5th Annual Amateur Rib Cook-Off' in Pleasant Hill. Rolls off the tongue." "It's my third barbecue competition ever."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-02.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-02-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915396\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-03.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of a group of barbecue hobbyists lined up in a row. Text reads, "My first one was only a month ago at the King of the County Cook-Off in Martinez. My team placed 7th out of 24 teams." "Not bad for a first showing."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-03.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-03-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915397\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-04.jpg\" alt=\"The same row of people as the previous panel, but all but two men have faded away. Text reads, "The second cook-off was two weeks later at the Clayton BBQ Cook-Off. My team had shrunk down to just me and one friend." "We placed 12th out of 28 teams."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-04.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-04-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915398\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-05.jpg\" alt=\"One remaining man looks fearfully in both directions. Text reads, "This time, I'm on my own." "But I'm kind looking forward to it."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-05.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-05-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915399\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-06.jpg\" alt=\"Side by side illustration of the same man: on the left, he's a grillmaster holding a pair of tongs. On the right, he's wearing a dentist's white coat and holding a giant toothbrush. Text reads, "You see, when I'm not doing barbecue, I'm actually a full-time dentist." "I'm constantly busy, trying to keep patients and staff happy."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-06.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-06-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915400\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-07.jpg\" alt=\"A giant set of dentures holding a pork rib between its teeth. Text reads, "When I compete in this cook-off, I get to do it all by myself. I won't be anyone's captain or boss. No training anyone, no setting of expectations. If I win, it's all me. If I lose..." "...it's all me."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-07.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-07-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915401\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-08.jpg\" alt=\"A dentist wearing magnifying eyeglasses peers under the lid of a barbecue smoker, only to see a 7th place trophy. Text reads, "Aw, crud." "Dentists have to be detail-oriented to work on people's teeth. I carry these high standards over to my cooking. I like to think that this is my secret advantage in BBQ." "Though it hasn't panned out in the last two cook-offs."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-08.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-08-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915402\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-09.jpg\" alt=\"In a dark bedroom, a man kisses his wife and baby, who are still sleeping. Text reads, "Smooch." "I'll see you later."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-09.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-09-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915403\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-10.jpg\" alt=\"The sun is rising between two purple-blue hills, as a single car with its headlights on drives down the winding road. Text reads, "Years ago, I was driving my sister-in-law down the same road I'm driving on right now. Sister-in-law told me, 'Ray, Lindsey is so beautiful. And you, you're so ugly!' That's how she makes conversation." "At family barbecues, she also made sure to let me know what she thought of my cooking."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-10.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-10-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915404\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-11.jpg\" alt=\"Three pieces of meat on a grill, glowing as orange flames come up through the grate. Text reads, "Ray, everything's burnt. Who's gonna eat this?!" "Aiyah! So stupid." "Hey, the first batch always gets kinda burnt...the coals are hot!" "She was right. I sucked. No one else had ever pointed that out." \" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-11.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-11-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915406\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-12.jpg\" alt=\"Spotlight shines down on a queen sitting in her throne while a man in an apron holds up a bone-in hame over his head. Text reads, "I saw it as a challenge. It was for honor! I had to save face." "My wife thinks it's hilarious that my sister-in-law is my inspiration for getting good at BBQ." "But it's true." "Thank you, sister-in-law, for being my BBQ tiger mom." "Good. You're still ugly."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-12.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-12-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915407\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-13.jpg\" alt=\"A car pulls up to a old-fashioned saloon style restaurant with an orange facade. Text reads, "All right, I'm here!" "I make it to Back Forty Texas BBQ. It's a popular restaurant that made its name by winning lots of People's Choice competitions, like the one in Reno attended by 400,000 people!" "Every year they host an amateur cook-off to let regular guys like me feel like rock stars for the day."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-13.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-13-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915408\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-14.jpg\" alt=\"A stack of $20 bills and a gold plaque that reads, "1st Place 2019, Your Name Here, Amateur Rib Cook-Off." Text reads, "First place wins $600 and a gift card to the restaurant. Even more impressive, the winner's name is etched on a plaque at the front of the restaurant for all to admire." "Don't they know that dentists don't like plaque? Sorry, everyone."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-14.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-14-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915409\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-15.jpg\" alt=\"Two older men clink glasses while standing in front of their own respective smokers. Text reads, "Why would a person even want to compete? Because of the camaraderie. Because of the rivalry. Because it's fun." "Because after doing a hobby for so many years, you want to see how your skills stack up."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-15.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-15-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915410\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-16.jpg\" alt=\"The same two men from the previous panel, now battling against each other as though in a arcade fighting game. Text reads, "It's like playing the multiplayer after finishing the singleplayer in a video game. It keeps it fresh!" "You can compete in literally anything, so why not BBQ?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-16.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-16-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915411\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-17.jpg\" alt=\"Man unloads crate from his car in the early morning light. Text reads, "Oh boy, there are those guys that won 3rd place at Clayton." "The competition takes place in the parking lot of the restaurant. Everyone's unloading their trucks (and not hatchbacks). "This is the chest-puffing, ego-checking part of the day."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-17.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-17-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915412\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-18.jpg\" alt=\"Man looks nervously at a table covered with first place trophies. Text reads, "I walk past the other tables and try not to get too distracted." "Look at these trophies. Wait—they put me right next to last year's winner? Uhh... I'm not nervous! I'm not nervous." "Whoa! Look at that smoker! I thought this was for amateurs!"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-18.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-18-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915413\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-19.jpg\" alt=\"Man walks away from a tented station set up with barbecue equipment and walks toward a small crowd that has gathered. Text reads, "After setting up, I head over to where the organizers go over the rules." "...No marinades. No offering of samples to the public. Racks must be submitted by 1pm. Fires out by 2 pm... and have fun!" "There are lots of smiles, but also lots of poker faces."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-19.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-19-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915414\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-20.jpg\" alt=\"A 19th century-style tycoon runs away carrying a golden piece of brisket (marked "A5 Wagyu") while a regular guy chases him holding a burning torch. Text reads, "At cook-offs, competitors usually bring their own meats to cook that day. To get an edge, many teams will use the best, most expensive cuts available." "Fortunately, this cook-off is nice for regular guys like me because the organizers provide all the meat."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-20.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-20-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915415\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-21.jpg\" alt=\"Four barbecue competition contestants look frazzled but determined. Text reads, "'Let the competition begin!' The moment we've all been waiting for is finally here! The racks of ribs are set on tables against the side of the restaurant. It's a Black Friday rush to get the best ones." "How many racks are you gonna cook?!" "Hey, these ones! Not those! Put those back!" "I'm gonna need a bigger grill!" "I feel like I'm on Chopped!"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-21.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-21-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915416\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-22.jpg\" alt=\"A barbecue competitor watches while one of his rivals squirts lighter fluid onto her grill. Text reads, "We're all getting our fires going. Chimneys, charcoal, pellets, wood chunks, lighter fluid. The smell of smoke fills the air, like a new Pope has been chosen." "Lighter fluid, eh?" "Yeah, what's it to ya?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-22.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-22-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915417\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-23.jpg\" alt=\"The man's arms are a whirlwind of movement as he prepares and seasons his raw rack of ribs. Text reads, "And then... quiet. The chatter stops. Anyone who's into a craft knows this feeling. Zen takes over. You don't even feel like you're working or that there are others around you." "Doing the thing you've done a million times."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-23.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-23-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915717\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-24-1.jpg\" alt=\"Man sits in a chair facing a barbecue smoker, with a gorgeous blue sky in the background. Text reads, "Before I know it, my ribs are on the smoker. Now it's a waiting game." "If there's one thing you miss about having a teammate, it's being able to pass the time with someone." "So, you come here often?" "You know I'm an inanimate object, right?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"497\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-24-1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-24-1-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915718\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-25-1.jpg\" alt=\"The man finishes seasoning his ribs as a couple of fancy-looking chefs in chef hats stride past. Text reads, "Some hours go by and there's a murmur in the crowd. It's the judges; they've arrived. They are all local chefs and restaurant owners. They know their stuff." "It's time to start looking at which ribs to submit." "Oh man, it's getting real."\" width=\"600\" height=\"497\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-25-1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-25-1-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915719\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-26-1.jpg\" alt=\"Hands holding an open box of ribs over a bed of greens. Text reads, "Judging is inherently subjective, but just like with any good food, the taste should be a balance of salt, sweet, acid, fat and heat." "Thought has to be given to presentation as well. Do the ribs look tasty? Red, not gray. Glossy, not dull. We eat with our eyes first."\" width=\"600\" height=\"497\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-26-1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-26-1-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915421\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-27.jpg\" alt=\"Hand holding a single rib with a bite in it. Text reads, "Last , but definitely not least, the texture has to be spot on. You want a crusty bark that gives way to tender meat that bites cleanly off the bone, but does not sloppily 'fall off.'" "It's a misconception in barbecue that mea has to be 'fall off the bone' to be good. This isn't a crockpot competition!\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-27.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-27-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915422\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-28.jpg\" alt=\"Barbecue competitors are handling meat with tongs and passing boxes of samples to the judges. Text reads, "'One hour remaining! Get your trays ready!' It's the moment of truth. Teams are slicing their racks, sampling, trying to decide which is the best of the bunch." "I evaluate mine: Nice glaze. Sweet & salty. Just a little heat. Tender. My best yet.\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-28.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-28-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915423\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-29.jpg\" alt=\"Hand holding a playing card: the jack of clubs. Text reads, "The organizers give you a playing card that they'll use later to identify the winning team." "I get the Jack of Clubs."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-29.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-29-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915424\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-30.jpg\" alt=\"Three smiling men taking a bite out of a rib. Text reads, "We start crowding into the main hall for the awards ceremony. Near the entrance, a group of competitors are sharing ribs. ...Sure, why not?" "Ray, let's try yours. ...Whoa, damn!" "You really haven't won before?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-30.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-30-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915425\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-31.jpg\" alt=\"Man sits at a table with his wife and child, making a shushing motion with his hand to tell the kid to quiet down. Text reads, "Everyone's seated. The organizers thank us all for being here. We give ourselves a round of applause for a long day." "My wife arrives just in time to enjoy the atmosphere." "You smell really bad." "Shhh... It's about to start." "They begin announcing the winners."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-31.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-31-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915426\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-32.jpg\" alt=\"Man with baseball cap pulled low so his face is in shadow. Text reads, "Third place. Five... of hearts." "Second place. Queen... of diamonds." "Chef's choice. King... of Spades." "Welp, I haven't been called yet. Maybe I need a new hobby..." "And... first place... Jack... of Clubs!" "Holy crap, that's me!"\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-32.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-32-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-33.jpg\" alt=\"Man stands in the spotlight with arms upraised in victory as the audience claps. Text reads, "I shoot up out of my chair. My wife is surprised, but proud. She gives me a lil' kiss. Everyone's just kinda looking at us." "Then, genuine applause, starting with the fellas who tried my ribs earlier." "After two other competitions and a whole lot of self-prescribed stress, it was finally all worth it."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-33.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-33-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915428\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-34.jpg\" alt=\"Man holds a trophy with a delighted smile. Text reads, "The BBQ King of Pleasant Hill."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-34.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-34-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915429\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-35.jpg\" alt=\"A red and gold first place trophy strapped into the carseat by a seatbelt. Text reads, "I pack up my tiny little hatchback. Turns out, it fits plenty. All my equipment and a 1st place trophy."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-35.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-35-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Raynato Castro is a dentist, cartoonist, good barbecuer, bad guitarist and, most of all, a dad. He maintains a dental practice in San Pablo, California, and is also the co-artist of the webcomic, \u003ca href=\"https://www.buttersafe.com/\">Buttersafe\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "A dentist's guide to winning your first amateur barbecue competition.",
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"description": "A dentist's guide to winning your first amateur barbecue competition.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915393\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-00.jpg\" alt=\"Black-and-white images of a man grilling pork ribs, sitting next to a smoker. The text reads, "The BBQ King of Pleasant Hill, by Raynato Castro (Color by Alex Culang). \" width=\"600\" height=\"508\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-00.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-00-160x135.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915394\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-01.jpg\" alt=\"A man loads boxes into the truck of his car. Text reads, "It's early, Saturday morning. Everyone's asleep." "Aagh, I need a bigger car." "OK, if I win this cook-off, I'm selling the hatchback and buying a truck."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-01.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-01-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915395\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-02.jpg\" alt=\"A cooler and other equipment sit in the trunk of the car in the half-darkness. Text reads, "Today is the 'Back 40 Texas Barbecue 5th Annual Amateur Rib Cook-Off' in Pleasant Hill. Rolls off the tongue." "It's my third barbecue competition ever."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-02.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-02-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915396\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-03.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of a group of barbecue hobbyists lined up in a row. Text reads, "My first one was only a month ago at the King of the County Cook-Off in Martinez. My team placed 7th out of 24 teams." "Not bad for a first showing."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-03.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-03-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915397\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-04.jpg\" alt=\"The same row of people as the previous panel, but all but two men have faded away. Text reads, "The second cook-off was two weeks later at the Clayton BBQ Cook-Off. My team had shrunk down to just me and one friend." "We placed 12th out of 28 teams."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-04.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-04-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915398\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-05.jpg\" alt=\"One remaining man looks fearfully in both directions. Text reads, "This time, I'm on my own." "But I'm kind looking forward to it."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-05.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-05-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915399\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-06.jpg\" alt=\"Side by side illustration of the same man: on the left, he's a grillmaster holding a pair of tongs. On the right, he's wearing a dentist's white coat and holding a giant toothbrush. Text reads, "You see, when I'm not doing barbecue, I'm actually a full-time dentist." "I'm constantly busy, trying to keep patients and staff happy."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-06.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-06-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915400\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-07.jpg\" alt=\"A giant set of dentures holding a pork rib between its teeth. Text reads, "When I compete in this cook-off, I get to do it all by myself. I won't be anyone's captain or boss. No training anyone, no setting of expectations. If I win, it's all me. If I lose..." "...it's all me."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-07.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-07-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915401\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-08.jpg\" alt=\"A dentist wearing magnifying eyeglasses peers under the lid of a barbecue smoker, only to see a 7th place trophy. Text reads, "Aw, crud." "Dentists have to be detail-oriented to work on people's teeth. I carry these high standards over to my cooking. I like to think that this is my secret advantage in BBQ." "Though it hasn't panned out in the last two cook-offs."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-08.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-08-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915402\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-09.jpg\" alt=\"In a dark bedroom, a man kisses his wife and baby, who are still sleeping. Text reads, "Smooch." "I'll see you later."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-09.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-09-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915403\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-10.jpg\" alt=\"The sun is rising between two purple-blue hills, as a single car with its headlights on drives down the winding road. Text reads, "Years ago, I was driving my sister-in-law down the same road I'm driving on right now. Sister-in-law told me, 'Ray, Lindsey is so beautiful. And you, you're so ugly!' That's how she makes conversation." "At family barbecues, she also made sure to let me know what she thought of my cooking."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-10.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-10-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915404\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-11.jpg\" alt=\"Three pieces of meat on a grill, glowing as orange flames come up through the grate. Text reads, "Ray, everything's burnt. Who's gonna eat this?!" "Aiyah! So stupid." "Hey, the first batch always gets kinda burnt...the coals are hot!" "She was right. I sucked. No one else had ever pointed that out." \" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-11.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-11-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915406\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-12.jpg\" alt=\"Spotlight shines down on a queen sitting in her throne while a man in an apron holds up a bone-in hame over his head. Text reads, "I saw it as a challenge. It was for honor! I had to save face." "My wife thinks it's hilarious that my sister-in-law is my inspiration for getting good at BBQ." "But it's true." "Thank you, sister-in-law, for being my BBQ tiger mom." "Good. You're still ugly."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-12.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-12-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915407\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-13.jpg\" alt=\"A car pulls up to a old-fashioned saloon style restaurant with an orange facade. Text reads, "All right, I'm here!" "I make it to Back Forty Texas BBQ. It's a popular restaurant that made its name by winning lots of People's Choice competitions, like the one in Reno attended by 400,000 people!" "Every year they host an amateur cook-off to let regular guys like me feel like rock stars for the day."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-13.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-13-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915408\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-14.jpg\" alt=\"A stack of $20 bills and a gold plaque that reads, "1st Place 2019, Your Name Here, Amateur Rib Cook-Off." Text reads, "First place wins $600 and a gift card to the restaurant. Even more impressive, the winner's name is etched on a plaque at the front of the restaurant for all to admire." "Don't they know that dentists don't like plaque? Sorry, everyone."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-14.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-14-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915409\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-15.jpg\" alt=\"Two older men clink glasses while standing in front of their own respective smokers. Text reads, "Why would a person even want to compete? Because of the camaraderie. Because of the rivalry. Because it's fun." "Because after doing a hobby for so many years, you want to see how your skills stack up."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-15.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-15-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915410\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-16.jpg\" alt=\"The same two men from the previous panel, now battling against each other as though in a arcade fighting game. Text reads, "It's like playing the multiplayer after finishing the singleplayer in a video game. It keeps it fresh!" "You can compete in literally anything, so why not BBQ?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-16.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-16-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915411\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-17.jpg\" alt=\"Man unloads crate from his car in the early morning light. Text reads, "Oh boy, there are those guys that won 3rd place at Clayton." "The competition takes place in the parking lot of the restaurant. Everyone's unloading their trucks (and not hatchbacks). "This is the chest-puffing, ego-checking part of the day."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-17.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-17-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915412\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-18.jpg\" alt=\"Man looks nervously at a table covered with first place trophies. Text reads, "I walk past the other tables and try not to get too distracted." "Look at these trophies. Wait—they put me right next to last year's winner? Uhh... I'm not nervous! I'm not nervous." "Whoa! Look at that smoker! I thought this was for amateurs!"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-18.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-18-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915413\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-19.jpg\" alt=\"Man walks away from a tented station set up with barbecue equipment and walks toward a small crowd that has gathered. Text reads, "After setting up, I head over to where the organizers go over the rules." "...No marinades. No offering of samples to the public. Racks must be submitted by 1pm. Fires out by 2 pm... and have fun!" "There are lots of smiles, but also lots of poker faces."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-19.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-19-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915414\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-20.jpg\" alt=\"A 19th century-style tycoon runs away carrying a golden piece of brisket (marked "A5 Wagyu") while a regular guy chases him holding a burning torch. Text reads, "At cook-offs, competitors usually bring their own meats to cook that day. To get an edge, many teams will use the best, most expensive cuts available." "Fortunately, this cook-off is nice for regular guys like me because the organizers provide all the meat."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-20.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-20-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915415\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-21.jpg\" alt=\"Four barbecue competition contestants look frazzled but determined. Text reads, "'Let the competition begin!' The moment we've all been waiting for is finally here! The racks of ribs are set on tables against the side of the restaurant. It's a Black Friday rush to get the best ones." "How many racks are you gonna cook?!" "Hey, these ones! Not those! Put those back!" "I'm gonna need a bigger grill!" "I feel like I'm on Chopped!"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-21.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-21-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915416\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-22.jpg\" alt=\"A barbecue competitor watches while one of his rivals squirts lighter fluid onto her grill. Text reads, "We're all getting our fires going. Chimneys, charcoal, pellets, wood chunks, lighter fluid. The smell of smoke fills the air, like a new Pope has been chosen." "Lighter fluid, eh?" "Yeah, what's it to ya?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-22.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-22-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915417\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-23.jpg\" alt=\"The man's arms are a whirlwind of movement as he prepares and seasons his raw rack of ribs. Text reads, "And then... quiet. The chatter stops. Anyone who's into a craft knows this feeling. Zen takes over. You don't even feel like you're working or that there are others around you." "Doing the thing you've done a million times."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-23.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-23-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915717\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-24-1.jpg\" alt=\"Man sits in a chair facing a barbecue smoker, with a gorgeous blue sky in the background. Text reads, "Before I know it, my ribs are on the smoker. Now it's a waiting game." "If there's one thing you miss about having a teammate, it's being able to pass the time with someone." "So, you come here often?" "You know I'm an inanimate object, right?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"497\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-24-1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-24-1-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915718\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-25-1.jpg\" alt=\"The man finishes seasoning his ribs as a couple of fancy-looking chefs in chef hats stride past. Text reads, "Some hours go by and there's a murmur in the crowd. It's the judges; they've arrived. They are all local chefs and restaurant owners. They know their stuff." "It's time to start looking at which ribs to submit." "Oh man, it's getting real."\" width=\"600\" height=\"497\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-25-1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-25-1-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915719\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-26-1.jpg\" alt=\"Hands holding an open box of ribs over a bed of greens. Text reads, "Judging is inherently subjective, but just like with any good food, the taste should be a balance of salt, sweet, acid, fat and heat." "Thought has to be given to presentation as well. Do the ribs look tasty? Red, not gray. Glossy, not dull. We eat with our eyes first."\" width=\"600\" height=\"497\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-26-1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-26-1-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915421\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-27.jpg\" alt=\"Hand holding a single rib with a bite in it. Text reads, "Last , but definitely not least, the texture has to be spot on. You want a crusty bark that gives way to tender meat that bites cleanly off the bone, but does not sloppily 'fall off.'" "It's a misconception in barbecue that mea has to be 'fall off the bone' to be good. This isn't a crockpot competition!\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-27.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-27-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915422\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-28.jpg\" alt=\"Barbecue competitors are handling meat with tongs and passing boxes of samples to the judges. Text reads, "'One hour remaining! Get your trays ready!' It's the moment of truth. Teams are slicing their racks, sampling, trying to decide which is the best of the bunch." "I evaluate mine: Nice glaze. Sweet & salty. Just a little heat. Tender. My best yet.\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-28.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-28-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915423\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-29.jpg\" alt=\"Hand holding a playing card: the jack of clubs. Text reads, "The organizers give you a playing card that they'll use later to identify the winning team." "I get the Jack of Clubs."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-29.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-29-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915424\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-30.jpg\" alt=\"Three smiling men taking a bite out of a rib. Text reads, "We start crowding into the main hall for the awards ceremony. Near the entrance, a group of competitors are sharing ribs. ...Sure, why not?" "Ray, let's try yours. ...Whoa, damn!" "You really haven't won before?"\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-30.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-30-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915425\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-31.jpg\" alt=\"Man sits at a table with his wife and child, making a shushing motion with his hand to tell the kid to quiet down. Text reads, "Everyone's seated. The organizers thank us all for being here. We give ourselves a round of applause for a long day." "My wife arrives just in time to enjoy the atmosphere." "You smell really bad." "Shhh... It's about to start." "They begin announcing the winners."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-31.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-31-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915426\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-32.jpg\" alt=\"Man with baseball cap pulled low so his face is in shadow. Text reads, "Third place. Five... of hearts." "Second place. Queen... of diamonds." "Chef's choice. King... of Spades." "Welp, I haven't been called yet. Maybe I need a new hobby..." "And... first place... Jack... of Clubs!" "Holy crap, that's me!"\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-32.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-32-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-33.jpg\" alt=\"Man stands in the spotlight with arms upraised in victory as the audience claps. Text reads, "I shoot up out of my chair. My wife is surprised, but proud. She gives me a lil' kiss. Everyone's just kinda looking at us." "Then, genuine applause, starting with the fellas who tried my ribs earlier." "After two other competitions and a whole lot of self-prescribed stress, it was finally all worth it."\" width=\"599\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-33.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-33-160x134.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915428\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-34.jpg\" alt=\"Man holds a trophy with a delighted smile. Text reads, "The BBQ King of Pleasant Hill."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-34.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-34-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13915429\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-35.jpg\" alt=\"A red and gold first place trophy strapped into the carseat by a seatbelt. Text reads, "I pack up my tiny little hatchback. Turns out, it fits plenty. All my equipment and a 1st place trophy."\" width=\"600\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-35.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/The-BBQ-King-of-Pleasant-Hill-35-160x133.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\" />\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Raynato Castro is a dentist, cartoonist, good barbecuer, bad guitarist and, most of all, a dad. He maintains a dental practice in San Pablo, California, and is also the co-artist of the webcomic, \u003ca href=\"https://www.buttersafe.com/\">Buttersafe\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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1656435647000
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"title": "The Real Mongolian Barbecue",
"headTitle": "The Real Mongolian Barbecue | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915325\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1911px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13915325 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A metal pot filled with chunks of raw meat sits on an outdoor grill area with wisps of smoke rising up.\" width=\"1911\" height=\"1274\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1911w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1911px) 100vw, 1911px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">To cook khorkhog outdoors at Richmond’s Wildcat Canyon Regional Park, Battulga Ochirpurev filled a pressure cooker with lamb meat, vegetables and blazing hot stones. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]L[/dropcap]ooking back, it’s a bit embarrassing that I ever believed Mongolian barbecue had anything to do with Mongolia, the country. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I was probably 10 or 11 years old when some distant Canadian cousins introduced me to the pleasures of all-you-can-eat griddle-cooked meats, treating my family to what they’d offered up as a fun and novel lunch option in the Toronto suburbs. There was the buffet line where you could customize your sauce and pile as many thinly sliced meats and vegetables onto your tray as you liked. There were the chefs in paper hats, who’d dump everything onto the sizzling flat-top. There was the giant gong that they would bang, unironically, anytime someone’s order was ready.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Years later, while working as the food critic for the \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">East Bay Express\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, I sheepishly recounted this memory to Togi Sukhbaatar, who ran \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/togis-serves-real-mongolian-food-2-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a Mongolian restaurant in downtown Oakland\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> at the time. “That isn’t really Mongolian at all, is it?” I asked him. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No, it is not. As the story goes, Mongolian barbecue was actually invented in the 1950s by a Taiwanese comedian with no connection to Mongolia. Mong gu kao rou, or “Mongolian barbecue,” wasn’t even his first name choice: He would have advertised his restaurant as serving “Beijing barbecue” if it weren’t politically risky in Taiwan to invoke China so directly at that time. \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1988/12/14/garden/at-the-nation-s-table-appleton-wis.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By the ’80s\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, kitschy and vaguely Orientalist versions of the restaurant genre had \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://la.eater.com/2018/1/12/16885612/los-angeles-founder-mongolian-bbq-dies\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">become popular\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in much of the United States.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Still, Sukhbaatar said, there \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">was\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a well-loved Mongolian food that better fit the term “Mongolian barbecue”—a slow-cooked lamb or mutton dish known as khorkhog, which Mongolians eat at every birthday, every wedding, every big family gathering. Even here in the Bay Area, almost any time more than 10 or 20 Mongolian Americans get together—say, in a park or in someone’s backyard—they’ll build a fire to prepare a big pot of khorkhog: a sealed vessel, usually a pressure cooker, filled to the brim with the meat from a whole sheep or lamb, potatoes, carrots, onions and blazing hot rocks.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This, Sukhbaatar told me, was the real Mongolian barbecue.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After I learned about khorkhog, I became mildly obsessed with the dish. But it wasn’t easy to track down. There are only a handful of Mongolian restaurants in the Bay Area to begin with, and only the most ambitious of these even list khorkhog on the menu because the process of cooking it is so time-consuming and unwieldy in the context of a restaurant kitchen.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915331\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13915331 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"An old pressure cooking sitting on a grill grate, with trees in the background.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Most Mongolian American families own at least one old-school pressure cooker like this one, which they use for making the slow-cooked lamb dish known as khorkhog. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After years of searching, I finally stumbled across \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/Dumpling-House-Mongolian-cuisine-111983887822655/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dumpling House Mongolian Cuisine\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a Mongolian restaurant in Richmond that serves khorkhog all the time, as long as you call ahead to give them a couple of hours of advance notice. Finally, then, I’d have a chance to taste khorkhog for myself. Owners Erika Terbish Erdenechimeg and Battulga Ochirpurev even agreed to cook it for me in the traditional way—outdoors, over a blazing fire. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was also a chance to dig deeper into the questions that had bothered me ever since I first learned about khorkhog. Why was it that, while most everyone in the U.S. is familiar with so-called “Mongolian barbecue,” traditional Mongolian foodways seem to have been completely erased? And why had I heard so little about the Bay Area’s Mongolian community to begin with? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Marketing copy for the American chain restaurant version of Mongolian barbecue often cites an \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://www.changsmongoliangrill.com/history/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">origin story\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> for the dish in which Genghis Khan’s band of fierce nomadic warriors would hunt animals between battles, then grill the meat over fire, using the tops of their shields as a cooking surface. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This, too, is a total fiction. It turns out the story of real Mongolian barbecue—and what it represents for Mongolian Americans looking to connect with their community in the Bay Area today—is far more interesting.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Cooking \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">‘American’ Style\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ochirpurev and Sukhbaatar (who now works in construction) meet me near the entrance of Wildcat Canyon Regional Park, a woodsy stretch of the Richmond hills, on a Monday morning armed with a sack of root vegetables and a cooler full of meat. Because of childcare duties, Terbish Erdenechimeg isn’t able to make it, even though Ochirpurev says she’s the real chef of the family. Meanwhile, Ochirpurev’s elderly parents, visiting from Mongolia, join us for the early afternoon khorkhog feast. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915335\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915335\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"An older woman and a man smile, looking down toward the ground in a wooded area.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Altangerel Deleg (left) and her son Battulga Ochirpurev take a break from preparing the khorkhog. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ochirpurev is a rangy, jovial fellow with close-cropped hair, puffy foam slippers and big, good-natured Asian dad energy. “I drank beer for 30 years. I quit for two years,” he tells me, ripping open a variety pack of Jarritos fruit soda to hand me a bottle. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He and his wife got married in Mongolia in 2000, when she was a 19-year-old volleyball champion. The couple moved to the United States a few years later with their three-year-old son, and worked whatever odd jobs they could get—Ochirpurev’s first gig was sweeping floors at a Kmart in Missouri. (Now, he tells me, reaching for a fist bump, that same son attends UC Davis.) Terbish Erdenechimeg, for her part, cooked at a few different restaurants before the couple \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://richmondconfidential.org/2019/11/19/a-taste-of-mongolia-for-richmond-residents/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">opened their own place in Richmond in 2012.\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While it’s hard to get an accurate count, most estimates peg the Mongolian population in Northern California at around \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfexaminer.com/our_sections/forum/mongolians-in-the-bay-area-are-optimistic-about-the-future/article_34cfc134-4488-55ce-ab59-25000109856e.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">8,000 to 10,000\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—a tight-knit community, but one that’s too small and dispersed to easily support a business like Dumpling House on its own. Indeed, Ochirpurev estimates that about 70% of his customers are actually Tibetan; the two cuisines share a similar array of dumplings and noodle dishes. But it’s usually only Mongolians who will order khorkhog, Ochirpurev says. No one else knows what it is.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He shows me the weathered, ancient pressure cooker that he’s brought along for the occasion, one of several that he and his wife have collected from flea markets over the years. This particular model was originally used by the American military—“heavy duty,” he tells me, rapping on the lid.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915328\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1853px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915328\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Overhead view of a pot filled with chunks of raw meat and rocks with wisps of smoke rising up.\" width=\"1853\" height=\"1236\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1853w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1025.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1853px) 100vw, 1853px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">To assemble the khorkhog, add alternating layers of meat and hot rocks. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ochirpurev describes his method of cooking khorkhog as “American style,” explaining that most people in Mongolia don’t have access to pressure cookers. Back home, the most common way to prepare khorkhog is to cook the meat inside the metallic 40-liter Russian water jugs scattered throughout the countryside—remnants of the Soviet military presence in Mongolia. Crafty home cooks turn these water jugs into makeshift pressure cookers by standing on top of the lid while the meat is cooking, using the full weight of their body to hold it down. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Isn’t that dangerous?” I ask when Ochirpurev shows me a Facebook photo of his cousin doing exactly that, teetering precariously like he’s about to fall off. “It is dangerous!” he says, cackling. “Sometimes they go flying!”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The “American” style of making khorkhog has a kind of improvised, off-the-cuff quality to it, at least as practiced by Ochirpurev and his family on this Monday afternoon. Ochirpurev pours a bag of self-lighting charcoal and piles it at the base of the outdoor grill, then lights up the coals with a flick of his cigarette lighter. (People don’t have much access to charcoal in Mongolia, he explains, so they just use some combination of wood chips and fallen tree branches, which he also applies liberally to feed the flames.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Traditionally, one of the keys to making proper khorkhog is to gather stones from a nearby river—smooth river stones being the ideal vessel to withstand high heat without cracking or splintering. For his Americanized version, Ochirpurev has brought a large bag of decorative “creek stones,” the kind you can buy at Home Depot or any garden store. After they’ve been buried inside the burning charcoal for about half an hour, the stones are blazing hot. To assemble the khorkhog, Ochirpurev layers the hot rocks with big pieces of freshly butchered lamb from a local halal ranch, alternating layers of lamb and rocks until the pressure cooker is filled to the top. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915337\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915337\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A woman tosses carrots and potatoes into a pot.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Altangerel Deleg adds fresh vegetables to the pot. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, Ochirpurev’s mother adds fresh vegetables to the pot: potatoes, onions, carrots, cabbage and rutabaga. (Rutabaga is the secret ingredient that makes khorkhog and many other Mongolian dishes taste delicious, Ochirpurev says.) Then come big handfuls of spice, pre-measured by Terbish Erdenechimeg back at the restaurant—a mixture that smells strongly of garlic and onion powder, though it’s mostly just salt, black pepper and bay leaves. Sukhbaatar, the former Oakland restaurant owner, explains that the seasoning is meant to be very simple, in order to bring out the natural flavor of the meat. A little bit of water goes in the pot too, to form the base of a soup.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Really, though, the hot stones inside the pot are what set khorkhog apart from any other slow-cooked stew. Once the pressure cooker is sealed up, Ochirpurev sets it over the fire. About an hour later, we’re ready to open up the pot and dig in.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Father of Khorkhog\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Even within Mongolia, khorkhog is very much an evolving tradition. The proliferation of those big Soviet-era water jugs throughout Mongolia is part of the dish’s origin story, according to Shirchin Baatar, a local Mongolian community leader who founded the Bay Area Mongolian Community Association (BAMCA) in 2003. In that sense, the modern form of the dish is a byproduct of Mongolia’s complicated politics in the 20th century—its history as a landlocked buffer zone during various conflicts between China and the USSR and its many decades of Soviet occupation. “Khorkhog was invented during Soviet times,” Baatar says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nevertheless, the dish traces its roots to a much older Mongolian food tradition known as boodog, a dish that Mongolian hunters have prepared for centuries, removing all the bones from a deer, antelope or other wild game in order to form a “bag” out of its skin. Then they’d cut up the meat, put it back inside the skin bag along with hot rocks, and tie it up tight. The whole thing would be cooked over fire, with the skin bag essentially serving as a natural form of “pressure cooker.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Baatar puts it, “Boodog is the father of khorkhog.” The basic principle is the same: The meat gets steamed inside the bag, but it also gets burned by the hot rocks, so you end up with a final product that’s “half steamed, half burned.” That’s the essence of what makes khorkhog taste so good. In that way, it follows the same principle as all great barbecue dishes that combine some form of slow cooking with a scorching flame. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915339\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915339\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"An old-fashioned pressure cooker heated over a fire outdoors.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The hot rocks inside scorch the meat while the fire builds up the steam pressure inside the pot. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the tastiest part of the boodog, according to Baatar? When you put the skin bag over the fire, all the hair burns off and the skin gets nice and crispy. It’s a cooking vessel you can eat.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Baatar says his uncles and grand-uncles in Mongolia still prepare boodog the old-fashioned way when they go hunting in the summer. Even in the United States, if you’re friends with the right Mongolian folks, you might have a chance to experience it. He’s had friends who have cooked wild boars and marmots that way after hunting trips in Colorado or in the Sacramento area. “Marmots are very delicious,” he says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">‘We Have to Have That Kind of Place’\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As extraordinary as an excursion like that sounds, these foodways are largely invisible to the majority of Northern Californians. It’s fairly easy to speculate why Mongolians in the Bay Area don’t have the same kind of visibility as more well-known Asian immigrant groups like the region’s Chinese American and Korean American communities. The population is just much, much smaller, and it isn’t necessarily concentrated in any single ethnic enclave. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s also a relatively new immigrant community, explains Baatar. Mongolians didn’t really start arriving in the Bay Area until the mid-’90s, when a number of them received student visas to study English at a language school in San Francisco. Many of those early arrivals either overstayed their visas or were able to find jobs here, but when Baatar himself arrived in 1998, there were still only about 70 Mongolians in the Bay Area. It wasn’t until the mid-2000s that there were at least a couple thousand Mongolian immigrants living in the region.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sukhbaatar, who only ran his restaurant—Togi’s Mongolian Cuisine—for a couple of years, says the cuisine has had even less visibility because there have never been very many real Mongolian restaurants. Many of that early wave of immigrants worked in restaurants or even opened restaurants of their own—but often they would be Japanese sushi restaurants, or restaurants specializing in other Asian cuisines that seemed more viable from a business perspective. Only in the last few years have there been a greater number of restaurants that put traditional Mongolian food front and center.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915352\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915352\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Ochirpurev Sambuudorj and Altangerel Deleg sit at a picnic table.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ochirpurev Sambuudorj and Altangerel Deleg sit at an outdoor picnic table at Wildcat Canyon Regional Park, listening to Mongolian music while they wait for the khorkhog to cook. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Baatar and Sukhbaatar say these restaurants are some of the few remaining places where Mongolians can socialize together outside their homes. The pandemic, in particular, has had a pronounced alienating effect on the community. In Oakland, a Mongolian language school for kids, which also taught Mongolian music and dancing, closed down during the pandemic. Each summer, the community usually gathers together to celebrate Naadaam, a traditional festival with wrestling, archery and horse racing. It was canceled the past two years.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13915306,arts_13915387,arts_13904835']Most significant, says Sukhbaatar, was the closure of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.yelp.com/biz/mongol-bar-oakland\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mongol Bar\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a community club and informal bar in downtown Oakland, down the street from his former restaurant, where he used to go after work almost every night. Located above a Thai restaurant on Webster Street, without any sign to mark its existence, the bar was completely invisible to those outside of the local Mongolian community. But inside, it was a lively scene night after night—the one place where Sukhbaatar knew he could always go to hang out with other Mongolians. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Beke (who preferred not to give his last name), Mongol Bar’s last owner, says on busy nights there were as many as 100 people packed inside the space, which featured a karaoke room, pool tables and a small dance floor. Some nights would be loud and high-energy, “like we’re in the club,” Beke recalls. Other nights, it would be more low-key—just groups of friends drinking Heinekens, shooting pool and having quiet conversation. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915353\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915353\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Togi Sukhbaatar and Battulga Ochirpurev stand over an outdoor spread of roast meats and vegetables.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Togi Sukhbaatar and Battulga Ochirpurev get ready to dig into their khorkhog feast. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Beke closed the bar late in 2019, even before COVID hit, in part because the finances weren’t sustainable, but more so because he was burned out running the place by himself. Many nights he’d keep the place open until 4 or 5am, and he just couldn’t do it anymore.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bay Area Mongolian Americans like Sukhbaatar and Ochirpurev still mourn the loss of the bar. “I was living there for 10 years,” Ochirpurev says. Sukhbaatar says he feels its absence most intensely when he thinks about young people in the Mongolian American community who no longer have many places where they can connect with others who share their culture. “We have to have that kind of place,” he says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In that context, informal khorkhog gatherings like the ones that Sukhbaatar and Ochirpurev organize take on even greater significance. Where else, after all, are Bay Area Mongolians going to gather? And what better way to do it than over some giant hunks of slow-cooked lamb?\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtqxNcqA1SU\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eating the Traditional Way\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The first thing that hits when you open up the pot of khorkhog is the smell of the lightly charred meat and the sweet soft-cooked cabbage, which is enough to get you salivating straight away. Sukhbaatar and Ochirpurev pile everything onto big plastic platters, the hunks of lamb comically oversized and dripping with juices.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With tongs, they remove the smooth stones, still hot and now fully black, and pass them around for us to hold in our hands, tossing them back and forth like a hot potato. (Just holding the stones is supposed to have health benefits.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, Ochirpurev has forgotten to bring forks and knives, so we eat our khorkhog in the “really traditional” way: ripping the meat apart with our hands, the juices dripping down our chins. It’s a clean and simple taste, so purely lamb-y and elemental. The vegetables have taken on all the savory flavor of the meat. Sukhbaatar warns me that the soup is a little bit oily, but I love how salty and rich and fortifying it is—the perfect thing to warm us up on a cold, drizzly day.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915349\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13915349 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Man in white T-shirt and blue rubber gloves cuts a piece of lamb with a box cutter.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In lieu of standard utensils, Togi Sukhbaatar uses a box cutter to cut off a slice of lamb. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Every occasion of note in the Bay Area’s Mongolian community has been marked in just this way. Ochirpurev says he still remembers celebrating his youngest son’s traditional first-haircut party, when he turned three years old, in this very same park in the Richmond hills. There were 100 or 200 Mongolians who turned up to offer their congratulations—and, of course, there was plenty of khorkhog for everyone to share.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yes, it’s true that the Mongolian community has faced a lot of challenges in the past few years, but it’s hard to feel anything but optimistic with a stomach full of khorkhog. And anyway, 2022 is looking up: The Naadam festival is back in person this year, on July 9 at Alameda Point, with well over 1,000 people expected to attend.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Baatar, who’s helping to organize the event, tells me there won’t be khorkhog at the festival; it isn’t easy to make enough to feed thousands. But they’ll serve the fried dumplings known as khuushuur. There will be wrestling and archery demonstrations and Mongolian music. Times are changing, Baatar says. Just like the world at large, some Mongolians are getting together virtually on Zoom more often than they do in person.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“America is a melting pot,” Baatar says. “But we’re trying to keep Mongolian culture the same way as in Mongolia.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915350\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915350\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of khorkhog, or Mongolian-style pressure-cooked lamb.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A single portion of khorkhog, ready to eat. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Luke Tsai is KQED’s food editor.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "A search for the true history of the dish—and a lesson in how hot rocks and pressure-cooked lamb bring the Bay Area’s Mongolian community together.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915325\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1911px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13915325 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A metal pot filled with chunks of raw meat sits on an outdoor grill area with wisps of smoke rising up.\" width=\"1911\" height=\"1274\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1911w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/020_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1911px) 100vw, 1911px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">To cook khorkhog outdoors at Richmond’s Wildcat Canyon Regional Park, Battulga Ochirpurev filled a pressure cooker with lamb meat, vegetables and blazing hot stones. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">L\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ooking back, it’s a bit embarrassing that I ever believed Mongolian barbecue had anything to do with Mongolia, the country. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I was probably 10 or 11 years old when some distant Canadian cousins introduced me to the pleasures of all-you-can-eat griddle-cooked meats, treating my family to what they’d offered up as a fun and novel lunch option in the Toronto suburbs. There was the buffet line where you could customize your sauce and pile as many thinly sliced meats and vegetables onto your tray as you liked. There were the chefs in paper hats, who’d dump everything onto the sizzling flat-top. There was the giant gong that they would bang, unironically, anytime someone’s order was ready.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Years later, while working as the food critic for the \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">East Bay Express\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, I sheepishly recounted this memory to Togi Sukhbaatar, who ran \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/togis-serves-real-mongolian-food-2-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a Mongolian restaurant in downtown Oakland\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> at the time. “That isn’t really Mongolian at all, is it?” I asked him. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No, it is not. As the story goes, Mongolian barbecue was actually invented in the 1950s by a Taiwanese comedian with no connection to Mongolia. Mong gu kao rou, or “Mongolian barbecue,” wasn’t even his first name choice: He would have advertised his restaurant as serving “Beijing barbecue” if it weren’t politically risky in Taiwan to invoke China so directly at that time. \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1988/12/14/garden/at-the-nation-s-table-appleton-wis.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By the ’80s\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, kitschy and vaguely Orientalist versions of the restaurant genre had \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://la.eater.com/2018/1/12/16885612/los-angeles-founder-mongolian-bbq-dies\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">become popular\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in much of the United States.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Still, Sukhbaatar said, there \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">was\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a well-loved Mongolian food that better fit the term “Mongolian barbecue”—a slow-cooked lamb or mutton dish known as khorkhog, which Mongolians eat at every birthday, every wedding, every big family gathering. Even here in the Bay Area, almost any time more than 10 or 20 Mongolian Americans get together—say, in a park or in someone’s backyard—they’ll build a fire to prepare a big pot of khorkhog: a sealed vessel, usually a pressure cooker, filled to the brim with the meat from a whole sheep or lamb, potatoes, carrots, onions and blazing hot rocks.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This, Sukhbaatar told me, was the real Mongolian barbecue.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After I learned about khorkhog, I became mildly obsessed with the dish. But it wasn’t easy to track down. There are only a handful of Mongolian restaurants in the Bay Area to begin with, and only the most ambitious of these even list khorkhog on the menu because the process of cooking it is so time-consuming and unwieldy in the context of a restaurant kitchen.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915331\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13915331 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"An old pressure cooking sitting on a grill grate, with trees in the background.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/005_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Most Mongolian American families own at least one old-school pressure cooker like this one, which they use for making the slow-cooked lamb dish known as khorkhog. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After years of searching, I finally stumbled across \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/Dumpling-House-Mongolian-cuisine-111983887822655/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dumpling House Mongolian Cuisine\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a Mongolian restaurant in Richmond that serves khorkhog all the time, as long as you call ahead to give them a couple of hours of advance notice. Finally, then, I’d have a chance to taste khorkhog for myself. Owners Erika Terbish Erdenechimeg and Battulga Ochirpurev even agreed to cook it for me in the traditional way—outdoors, over a blazing fire. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was also a chance to dig deeper into the questions that had bothered me ever since I first learned about khorkhog. Why was it that, while most everyone in the U.S. is familiar with so-called “Mongolian barbecue,” traditional Mongolian foodways seem to have been completely erased? And why had I heard so little about the Bay Area’s Mongolian community to begin with? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Marketing copy for the American chain restaurant version of Mongolian barbecue often cites an \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://www.changsmongoliangrill.com/history/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">origin story\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> for the dish in which Genghis Khan’s band of fierce nomadic warriors would hunt animals between battles, then grill the meat over fire, using the tops of their shields as a cooking surface. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This, too, is a total fiction. It turns out the story of real Mongolian barbecue—and what it represents for Mongolian Americans looking to connect with their community in the Bay Area today—is far more interesting.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Cooking \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">‘American’ Style\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ochirpurev and Sukhbaatar (who now works in construction) meet me near the entrance of Wildcat Canyon Regional Park, a woodsy stretch of the Richmond hills, on a Monday morning armed with a sack of root vegetables and a cooler full of meat. Because of childcare duties, Terbish Erdenechimeg isn’t able to make it, even though Ochirpurev says she’s the real chef of the family. Meanwhile, Ochirpurev’s elderly parents, visiting from Mongolia, join us for the early afternoon khorkhog feast. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915335\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915335\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"An older woman and a man smile, looking down toward the ground in a wooded area.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/031_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Altangerel Deleg (left) and her son Battulga Ochirpurev take a break from preparing the khorkhog. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ochirpurev is a rangy, jovial fellow with close-cropped hair, puffy foam slippers and big, good-natured Asian dad energy. “I drank beer for 30 years. I quit for two years,” he tells me, ripping open a variety pack of Jarritos fruit soda to hand me a bottle. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He and his wife got married in Mongolia in 2000, when she was a 19-year-old volleyball champion. The couple moved to the United States a few years later with their three-year-old son, and worked whatever odd jobs they could get—Ochirpurev’s first gig was sweeping floors at a Kmart in Missouri. (Now, he tells me, reaching for a fist bump, that same son attends UC Davis.) Terbish Erdenechimeg, for her part, cooked at a few different restaurants before the couple \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://richmondconfidential.org/2019/11/19/a-taste-of-mongolia-for-richmond-residents/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">opened their own place in Richmond in 2012.\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While it’s hard to get an accurate count, most estimates peg the Mongolian population in Northern California at around \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfexaminer.com/our_sections/forum/mongolians-in-the-bay-area-are-optimistic-about-the-future/article_34cfc134-4488-55ce-ab59-25000109856e.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">8,000 to 10,000\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—a tight-knit community, but one that’s too small and dispersed to easily support a business like Dumpling House on its own. Indeed, Ochirpurev estimates that about 70% of his customers are actually Tibetan; the two cuisines share a similar array of dumplings and noodle dishes. But it’s usually only Mongolians who will order khorkhog, Ochirpurev says. No one else knows what it is.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He shows me the weathered, ancient pressure cooker that he’s brought along for the occasion, one of several that he and his wife have collected from flea markets over the years. This particular model was originally used by the American military—“heavy duty,” he tells me, rapping on the lid.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915328\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1853px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915328\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Overhead view of a pot filled with chunks of raw meat and rocks with wisps of smoke rising up.\" width=\"1853\" height=\"1236\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1853w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/014_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1025.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1853px) 100vw, 1853px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">To assemble the khorkhog, add alternating layers of meat and hot rocks. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ochirpurev describes his method of cooking khorkhog as “American style,” explaining that most people in Mongolia don’t have access to pressure cookers. Back home, the most common way to prepare khorkhog is to cook the meat inside the metallic 40-liter Russian water jugs scattered throughout the countryside—remnants of the Soviet military presence in Mongolia. Crafty home cooks turn these water jugs into makeshift pressure cookers by standing on top of the lid while the meat is cooking, using the full weight of their body to hold it down. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Isn’t that dangerous?” I ask when Ochirpurev shows me a Facebook photo of his cousin doing exactly that, teetering precariously like he’s about to fall off. “It is dangerous!” he says, cackling. “Sometimes they go flying!”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The “American” style of making khorkhog has a kind of improvised, off-the-cuff quality to it, at least as practiced by Ochirpurev and his family on this Monday afternoon. Ochirpurev pours a bag of self-lighting charcoal and piles it at the base of the outdoor grill, then lights up the coals with a flick of his cigarette lighter. (People don’t have much access to charcoal in Mongolia, he explains, so they just use some combination of wood chips and fallen tree branches, which he also applies liberally to feed the flames.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Traditionally, one of the keys to making proper khorkhog is to gather stones from a nearby river—smooth river stones being the ideal vessel to withstand high heat without cracking or splintering. For his Americanized version, Ochirpurev has brought a large bag of decorative “creek stones,” the kind you can buy at Home Depot or any garden store. After they’ve been buried inside the burning charcoal for about half an hour, the stones are blazing hot. To assemble the khorkhog, Ochirpurev layers the hot rocks with big pieces of freshly butchered lamb from a local halal ranch, alternating layers of lamb and rocks until the pressure cooker is filled to the top. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915337\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915337\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A woman tosses carrots and potatoes into a pot.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/016_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Altangerel Deleg adds fresh vegetables to the pot. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, Ochirpurev’s mother adds fresh vegetables to the pot: potatoes, onions, carrots, cabbage and rutabaga. (Rutabaga is the secret ingredient that makes khorkhog and many other Mongolian dishes taste delicious, Ochirpurev says.) Then come big handfuls of spice, pre-measured by Terbish Erdenechimeg back at the restaurant—a mixture that smells strongly of garlic and onion powder, though it’s mostly just salt, black pepper and bay leaves. Sukhbaatar, the former Oakland restaurant owner, explains that the seasoning is meant to be very simple, in order to bring out the natural flavor of the meat. A little bit of water goes in the pot too, to form the base of a soup.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Really, though, the hot stones inside the pot are what set khorkhog apart from any other slow-cooked stew. Once the pressure cooker is sealed up, Ochirpurev sets it over the fire. About an hour later, we’re ready to open up the pot and dig in.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Father of Khorkhog\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Even within Mongolia, khorkhog is very much an evolving tradition. The proliferation of those big Soviet-era water jugs throughout Mongolia is part of the dish’s origin story, according to Shirchin Baatar, a local Mongolian community leader who founded the Bay Area Mongolian Community Association (BAMCA) in 2003. In that sense, the modern form of the dish is a byproduct of Mongolia’s complicated politics in the 20th century—its history as a landlocked buffer zone during various conflicts between China and the USSR and its many decades of Soviet occupation. “Khorkhog was invented during Soviet times,” Baatar says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nevertheless, the dish traces its roots to a much older Mongolian food tradition known as boodog, a dish that Mongolian hunters have prepared for centuries, removing all the bones from a deer, antelope or other wild game in order to form a “bag” out of its skin. Then they’d cut up the meat, put it back inside the skin bag along with hot rocks, and tie it up tight. The whole thing would be cooked over fire, with the skin bag essentially serving as a natural form of “pressure cooker.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Baatar puts it, “Boodog is the father of khorkhog.” The basic principle is the same: The meat gets steamed inside the bag, but it also gets burned by the hot rocks, so you end up with a final product that’s “half steamed, half burned.” That’s the essence of what makes khorkhog taste so good. In that way, it follows the same principle as all great barbecue dishes that combine some form of slow cooking with a scorching flame. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915339\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915339\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"An old-fashioned pressure cooker heated over a fire outdoors.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/026_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The hot rocks inside scorch the meat while the fire builds up the steam pressure inside the pot. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the tastiest part of the boodog, according to Baatar? When you put the skin bag over the fire, all the hair burns off and the skin gets nice and crispy. It’s a cooking vessel you can eat.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Baatar says his uncles and grand-uncles in Mongolia still prepare boodog the old-fashioned way when they go hunting in the summer. Even in the United States, if you’re friends with the right Mongolian folks, you might have a chance to experience it. He’s had friends who have cooked wild boars and marmots that way after hunting trips in Colorado or in the Sacramento area. “Marmots are very delicious,” he says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">‘We Have to Have That Kind of Place’\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As extraordinary as an excursion like that sounds, these foodways are largely invisible to the majority of Northern Californians. It’s fairly easy to speculate why Mongolians in the Bay Area don’t have the same kind of visibility as more well-known Asian immigrant groups like the region’s Chinese American and Korean American communities. The population is just much, much smaller, and it isn’t necessarily concentrated in any single ethnic enclave. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s also a relatively new immigrant community, explains Baatar. Mongolians didn’t really start arriving in the Bay Area until the mid-’90s, when a number of them received student visas to study English at a language school in San Francisco. Many of those early arrivals either overstayed their visas or were able to find jobs here, but when Baatar himself arrived in 1998, there were still only about 70 Mongolians in the Bay Area. It wasn’t until the mid-2000s that there were at least a couple thousand Mongolian immigrants living in the region.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sukhbaatar, who only ran his restaurant—Togi’s Mongolian Cuisine—for a couple of years, says the cuisine has had even less visibility because there have never been very many real Mongolian restaurants. Many of that early wave of immigrants worked in restaurants or even opened restaurants of their own—but often they would be Japanese sushi restaurants, or restaurants specializing in other Asian cuisines that seemed more viable from a business perspective. Only in the last few years have there been a greater number of restaurants that put traditional Mongolian food front and center.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915352\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915352\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Ochirpurev Sambuudorj and Altangerel Deleg sit at a picnic table.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/037_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ochirpurev Sambuudorj and Altangerel Deleg sit at an outdoor picnic table at Wildcat Canyon Regional Park, listening to Mongolian music while they wait for the khorkhog to cook. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Baatar and Sukhbaatar say these restaurants are some of the few remaining places where Mongolians can socialize together outside their homes. The pandemic, in particular, has had a pronounced alienating effect on the community. In Oakland, a Mongolian language school for kids, which also taught Mongolian music and dancing, closed down during the pandemic. Each summer, the community usually gathers together to celebrate Naadaam, a traditional festival with wrestling, archery and horse racing. It was canceled the past two years.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Most significant, says Sukhbaatar, was the closure of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.yelp.com/biz/mongol-bar-oakland\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mongol Bar\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a community club and informal bar in downtown Oakland, down the street from his former restaurant, where he used to go after work almost every night. Located above a Thai restaurant on Webster Street, without any sign to mark its existence, the bar was completely invisible to those outside of the local Mongolian community. But inside, it was a lively scene night after night—the one place where Sukhbaatar knew he could always go to hang out with other Mongolians. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Beke (who preferred not to give his last name), Mongol Bar’s last owner, says on busy nights there were as many as 100 people packed inside the space, which featured a karaoke room, pool tables and a small dance floor. Some nights would be loud and high-energy, “like we’re in the club,” Beke recalls. Other nights, it would be more low-key—just groups of friends drinking Heinekens, shooting pool and having quiet conversation. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915353\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915353\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Togi Sukhbaatar and Battulga Ochirpurev stand over an outdoor spread of roast meats and vegetables.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/053_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Togi Sukhbaatar and Battulga Ochirpurev get ready to dig into their khorkhog feast. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Beke closed the bar late in 2019, even before COVID hit, in part because the finances weren’t sustainable, but more so because he was burned out running the place by himself. Many nights he’d keep the place open until 4 or 5am, and he just couldn’t do it anymore.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bay Area Mongolian Americans like Sukhbaatar and Ochirpurev still mourn the loss of the bar. “I was living there for 10 years,” Ochirpurev says. Sukhbaatar says he feels its absence most intensely when he thinks about young people in the Mongolian American community who no longer have many places where they can connect with others who share their culture. “We have to have that kind of place,” he says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In that context, informal khorkhog gatherings like the ones that Sukhbaatar and Ochirpurev organize take on even greater significance. Where else, after all, are Bay Area Mongolians going to gather? And what better way to do it than over some giant hunks of slow-cooked lamb?\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/FtqxNcqA1SU'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/FtqxNcqA1SU'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>Eating the Traditional Way\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The first thing that hits when you open up the pot of khorkhog is the smell of the lightly charred meat and the sweet soft-cooked cabbage, which is enough to get you salivating straight away. Sukhbaatar and Ochirpurev pile everything onto big plastic platters, the hunks of lamb comically oversized and dripping with juices.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With tongs, they remove the smooth stones, still hot and now fully black, and pass them around for us to hold in our hands, tossing them back and forth like a hot potato. (Just holding the stones is supposed to have health benefits.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, Ochirpurev has forgotten to bring forks and knives, so we eat our khorkhog in the “really traditional” way: ripping the meat apart with our hands, the juices dripping down our chins. It’s a clean and simple taste, so purely lamb-y and elemental. The vegetables have taken on all the savory flavor of the meat. Sukhbaatar warns me that the soup is a little bit oily, but I love how salty and rich and fortifying it is—the perfect thing to warm us up on a cold, drizzly day.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915349\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13915349 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"Man in white T-shirt and blue rubber gloves cuts a piece of lamb with a box cutter.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/044_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In lieu of standard utensils, Togi Sukhbaatar uses a box cutter to cut off a slice of lamb. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Every occasion of note in the Bay Area’s Mongolian community has been marked in just this way. Ochirpurev says he still remembers celebrating his youngest son’s traditional first-haircut party, when he turned three years old, in this very same park in the Richmond hills. There were 100 or 200 Mongolians who turned up to offer their congratulations—and, of course, there was plenty of khorkhog for everyone to share.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yes, it’s true that the Mongolian community has faced a lot of challenges in the past few years, but it’s hard to feel anything but optimistic with a stomach full of khorkhog. And anyway, 2022 is looking up: The Naadam festival is back in person this year, on July 9 at Alameda Point, with well over 1,000 people expected to attend.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Baatar, who’s helping to organize the event, tells me there won’t be khorkhog at the festival; it isn’t easy to make enough to feed thousands. But they’ll serve the fried dumplings known as khuushuur. There will be wrestling and archery demonstrations and Mongolian music. Times are changing, Baatar says. Just like the world at large, some Mongolians are getting together virtually on Zoom more often than they do in person.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“America is a melting pot,” Baatar says. “But we’re trying to keep Mongolian culture the same way as in Mongolia.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915350\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915350\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of khorkhog, or Mongolian-style pressure-cooked lamb.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/061_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A single portion of khorkhog, ready to eat. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "In the Multicultural Bay Area, There Are a Thousand Ways to Barbecue",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>BBQ in the Bay\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring the Bay Area’s multicultural barbecue scene. New installments will post every day from June 28–July 1. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I didn’t exactly grow up on barbecue. At least, not in a traditional sense.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For the first 20 or so years of my life, I thought of it mostly as a condiment—the sticky-sweet sauce that sometimes came slathered on chicken legs or a rack of baby back ribs. It was the verb I used when friends wanted to get together and throw a bunch of burgers and hot dogs on the grill. “Yo, let’s all meet up at Roosevelt Park to shoot hoops and barbecue.” It was a type of Korean food, maybe. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But eventually, like nearly every other food-obsessed person in the Bay, I became conversant in Barbecue with a capital “B.” Was indoctrinated into the church of “low and slow.” Watched pitmasters pull wobbly, black-crusted briskets straight out of the smoker. Learned to ask for the sauce on the side. Pretended to know more than I did about what constitutes a proper smoke ring.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I even got pedantic about the topic in the way that only true barbecue geeks can. (“That’s not barbecue; that’s just grilling!” are words that may or may not have come out of my mouth.) And, lest I get mocked online by skeptical Texans or North Carolinians, I learned to preemptively say what I’d become convinced was an unvarnished truth—that the Bay Area really didn’t have much of a barbecue culture to speak of.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“I think about how all the different communities in the multicultural Bay Area gather and celebrate around a giant hunk of slow-cooked (or even not-so-slowly cooked!) meat.”[/pullquote]Lately, though, I’ve started to think about my early, “pre-enlightened” years in a different way. I remember how whenever I had friends over during the summertime when I was a kid, my dad would throw pork chops marinated in soy sauce and garlic on the grill. We would devour these juicy chops, not even bothering with a knife, with freshly buttered corn on the cob and heaping mounds of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://tastecooking.com/jif-peanut-butter-cold-sesame-noodles/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">my mom’s peanut butter cold noodles\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> on the side. I think about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897272/bay-area-taiwanese-food-scene-nostalgia\">when I lived in Taiwan during my late 20s\u003c/a>, and my coworkers invited me out to barbecue with them for the Mid-Autumn festival—how we crouched on the sidewalk and cooked meat skewers over charcoal on a makeshift grill grate set up on the rim of a car tire. Somehow, each skewer tasted better to me than the finest wagyu steak. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13915312,arts_13915387,arts_13915489' label='More BBQ']I think about all the times I’ve \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/borinquen-soul-dishes-out-puerto-rican-grandma-food-inside-an-oakland-convenience-store-2-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">waited in line for pernil\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> at the local Puerto Rican restaurant, or the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/straight-outta-kingston-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">big plates of jerk chicken\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I’ve savored at my favorite Jamaican spot. And then I think about how all the different communities in the multicultural Bay Area gather and celebrate around a giant hunk of slow-cooked (or even not-so-slowly cooked!) meat. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So, today KQED kicks off a new \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">five-part series about barbecue\u003c/a>. But it isn’t just about a specific cooking technique. Instead, the stories we publish this week will look at all of the different ways that a big, festive centerpiece to a meal—and all of the labor that goes into preparing it—help bring our Bay Area communities together. We’ll visit a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915581/lechon-filipino-american-party-oriental-food-market-concord\">Filipino lechon party\u003c/a> and get a behind-the-scenes peek at an \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915646/barbacoa-mejia-richmond-flea-market\">underground barbacoa operation\u003c/a>. We’ll learn about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915312/real-mongolian-barbecue-khorkhog-richmond\">Mongolian barbecue traditions\u003c/a> that don’t have anything to do with buffet-style chain restaurants. And yes, we’ll talk classic brisket and ribs too, but from the perspective of the guy who \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915489/gstacks-smokers-barbecue-welder-american-made\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">builds\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the smokers, and from someone who competes on the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915387/amateur-bbq-competition-comic-dentist-pleasant-hill\">amateur circuit\u003c/a>. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915379\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915379\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A man lifts up the lid of a pressure cooker to reveal lamb and cabbage inside.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khorkhog, a Mongolian dish of pressure-cooked lamb, is just one of the many ways that barbecue helps different Bay Area communities come together. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Look: Even now, as we’re weighed down by the heaviness of each day’s horrifying news cycle, people are planning cookouts for this weekend. They’re making playlists and mixing spices for dry rubs. They’re selecting whole hogs and threading pieces of meat onto skewers. They’re going to build as big a fire as they need to. Because, especially now, everyone deserves the chance to cherish every last moment of joy with their people. Our hope is that this set of uniquely Bay Area barbecue stories provides inspiration for a few new ways to do just that.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Luke Tsai is KQED’s food editor.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Lately, though, I’ve started to think about my early, “pre-enlightened” years in a different way. I remember how whenever I had friends over during the summertime when I was a kid, my dad would throw pork chops marinated in soy sauce and garlic on the grill. We would devour these juicy chops, not even bothering with a knife, with freshly buttered corn on the cob and heaping mounds of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://tastecooking.com/jif-peanut-butter-cold-sesame-noodles/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">my mom’s peanut butter cold noodles\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> on the side. I think about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13897272/bay-area-taiwanese-food-scene-nostalgia\">when I lived in Taiwan during my late 20s\u003c/a>, and my coworkers invited me out to barbecue with them for the Mid-Autumn festival—how we crouched on the sidewalk and cooked meat skewers over charcoal on a makeshift grill grate set up on the rim of a car tire. Somehow, each skewer tasted better to me than the finest wagyu steak. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>I think about all the times I’ve \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/borinquen-soul-dishes-out-puerto-rican-grandma-food-inside-an-oakland-convenience-store-2-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">waited in line for pernil\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> at the local Puerto Rican restaurant, or the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/straight-outta-kingston-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">big plates of jerk chicken\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I’ve savored at my favorite Jamaican spot. And then I think about how all the different communities in the multicultural Bay Area gather and celebrate around a giant hunk of slow-cooked (or even not-so-slowly cooked!) meat. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So, today KQED kicks off a new \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bbq\">five-part series about barbecue\u003c/a>. But it isn’t just about a specific cooking technique. Instead, the stories we publish this week will look at all of the different ways that a big, festive centerpiece to a meal—and all of the labor that goes into preparing it—help bring our Bay Area communities together. We’ll visit a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915581/lechon-filipino-american-party-oriental-food-market-concord\">Filipino lechon party\u003c/a> and get a behind-the-scenes peek at an \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915646/barbacoa-mejia-richmond-flea-market\">underground barbacoa operation\u003c/a>. We’ll learn about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915312/real-mongolian-barbecue-khorkhog-richmond\">Mongolian barbecue traditions\u003c/a> that don’t have anything to do with buffet-style chain restaurants. And yes, we’ll talk classic brisket and ribs too, but from the perspective of the guy who \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915489/gstacks-smokers-barbecue-welder-american-made\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">builds\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the smokers, and from someone who competes on the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13915387/amateur-bbq-competition-comic-dentist-pleasant-hill\">amateur circuit\u003c/a>. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915379\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915379\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg\" alt=\"A man lifts up the lid of a pressure cooker to reveal lamb and cabbage inside.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/06/038_KQEDArts_MongolianKhorkhog_05092022-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khorkhog, a Mongolian dish of pressure-cooked lamb, is just one of the many ways that barbecue helps different Bay Area communities come together. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Look: Even now, as we’re weighed down by the heaviness of each day’s horrifying news cycle, people are planning cookouts for this weekend. They’re making playlists and mixing spices for dry rubs. They’re selecting whole hogs and threading pieces of meat onto skewers. They’re going to build as big a fire as they need to. Because, especially now, everyone deserves the chance to cherish every last moment of joy with their people. Our hope is that this set of uniquely Bay Area barbecue stories provides inspiration for a few new ways to do just that.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Luke Tsai is KQED’s food editor.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Gumbo Tacos and Oxtail Birria Feed the People at This Word-of-Mouth Pop-Up in Oakland",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>¡Hella Hungry! is a weekly conversation with Bay Area foodmakers, exploring the region’s culinary culture through the mouth of a first-generation local.\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You won’t find any tasteless gimmicks at YumBobYum’s Taco Tuesday pop-up inside \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.smokinwoodsbbq.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Smokin Woods BBQ\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> on Telegraph Ave. in Oakland. Instead, you’ll find a neighborhood of folks converging over daps, playful shit talking and life-giving doses of habanero shrimp.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Each week, the Black-owned barbecue joint becomes a makeshift taqueria operated by \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/yumbobyum/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Chef Bob\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> (real name Gibran Garcia) and his staff of helpers who feed Oaklanders plates of his Southern Creole, Jamaican and Mexican remixes.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ll feel jubilant while filling up on jerk chicken tacos—made with harmonizing notes of smoked spices, sweet tang and Red Stripe-marinated pollo piled over two chewy tortillas. With a full bar available, you might order a round of dark Mexican lagers and a shot of tequila to go with it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the real showstopper is the gumbo taco, which Garcia prepares using his family’s Creole roux recipe and includes shrimp, crab, chicken, rice and a variety of slow-simmered veggies. It’s the only spot in the Bay where the magic of a gumbo pot gets strained then poured into an edible corn vessel.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s not this chef’s only claim to fame, though. The dude offers an array of other out-the-trunk specials, including his original oxtail birria tacos with consomé (made with whole oxtails that he chops and stews for 5 hours), elote popper fritters and fried cheese quesadillas that come with your choice of protein—I recommend the vegan soyrizo to balance out the carne you’ll be sure to consume your body weight in during your stay. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.instagram.com/p/Cah_RhsPjz2/\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you’re unaccustomed to the combination of a grilled flour tortilla with an outer layer of crunchy double-fried cheese, the gooey warmth of additional melted cheeses inside and a dash of red salsa on top, it’s a peak nirvana I’d argue no traditional quesadilla can achieve.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With enough clout to attract regular customers from as far away as Sacramento, this really is that spot—a word-of-mouth function with a lively sports bar atmosphere, where homies gather to hold space and joy despite all of life’s stressors.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And Chef Bob is just getting started. Eventually, he plans on selling his own gumbo seasoning, as well as a homestyle carne asada rub and an all-purpose spice. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Here’s what he has to say as an underground king of the Bay Area’s gumbo game.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This interview has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: center\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">********\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KQED: How did you become interested in culinary arts?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I started off cooking at home with my mom. Food is big in my family, so my mom taught me her grandmother’s recipes from Louisiana—Creole style cooking. Later, my first actual job was at Cheeseboard Pizza Collective in North Berkeley. I got fired because I was a high school kid who didn’t take it seriously; a few no shows and no calls and they kicked me out. Then, about 8 years ago, I started cooking my family’s gumbo—a two-pot gumbo—during Christmas. That was a big step for me. I was in college studying film at the time, and food was in my life but not really a serious passion yet. I worked at Raleigh’s on Telegraph [for a few years] and learned a lot. Then, I worked at Smokin Woods BBQ. During the pandemic, I wanted to make more money so that’s when I started selling plates from my house and it kicked off. I still work [at Smokin Woods] as a line cook on Wednesdays through Fridays.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13913599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13913599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"The chef, Gibran Garcia, holds a food tray of freshly made gumbo tacos while standing in the kitchen, with two cooks behind him\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1365x2048.jpg 1365w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1920x2880.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-scaled.jpg 1707w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chef Bob holding his gumbo taco creation, with a side of roux. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Where does your name Bob (or YumBobYum) come from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s just a nickname I came up with out of nowhere in high school and it stuck. People just know me as that. When I got into cooking more seriously, I added the “chef” part because I felt like I deserved it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What inspired you to combine elements of Southern cuisine and Caribbean flavors with Mexican food here in the Bay?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I was born in Berkeley. My dad lived in Oakland. My mom’s side is Black Creole from Louisiana, where I learned how to cook. My dad’s side is Black and Filipino. My dad was actually born in the Philippines and moved here as a young kid. A lot of what I cook is what I like about the Bay’s food scene. It’s a giant melting pot. There are so many different mixtures of people from different backgrounds. You can Yelp any random country’s type of food and cuisine and find a place within a short drive of where you live. I like to do that. I always eat all types of food. Brazilian, Peruvian, Sengalese. That’s the Bay. I grew up going to taco trucks and taquerias. My dad used to live in the 40s in East Oakland, and my friend’s mom used to always make us Mexican food. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13913201,arts_13896380']People assume [my food is] just gonna be the same Creole or Cajun twist, but it’s not just that. It’s my personal twist. I just like to make things that I enjoy eating myself. Like the oxtail, that’s Jamaican. I’ve never been to Jamaica, but I just love the food. I make things up. Anytime I debut a new menu item, it’s a great experience for me. I have a new menu item for this week, which is a chicken flauta. I usually get inspiration from elsewhere, but the flauta idea was just like, I haven’t had a flauta in hella long and we just fixed the deep fryer so I wanted to test that out. I had the ingredients and just made one from scratch on the spot. Usually what I end up doing if I have down time on my break is I’ll just make things for my coworkers or bartenders to try. I said fuck it, why not. I’ve never made a flauta.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Where do you go to find good gumbo, oxtail and birria around here?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I don’t really eat gumbo unless it’s made at home with my family. There are so many things that can go wrong, and I’m accustomed to the way we make it. Oxtail in the Bay is one of the hardest things to find, too. It’s just hard to find a place where the consistency is solid. There’s a truck by Lake Merritt that serves oxtails. I forget the name, but it’s the best I’ve had out here over the years. As far as birria, my favorite place started as a pop-up called La Santa Torta in Jack London. It’s one of the few birrias where I don’t need the consomé. I could just straight-up eat the birria by itself. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What are the struggles and challenges you’ve experienced in the Bay Area’s food industry as an independent foodmaker?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A lot of places don’t have soul anymore in the Bay. With gentrification, it’s hard to keep authentic places going. Some pop-ups will lose their space because rent went up, or because people in the area didn’t catch on quick enough and their finances didn’t last. We lose out on some good food for that reason. That sucks to see.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.instagram.com/p/CW6kcvqBkWe/\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/yumbobyum/\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">YumBobYum’s\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> pop-up is every Tuesday, 5 to 10 pm at 4307 Telegraph Ave. in Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>¡Hella Hungry! is a weekly conversation with Bay Area foodmakers, exploring the region’s culinary culture through the mouth of a first-generation local.\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You won’t find any tasteless gimmicks at YumBobYum’s Taco Tuesday pop-up inside \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.smokinwoodsbbq.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Smokin Woods BBQ\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> on Telegraph Ave. in Oakland. Instead, you’ll find a neighborhood of folks converging over daps, playful shit talking and life-giving doses of habanero shrimp.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Each week, the Black-owned barbecue joint becomes a makeshift taqueria operated by \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/yumbobyum/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Chef Bob\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> (real name Gibran Garcia) and his staff of helpers who feed Oaklanders plates of his Southern Creole, Jamaican and Mexican remixes.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ll feel jubilant while filling up on jerk chicken tacos—made with harmonizing notes of smoked spices, sweet tang and Red Stripe-marinated pollo piled over two chewy tortillas. With a full bar available, you might order a round of dark Mexican lagers and a shot of tequila to go with it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the real showstopper is the gumbo taco, which Garcia prepares using his family’s Creole roux recipe and includes shrimp, crab, chicken, rice and a variety of slow-simmered veggies. It’s the only spot in the Bay where the magic of a gumbo pot gets strained then poured into an edible corn vessel.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s not this chef’s only claim to fame, though. The dude offers an array of other out-the-trunk specials, including his original oxtail birria tacos with consomé (made with whole oxtails that he chops and stews for 5 hours), elote popper fritters and fried cheese quesadillas that come with your choice of protein—I recommend the vegan soyrizo to balance out the carne you’ll be sure to consume your body weight in during your stay. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you’re unaccustomed to the combination of a grilled flour tortilla with an outer layer of crunchy double-fried cheese, the gooey warmth of additional melted cheeses inside and a dash of red salsa on top, it’s a peak nirvana I’d argue no traditional quesadilla can achieve.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With enough clout to attract regular customers from as far away as Sacramento, this really is that spot—a word-of-mouth function with a lively sports bar atmosphere, where homies gather to hold space and joy despite all of life’s stressors.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And Chef Bob is just getting started. Eventually, he plans on selling his own gumbo seasoning, as well as a homestyle carne asada rub and an all-purpose spice. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Here’s what he has to say as an underground king of the Bay Area’s gumbo game.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This interview has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"text-align: center\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">********\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KQED: How did you become interested in culinary arts?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I started off cooking at home with my mom. Food is big in my family, so my mom taught me her grandmother’s recipes from Louisiana—Creole style cooking. Later, my first actual job was at Cheeseboard Pizza Collective in North Berkeley. I got fired because I was a high school kid who didn’t take it seriously; a few no shows and no calls and they kicked me out. Then, about 8 years ago, I started cooking my family’s gumbo—a two-pot gumbo—during Christmas. That was a big step for me. I was in college studying film at the time, and food was in my life but not really a serious passion yet. I worked at Raleigh’s on Telegraph [for a few years] and learned a lot. Then, I worked at Smokin Woods BBQ. During the pandemic, I wanted to make more money so that’s when I started selling plates from my house and it kicked off. I still work [at Smokin Woods] as a line cook on Wednesdays through Fridays.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13913599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13913599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"The chef, Gibran Garcia, holds a food tray of freshly made gumbo tacos while standing in the kitchen, with two cooks behind him\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1365x2048.jpg 1365w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-1920x2880.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/05/chefbob_bob-scaled.jpg 1707w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chef Bob holding his gumbo taco creation, with a side of roux. \u003ccite>(Alan Chazaro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Where does your name Bob (or YumBobYum) come from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s just a nickname I came up with out of nowhere in high school and it stuck. People just know me as that. When I got into cooking more seriously, I added the “chef” part because I felt like I deserved it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What inspired you to combine elements of Southern cuisine and Caribbean flavors with Mexican food here in the Bay?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I was born in Berkeley. My dad lived in Oakland. My mom’s side is Black Creole from Louisiana, where I learned how to cook. My dad’s side is Black and Filipino. My dad was actually born in the Philippines and moved here as a young kid. A lot of what I cook is what I like about the Bay’s food scene. It’s a giant melting pot. There are so many different mixtures of people from different backgrounds. You can Yelp any random country’s type of food and cuisine and find a place within a short drive of where you live. I like to do that. I always eat all types of food. Brazilian, Peruvian, Sengalese. That’s the Bay. I grew up going to taco trucks and taquerias. My dad used to live in the 40s in East Oakland, and my friend’s mom used to always make us Mexican food. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>People assume [my food is] just gonna be the same Creole or Cajun twist, but it’s not just that. It’s my personal twist. I just like to make things that I enjoy eating myself. Like the oxtail, that’s Jamaican. I’ve never been to Jamaica, but I just love the food. I make things up. Anytime I debut a new menu item, it’s a great experience for me. I have a new menu item for this week, which is a chicken flauta. I usually get inspiration from elsewhere, but the flauta idea was just like, I haven’t had a flauta in hella long and we just fixed the deep fryer so I wanted to test that out. I had the ingredients and just made one from scratch on the spot. Usually what I end up doing if I have down time on my break is I’ll just make things for my coworkers or bartenders to try. I said fuck it, why not. I’ve never made a flauta.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Where do you go to find good gumbo, oxtail and birria around here?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I don’t really eat gumbo unless it’s made at home with my family. There are so many things that can go wrong, and I’m accustomed to the way we make it. Oxtail in the Bay is one of the hardest things to find, too. It’s just hard to find a place where the consistency is solid. There’s a truck by Lake Merritt that serves oxtails. I forget the name, but it’s the best I’ve had out here over the years. As far as birria, my favorite place started as a pop-up called La Santa Torta in Jack London. It’s one of the few birrias where I don’t need the consomé. I could just straight-up eat the birria by itself. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What are the struggles and challenges you’ve experienced in the Bay Area’s food industry as an independent foodmaker?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A lot of places don’t have soul anymore in the Bay. With gentrification, it’s hard to keep authentic places going. Some pop-ups will lose their space because rent went up, or because people in the area didn’t catch on quick enough and their finances didn’t last. We lose out on some good food for that reason. That sucks to see.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"mindshift": {
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"order": 12
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"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"politicalbreakdown": {
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"title": "Political Breakdown",
"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
"airtime": "THU 6:30pm-7pm",
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"possible": {
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"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm",
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"pri-the-world": {
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"title": "PRI's The World: Latest Edition",
"info": "Each weekday, host Marco Werman and his team of producers bring you the world's most interesting stories in an hour of radio that reminds us just how small our planet really is.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 2pm-3pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-World-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"radiolab": {
"id": "radiolab",
"title": "Radiolab",
"info": "A two-time Peabody Award-winner, Radiolab is an investigation told through sounds and stories, and centered around one big idea. In the Radiolab world, information sounds like music and science and culture collide. Hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, the show is designed for listeners who demand skepticism, but appreciate wonder. WNYC Studios is the producer of other leading podcasts including Freakonomics Radio, Death, Sex & Money, On the Media and many more.",
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},
"reveal": {
"id": "reveal",
"title": "Reveal",
"info": "Created by The Center for Investigative Reporting and PRX, Reveal is public radios first one-hour weekly radio show and podcast dedicated to investigative reporting. Credible, fact based and without a partisan agenda, Reveal combines the power and artistry of driveway moment storytelling with data-rich reporting on critically important issues. The result is stories that inform and inspire, arming our listeners with information to right injustices, hold the powerful accountable and improve lives.Reveal is hosted by Al Letson and showcases the award-winning work of CIR and newsrooms large and small across the nation. In a radio and podcast market crowded with choices, Reveal focuses on important and often surprising stories that illuminate the world for our listeners.",
"airtime": "SAT 4pm-5pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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"link": "/radio/program/reveal",
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"rss": "http://feeds.revealradio.org/revealpodcast"
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},
"rightnowish": {
"id": "rightnowish",
"title": "Rightnowish",
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