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"content": "\u003cp>My first encounter with Jeff Turner, also known as \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thefreemanflow/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Freeman Flow\u003c/a>, was watching him conduct an impromptu freestyle exercise. It was a couple months ago, at a gathering at San Francisco’s District Six event space, where Turner hadn’t expected to perform—but when prompted, he was ready: I watched as the rapper/singer built an off-the-dome verse around any word suggested by an audience member, knocked his knuckles against the body of his guitar, strummed its strings and beat-boxed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I took my opportunity to get involved, and yelled out “Graduation!” since I was only about a week away from completing my undergraduate degree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner came back with:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Graduation! Oh my gosh, yes it’s time! \u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Graduation, finally you’ve reached the finish line\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>So congratulations, and yes indeed we’re gonna search\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>You did all of that motha motha effin homework\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This interaction sums up Turner as an artist: a master of instruments, freestyling and live street performance, whose music evokes a sense of community—with a focus on audience interaction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915857\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13915857\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-800x530.jpg\" alt=\"A young man in a backwards cap smiles as he raps into a microphone\" width=\"800\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-1020x676.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-768x509.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-1536x1017.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-2048x1356.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-1920x1272.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jeff Turner \u003ccite>(Courtesy Jeff Turner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I’m interested in keeping the soul in (music), and the human element in it, the more digital it all becomes,” says Turner. “I’ve always been interested in live performance that evokes the best out of people and makes real-life memories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner grew up in San Jose, where he was in the foster care system from the age of 7—an experience that had a “profound effect” on his passion for poetry, he says. Growing up in that system created “lots of intense feelings, and you need a place to put them,” says Turner.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In high school, he was introduced to rhyming on a beat when he noticed two groups of students facing off against each other in a hallway. Turner walked over to the groups, expecting to see a fight, but what he witnessed next changed his life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The students launched into a cypher—a collaborative, freestyle rap session—with one person beat-boxing and another rapping. “That piqued my curiosity,” Turner says. “The cypher is a place that you can say anything, and that’s a rare place for young people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GNJssDrfzc\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though his first time hopping into a cypher “didn’t go so well,” Turner says it lit up a conviction in him to perfect his performance skills.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He did just that every week for five years. From ages 21 to 25, Turner would meet up with other freestyle artists at a bar called Johnny V’s in downtown San Jose on Wednesday nights, and rhyme back and forth in front of crowds for five hours straight. Turner says those sessions “made me an excellent live performer because I understood what it was to perform with others, and in front of people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His street performance grind paid off when he joined the professional cypher circuit with the San Francisco group Team Backpack in 2012. The verses Turner spit as part of Team Backpack garnered millions of views online, and attracted fans to his produced music. Soon, he was getting booked to open for acts like Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, Andre Nickatina and Atmosphere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SR4UYw-MdAM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now 34, Turner says his love for connecting with others through live performance is stronger than ever. In part, he says, his passion was relit by feelings of isolation brought on by the pandemic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think we’re feeling a little stuck still in one spot. Maybe from being inside, we all got inside our heads. I know that I definitely was up in my head a lot, especially in the last couple of years during COVID,” Turner says. “This is my way of being my own therapist, and coming out of my mind and out of what I think, and learning about myself through others’ stories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Don Budd, a music producer who has collaborated with Turner for 11 years, says Turner cares deeply about how his music will translate to a live audience; in fact, that’s “always a major portion of what he’s thinking about” when making music in the studio. “I wish more people would think that way,” Budd says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RoUuAwaQM6A\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner’s latest album, \u003cem>WAMO\u003c/em>, was released in 2021; the title stands for We All Make One. That phrase “sums up a lot of what I see myself and my music doing in the world: reminding people of the ways that we are connected,” says the rapper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This philosophy has recently taken him to some far-out places to spread the \u003cem>WAMO\u003c/em> gospel. Turner speaks highly of his experiences performing in Chile, Spain and Italy, where language barriers presented an extra challenge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a level of conviction that you have to have, but also humility,” he says of performing in another country. “I have a lot of love in my heart, but I still have a lot of (difficult) things that I’m dealing with as well, and I think that they could feel that. I wasn’t too soft or too hard, just strong, like a peaceful warrior.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also learned a lot from his fans abroad. “I think expanding our world and learning (about) other cultures and languages is an obligation as an American because we’re so in our own little bubble,” he says. “It widened my ideas on what rhythm and flow is, and what hip-hop is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915861\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915861\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9.jpg\" alt=\"a rapper performs on stage in front of hundreds of fans with their arms in the air\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9-768x432.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jeff Turner performs in Santiago, Chile in 2018. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Jeff Turner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Soon, he’ll return to Europe to perform, including stops in Sweden, Spain and Italy. Until then, he’s giving back to the Bay Area community, as a “professional expert” teaching youth ages 11 to 24 music production and songwriting three times a week at the REACH Ashland Youth Center in San Leandro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Jeff Turner brings his full self to every class that these young people experience with him. He never phones it in,” says Joaquin Newman, the arts program manager at REACH Ashland Youth Center, adding that it’s sometimes tough to fit his schedule when Turner is touring the world—but they make it work because he’s so passionate about mentorship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He doesn’t come to our classroom flexing and showing what an amazing performer he is,” says Newman, who’s been working with Turner since 2015. “He brings his talent to these young people and it kind of sneaks up on them by just having a really strong relationship … he really sees the importance of everybody having the access to learn a creative craft. He sees it as an important element of building equity in our society.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner echoes this sentiment, noting that he wants “to highlight the purpose of music”: to bring folks together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Before there was celebrity people used music—and still do use music—to tell a story and to channel what they’re going through,” Turner says. “I think that music is pretty much a fire to gather around so people can see each other.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLB0EnnjYIs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" 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\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>My first encounter with Jeff Turner, also known as \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thefreemanflow/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Freeman Flow\u003c/a>, was watching him conduct an impromptu freestyle exercise. It was a couple months ago, at a gathering at San Francisco’s District Six event space, where Turner hadn’t expected to perform—but when prompted, he was ready: I watched as the rapper/singer built an off-the-dome verse around any word suggested by an audience member, knocked his knuckles against the body of his guitar, strummed its strings and beat-boxed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I took my opportunity to get involved, and yelled out “Graduation!” since I was only about a week away from completing my undergraduate degree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner came back with:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Graduation! Oh my gosh, yes it’s time! \u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Graduation, finally you’ve reached the finish line\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>So congratulations, and yes indeed we’re gonna search\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>You did all of that motha motha effin homework\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This interaction sums up Turner as an artist: a master of instruments, freestyling and live street performance, whose music evokes a sense of community—with a focus on audience interaction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915857\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13915857\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-800x530.jpg\" alt=\"A young man in a backwards cap smiles as he raps into a microphone\" width=\"800\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-1020x676.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-768x509.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-1536x1017.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-2048x1356.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-7-1920x1272.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jeff Turner \u003ccite>(Courtesy Jeff Turner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I’m interested in keeping the soul in (music), and the human element in it, the more digital it all becomes,” says Turner. “I’ve always been interested in live performance that evokes the best out of people and makes real-life memories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner grew up in San Jose, where he was in the foster care system from the age of 7—an experience that had a “profound effect” on his passion for poetry, he says. Growing up in that system created “lots of intense feelings, and you need a place to put them,” says Turner.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In high school, he was introduced to rhyming on a beat when he noticed two groups of students facing off against each other in a hallway. Turner walked over to the groups, expecting to see a fight, but what he witnessed next changed his life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The students launched into a cypher—a collaborative, freestyle rap session—with one person beat-boxing and another rapping. “That piqued my curiosity,” Turner says. “The cypher is a place that you can say anything, and that’s a rare place for young people.”\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/2GNJssDrfzc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/2GNJssDrfzc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Though his first time hopping into a cypher “didn’t go so well,” Turner says it lit up a conviction in him to perfect his performance skills.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He did just that every week for five years. From ages 21 to 25, Turner would meet up with other freestyle artists at a bar called Johnny V’s in downtown San Jose on Wednesday nights, and rhyme back and forth in front of crowds for five hours straight. Turner says those sessions “made me an excellent live performer because I understood what it was to perform with others, and in front of people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His street performance grind paid off when he joined the professional cypher circuit with the San Francisco group Team Backpack in 2012. The verses Turner spit as part of Team Backpack garnered millions of views online, and attracted fans to his produced music. Soon, he was getting booked to open for acts like Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, Andre Nickatina and Atmosphere.\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/SR4UYw-MdAM'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/SR4UYw-MdAM'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Now 34, Turner says his love for connecting with others through live performance is stronger than ever. In part, he says, his passion was relit by feelings of isolation brought on by the pandemic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think we’re feeling a little stuck still in one spot. Maybe from being inside, we all got inside our heads. I know that I definitely was up in my head a lot, especially in the last couple of years during COVID,” Turner says. “This is my way of being my own therapist, and coming out of my mind and out of what I think, and learning about myself through others’ stories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Don Budd, a music producer who has collaborated with Turner for 11 years, says Turner cares deeply about how his music will translate to a live audience; in fact, that’s “always a major portion of what he’s thinking about” when making music in the studio. “I wish more people would think that way,” Budd says.\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/RoUuAwaQM6A'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/RoUuAwaQM6A'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Turner’s latest album, \u003cem>WAMO\u003c/em>, was released in 2021; the title stands for We All Make One. That phrase “sums up a lot of what I see myself and my music doing in the world: reminding people of the ways that we are connected,” says the rapper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This philosophy has recently taken him to some far-out places to spread the \u003cem>WAMO\u003c/em> gospel. Turner speaks highly of his experiences performing in Chile, Spain and Italy, where language barriers presented an extra challenge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a level of conviction that you have to have, but also humility,” he says of performing in another country. “I have a lot of love in my heart, but I still have a lot of (difficult) things that I’m dealing with as well, and I think that they could feel that. I wasn’t too soft or too hard, just strong, like a peaceful warrior.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also learned a lot from his fans abroad. “I think expanding our world and learning (about) other cultures and languages is an obligation as an American because we’re so in our own little bubble,” he says. “It widened my ideas on what rhythm and flow is, and what hip-hop is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13915861\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13915861\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9.jpg\" alt=\"a rapper performs on stage in front of hundreds of fans with their arms in the air\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/07/Image-from-iOS-9-768x432.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jeff Turner performs in Santiago, Chile in 2018. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Jeff Turner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Soon, he’ll return to Europe to perform, including stops in Sweden, Spain and Italy. Until then, he’s giving back to the Bay Area community, as a “professional expert” teaching youth ages 11 to 24 music production and songwriting three times a week at the REACH Ashland Youth Center in San Leandro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Jeff Turner brings his full self to every class that these young people experience with him. He never phones it in,” says Joaquin Newman, the arts program manager at REACH Ashland Youth Center, adding that it’s sometimes tough to fit his schedule when Turner is touring the world—but they make it work because he’s so passionate about mentorship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He doesn’t come to our classroom flexing and showing what an amazing performer he is,” says Newman, who’s been working with Turner since 2015. “He brings his talent to these young people and it kind of sneaks up on them by just having a really strong relationship … he really sees the importance of everybody having the access to learn a creative craft. He sees it as an important element of building equity in our society.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turner echoes this sentiment, noting that he wants “to highlight the purpose of music”: to bring folks together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Before there was celebrity people used music—and still do use music—to tell a story and to channel what they’re going through,” Turner says. “I think that music is pretty much a fire to gather around so people can see each other.”\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/jLB0EnnjYIs'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/jLB0EnnjYIs'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "In San Jose, 'Dear Evan Hansen' Captures Social Media Anxiety On Stage",
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"content": "\u003cp>Everyone knows that social media causes anxiety. \u003ca href=\"https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7364393/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Study\u003c/a> after \u003ca href=\"https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5904786/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">study\u003c/a> has proved it, and in late 2021, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2021/09/30/1041864356/instagram-kids-safety-congress-hearing\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Senate hearings addressed it\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Conveying this modern reality through art isn’t an easy task. And while the movie adaptation of \u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em> was poorly made, overlong and \u003ca href=\"https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/dear_evan_hansen\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">terribly reviewed\u003c/a>, the musical of \u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em> (which runs June 8–19 in San Jose) captures it perfectly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Social media is a constant, ambient presence in the modern world, surrounding its users and informing their every move. In the stage set of \u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em>, this is made literal: social media feeds are projected upon giant pillars, towering over the action on stage. The posts and tweets are both the cause and commentariat of the story unfolding below, a ceaseless threat upon the musical’s high school-age characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And it’s no wonder that the main character, Evan Hansen, has extreme anxiety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em>‘s script is not without its flaws. I am not the first to point out the finale’s lack of comeuppance, or that some of the play’s online references are already obsolete and need updating. But for anyone who’s tried to coexist with social media and found it to be at first fascinating, then addicting, then boring, and ultimately paralyzing, the show captures the experience really, really well.\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>‘Dear Evan Hansen’ runs through June 19 at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts. \u003ca href=\"https://broadwaysanjose.com/shows/dear-evan-hansen/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Everyone knows that social media causes anxiety. \u003ca href=\"https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7364393/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Study\u003c/a> after \u003ca href=\"https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5904786/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">study\u003c/a> has proved it, and in late 2021, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2021/09/30/1041864356/instagram-kids-safety-congress-hearing\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Senate hearings addressed it\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Conveying this modern reality through art isn’t an easy task. And while the movie adaptation of \u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em> was poorly made, overlong and \u003ca href=\"https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/dear_evan_hansen\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">terribly reviewed\u003c/a>, the musical of \u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em> (which runs June 8–19 in San Jose) captures it perfectly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Social media is a constant, ambient presence in the modern world, surrounding its users and informing their every move. In the stage set of \u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em>, this is made literal: social media feeds are projected upon giant pillars, towering over the action on stage. The posts and tweets are both the cause and commentariat of the story unfolding below, a ceaseless threat upon the musical’s high school-age characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And it’s no wonder that the main character, Evan Hansen, has extreme anxiety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Dear Evan Hansen\u003c/em>‘s script is not without its flaws. I am not the first to point out the finale’s lack of comeuppance, or that some of the play’s online references are already obsolete and need updating. But for anyone who’s tried to coexist with social media and found it to be at first fascinating, then addicting, then boring, and ultimately paralyzing, the show captures the experience really, really well.\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>‘Dear Evan Hansen’ runs through June 19 at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts. \u003ca href=\"https://broadwaysanjose.com/shows/dear-evan-hansen/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>Welcome to Pass the Aux, where KQED Arts & Culture brings you our favorite new tracks by Bay Area artists. Check out past entries and submit a song for future coverage \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/pass-the-aux\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The last two years have been colored by loss and grief for so many—whether the literal loss of loved ones, or the profound reckoning the pandemic has forced on so many people’s careers, health, living spaces or social communities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bean Tupou, guitarist and vocalist of the Bay Area indie punk outfit \u003ca href=\"https://trythepie.bandcamp.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Try the Pie\u003c/a>, is no different. “I lost some family members and friends in 2020, so connecting with my family was a big part of my life during the pandemic,” says Tupou, who grew up in San Jose and moved to San Francisco in 2016. “Those losses took me a while to work through.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“New Dust,” Try the Pie’s first new release since their excellent 2015 full-length \u003cem>Domestication\u003c/em>, approaches the topic with a deceptive sweetness. An uptempo, melodic grunge track with heavy guitars, harmonies and an earworm of a hook, it culminates in a cacophony of reverb before Tupou delivers the final refrain: “And it scares me to know that I’m like dust / and it scares me to know that I’m exactly what you want.” It all calls to mind the sweet-salty pull of ’90s indie titans like Juliana Hatfield or the Breeders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s based on fleeting thoughts someone might have specifically after a loved one dies,” says Tupou. “I think it’s more of a reflection of how beautiful it can be to be close to someone and how finite that is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=2970449998/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recorded with \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13900577/interns-turned-engineers-take-the-reins-at-sfs-historic-different-fur-studios\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Different Fur’s Grace Coleman\u003c/a> at El Studio in San Francisco, the track shows off the new full-band sound after a few years as mostly a solo act: Bailey Lupo joined the band on bass in 2015, and second guitarist Laine Barriga joined in 2018; drummer Nick Lopez and Tupou are original members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“New Dust” is also Try the Pie’s first release since signing to the Philadelphia-based, queer-run label \u003ca href=\"https://getbetterrecords.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Get Better Records\u003c/a>, a move that Tupou says has opened up new possibilities for the group, adding that they have plans to release more music within the year. So no, fans won’t have to wait until 2029 for the next record. [aside postid='arts_11884077']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The last seven years, personally, were a huge period of both growth and change for me, and I was definitely focused on other aspects of my life (aside from music), and I honestly felt out of practice and out of touch in some ways,” says Tupou. “Signing with them has helped me get back on the horse.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>Welcome to Pass the Aux, where KQED Arts & Culture brings you our favorite new tracks by Bay Area artists. Check out past entries and submit a song for future coverage \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/pass-the-aux\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The last two years have been colored by loss and grief for so many—whether the literal loss of loved ones, or the profound reckoning the pandemic has forced on so many people’s careers, health, living spaces or social communities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bean Tupou, guitarist and vocalist of the Bay Area indie punk outfit \u003ca href=\"https://trythepie.bandcamp.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Try the Pie\u003c/a>, is no different. “I lost some family members and friends in 2020, so connecting with my family was a big part of my life during the pandemic,” says Tupou, who grew up in San Jose and moved to San Francisco in 2016. “Those losses took me a while to work through.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“New Dust,” Try the Pie’s first new release since their excellent 2015 full-length \u003cem>Domestication\u003c/em>, approaches the topic with a deceptive sweetness. An uptempo, melodic grunge track with heavy guitars, harmonies and an earworm of a hook, it culminates in a cacophony of reverb before Tupou delivers the final refrain: “And it scares me to know that I’m like dust / and it scares me to know that I’m exactly what you want.” It all calls to mind the sweet-salty pull of ’90s indie titans like Juliana Hatfield or the Breeders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s based on fleeting thoughts someone might have specifically after a loved one dies,” says Tupou. “I think it’s more of a reflection of how beautiful it can be to be close to someone and how finite that is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=2970449998/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recorded with \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13900577/interns-turned-engineers-take-the-reins-at-sfs-historic-different-fur-studios\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Different Fur’s Grace Coleman\u003c/a> at El Studio in San Francisco, the track shows off the new full-band sound after a few years as mostly a solo act: Bailey Lupo joined the band on bass in 2015, and second guitarist Laine Barriga joined in 2018; drummer Nick Lopez and Tupou are original members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“New Dust” is also Try the Pie’s first release since signing to the Philadelphia-based, queer-run label \u003ca href=\"https://getbetterrecords.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Get Better Records\u003c/a>, a move that Tupou says has opened up new possibilities for the group, adding that they have plans to release more music within the year. So no, fans won’t have to wait until 2029 for the next record. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "A Next-Gen Tea Company Blends Vietnamese American Memories to Create New Flavors",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]V[/dropcap]iolet Diana Nguyen has a vivid memory of dismounting from a moped onto the dirt road that led to her auntie’s house in Vietnam, where she sat down to a sumptuous spread of dragon fruit, longan and lychee while her relatives badgered her about her romantic life. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">How do you translate a memory like that into a flavor or an aroma? \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s the type of question Nguyen attempts to answer when she creates tea blends for her new business, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://kinleaftea.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Kin Leaf Tea\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Frequently sold out since it launched in November 2021,\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">the South Bay company offers blended loose leaf teas rooted in Nguyen’s Vietnamese American upbringing—her memories of pandan waffles and sugarcane juice from San Jose’s food courts and meals shared with family during childhood visits to Vietnam.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The company’s story begins at a place that has become\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eater.com/2019/11/5/20942192/bubble-tea-boba-asian-american-diaspora\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a crucial marker of identity for many of the Bay Area’s Asian Americans\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">: a boba shop. While working as a boba barista on the Peninsula in her early 20s, Nguyen found that the food service industry’s rapid pace, combined with an unlimited access to caffeine, caused her to develop an unhealthy relationship with tea. She would leave work with jitters. At home, Nguyen started to treat the process of brewing hot tea as a ritual, carefully watching the water turn golden. She found that slowly sipping a cup of tea with friends and family inspired thoughtful conversations too. “It really forced me to slow down, make smaller batches and brew them for one or two people,” Nguyen says. “In that moment of brewing, you have to be present.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nguyen remains an avid boba drinker, but she sees her new company as a retort to a fast-paced Silicon Valley fueled by caramelized tapioca pearls and 32-ounce cups of syrup-laden beverages. With Kin Leaf Tea, she wanted to combine the creative flavors found at boba shops with a more mindful approach, so she started exploring tea blends—mixtures of teas that may include flavorings like flowers, herbs and fruits. Typically, Nguyen says, these blends tend to use cheap filler ingredients and low-quality tea leaves that produce watery drinks. For example, lychee-flavored teas are often paired with overpowering amounts of rose: “It drove me nuts because I don’t want to drink potpourri on a daily basis.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908970\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908970\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3.jpg\" alt='Hot water poured from a kettle into a white ceramic mug next to a canister of \"Milky Pandan\" tea leaves.' width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The “Milky Pandan” blend is an ode to pandan waffles, a classic Vietnamese treat. \u003ccite>(Violet Diana Nguyen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So, Nguyen set about the task of creating new tea blends using high-quality ingredients. For inspiration, she turned to her Vietnamese American childhood. After all, her aromatic school lunches and the family pictures she took amongst durian trees all served as a marker of difference for her when she was growing up. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Her process begins with matching each category of tea—black, white, oolong and so forth—to a specific memory. She asks herself, “What memories do I have, what sweets have I eaten, or what other foods are common in Asian culture or Vietnam?”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“Kin Leaf is a part of a movement that is changing the way both first-generation immigrants \u003cem>and\u003c/em> people unfamiliar with Vietnam understand Vietnamese culture.”[/pullquote]For example, the pool of coffee that sits at the bottom of Vietnamese bánh flan cà phê inspired Nguyen’s choice of similarly dark black tea leaves for Kin Leaf’s Black Amber blend. Then, in order to select the specific varieties of black tea in the blend, Nguyen attempted to recreate the flan’s sweetness, roasted flavor and soothing iced-coffee base. She eventually arrived at a mixture that minimized astringency and bitterness while embracing the dessert’s honey and caramel flavor profiles. Slivered almonds complement the tea leaves and add nuttiness. The blend evokes flan, Vietnamese coffee and sweetened condensed milk despite having no added sugar. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Kin Leaf Tea currently offers three other blends: Abundance, a celebration of the dried fruit and candies shared during the Lunar New Year; Lychee’s Pearls, which evokes fruit platters laid out during family visits; and Milky Pandan, an ode to one of Nguyen’s favorite childhood treats—the aromatic, bright green pandan waffle.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Each new blend requires weeks of experimentation. Sometimes, Nguyen explains, an ingredient’s effects can be unpredictable. Dried dragon fruit produced teas with a vibrant pink color but lacked flavor. Pandan added a pleasant, grassy aroma to oolong tea.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Drawing inspiration from other second-generation Asian American businesses in the Bay Area like\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.socolachocolates.com/products/the-little-saigon-box\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Socola Chocolatier\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://www.cabakehouse.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">CA Bakehouse\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://christinescookie.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Christine’s Cookie Co.\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Nguyen believes Kin Leaf is a part of a movement that is changing the way both first-generation immigrants \u003cem>and\u003c/em> people unfamiliar with Vietnam understand Vietnamese culture. For instance, Nguyen is a fan of Socola’s “Little Saigon Box,” which uses unexpected flavors like ph\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">ở and sriracha in its truffles.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On the other hand, when Nguyen told her relatives in Vietnam about the origins of Kin Leaf’s Milky Pandan blend, one of them was surprised that she would draw inspiration from such a common, everyday food. Why turn a waffle into a tea blend? Her response: “It takes a lot of experience with being proud of your heritage.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“[Kin Leaf Tea] is me saying [to my parents], ‘This is what I learned from you and your work ethic.'”[/pullquote]Nguyen, who holds a master’s degree in sustainable international development, explains that academics often reduce developing countries like Vietnam to their agricultural and economic outputs. But second-generation businesses like Kin Leaf Tea believe there’s value in telling stories about their cultures’ everyday flavors. Nguyen struggles to find the right word to explain Kin Leaf’s relationship to Vietnamese culture—elevate, change, reshape? She knows that rich cultural traditions have long existed in Vietnam, but she also believes her worldview can inspire new ways to celebrate those traditions.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13908681,arts_13904913,arts_13902507']For Nguyen, Kin Leaf Tea is all about “changing perspectives, getting people excited about something that has already been there, but showing them how it’s exciting to me because I see it differently.” Her tea blends are a way of publicly embracing dishes that she was mocked for throughout school, even in college. They honor and remix longstanding Vietnamese food traditions from the perspective of a second-generation Vietnamese American who has had to learn to love them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A lifelong hustler, Nguyen credits her immigrant parents for inspiring her to turn this interest in tea into a business. Wanting to chip in while her mother worked tiring jobs in the fast-food industry, a younger Nguyen would fill up hundreds of water balloons and sell them for quarters. Now, Nguyen hopes that her parents can see Kin Leaf Tea as an expression of gratitude, even if\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.huffpost.com/archive/ca/entry/proud-of-you-children-of-immigrant-parents_b_11397946\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">cultural barriers make this a difficult conversation to have\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I feel that in Asian cultures, it’s very common to not express your feelings or your thoughts,” Nguyen explains. “[Kin Leaf Tea] is me saying [to my parents], ‘This is what I learned from you and your work ethic.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">V\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>iolet Diana Nguyen has a vivid memory of dismounting from a moped onto the dirt road that led to her auntie’s house in Vietnam, where she sat down to a sumptuous spread of dragon fruit, longan and lychee while her relatives badgered her about her romantic life. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">How do you translate a memory like that into a flavor or an aroma? \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s the type of question Nguyen attempts to answer when she creates tea blends for her new business, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://kinleaftea.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Kin Leaf Tea\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Frequently sold out since it launched in November 2021,\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">the South Bay company offers blended loose leaf teas rooted in Nguyen’s Vietnamese American upbringing—her memories of pandan waffles and sugarcane juice from San Jose’s food courts and meals shared with family during childhood visits to Vietnam.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The company’s story begins at a place that has become\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eater.com/2019/11/5/20942192/bubble-tea-boba-asian-american-diaspora\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a crucial marker of identity for many of the Bay Area’s Asian Americans\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">: a boba shop. While working as a boba barista on the Peninsula in her early 20s, Nguyen found that the food service industry’s rapid pace, combined with an unlimited access to caffeine, caused her to develop an unhealthy relationship with tea. She would leave work with jitters. At home, Nguyen started to treat the process of brewing hot tea as a ritual, carefully watching the water turn golden. She found that slowly sipping a cup of tea with friends and family inspired thoughtful conversations too. “It really forced me to slow down, make smaller batches and brew them for one or two people,” Nguyen says. “In that moment of brewing, you have to be present.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nguyen remains an avid boba drinker, but she sees her new company as a retort to a fast-paced Silicon Valley fueled by caramelized tapioca pearls and 32-ounce cups of syrup-laden beverages. With Kin Leaf Tea, she wanted to combine the creative flavors found at boba shops with a more mindful approach, so she started exploring tea blends—mixtures of teas that may include flavorings like flowers, herbs and fruits. Typically, Nguyen says, these blends tend to use cheap filler ingredients and low-quality tea leaves that produce watery drinks. For example, lychee-flavored teas are often paired with overpowering amounts of rose: “It drove me nuts because I don’t want to drink potpourri on a daily basis.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908970\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908970\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3.jpg\" alt='Hot water poured from a kettle into a white ceramic mug next to a canister of \"Milky Pandan\" tea leaves.' width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/02/image_6483441-3-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The “Milky Pandan” blend is an ode to pandan waffles, a classic Vietnamese treat. \u003ccite>(Violet Diana Nguyen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So, Nguyen set about the task of creating new tea blends using high-quality ingredients. For inspiration, she turned to her Vietnamese American childhood. After all, her aromatic school lunches and the family pictures she took amongst durian trees all served as a marker of difference for her when she was growing up. \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\">Her process begins with matching each category of tea—black, white, oolong and so forth—to a specific memory. She asks herself, “What memories do I have, what sweets have I eaten, or what other foods are common in Asian culture or Vietnam?”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“Kin Leaf is a part of a movement that is changing the way both first-generation immigrants \u003cem>and\u003c/em> people unfamiliar with Vietnam understand Vietnamese culture.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>For example, the pool of coffee that sits at the bottom of Vietnamese bánh flan cà phê inspired Nguyen’s choice of similarly dark black tea leaves for Kin Leaf’s Black Amber blend. Then, in order to select the specific varieties of black tea in the blend, Nguyen attempted to recreate the flan’s sweetness, roasted flavor and soothing iced-coffee base. She eventually arrived at a mixture that minimized astringency and bitterness while embracing the dessert’s honey and caramel flavor profiles. Slivered almonds complement the tea leaves and add nuttiness. The blend evokes flan, Vietnamese coffee and sweetened condensed milk despite having no added sugar. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Kin Leaf Tea currently offers three other blends: Abundance, a celebration of the dried fruit and candies shared during the Lunar New Year; Lychee’s Pearls, which evokes fruit platters laid out during family visits; and Milky Pandan, an ode to one of Nguyen’s favorite childhood treats—the aromatic, bright green pandan waffle.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Each new blend requires weeks of experimentation. Sometimes, Nguyen explains, an ingredient’s effects can be unpredictable. Dried dragon fruit produced teas with a vibrant pink color but lacked flavor. Pandan added a pleasant, grassy aroma to oolong tea.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Drawing inspiration from other second-generation Asian American businesses in the Bay Area like\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.socolachocolates.com/products/the-little-saigon-box\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Socola Chocolatier\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://www.cabakehouse.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">CA Bakehouse\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://christinescookie.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Christine’s Cookie Co.\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Nguyen believes Kin Leaf is a part of a movement that is changing the way both first-generation immigrants \u003cem>and\u003c/em> people unfamiliar with Vietnam understand Vietnamese culture. For instance, Nguyen is a fan of Socola’s “Little Saigon Box,” which uses unexpected flavors like ph\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">ở and sriracha in its truffles.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On the other hand, when Nguyen told her relatives in Vietnam about the origins of Kin Leaf’s Milky Pandan blend, one of them was surprised that she would draw inspiration from such a common, everyday food. Why turn a waffle into a tea blend? Her response: “It takes a lot of experience with being proud of your heritage.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“[Kin Leaf Tea] is me saying [to my parents], ‘This is what I learned from you and your work ethic.'”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Nguyen, who holds a master’s degree in sustainable international development, explains that academics often reduce developing countries like Vietnam to their agricultural and economic outputs. But second-generation businesses like Kin Leaf Tea believe there’s value in telling stories about their cultures’ everyday flavors. Nguyen struggles to find the right word to explain Kin Leaf’s relationship to Vietnamese culture—elevate, change, reshape? She knows that rich cultural traditions have long existed in Vietnam, but she also believes her worldview can inspire new ways to celebrate those traditions.\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 Nguyen, Kin Leaf Tea is all about “changing perspectives, getting people excited about something that has already been there, but showing them how it’s exciting to me because I see it differently.” Her tea blends are a way of publicly embracing dishes that she was mocked for throughout school, even in college. They honor and remix longstanding Vietnamese food traditions from the perspective of a second-generation Vietnamese American who has had to learn to love them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A lifelong hustler, Nguyen credits her immigrant parents for inspiring her to turn this interest in tea into a business. Wanting to chip in while her mother worked tiring jobs in the fast-food industry, a younger Nguyen would fill up hundreds of water balloons and sell them for quarters. Now, Nguyen hopes that her parents can see Kin Leaf Tea as an expression of gratitude, even if\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.huffpost.com/archive/ca/entry/proud-of-you-children-of-immigrant-parents_b_11397946\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">cultural barriers make this a difficult conversation to have\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \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 feel that in Asian cultures, it’s very common to not express your feelings or your thoughts,” Nguyen explains. “[Kin Leaf Tea] is me saying [to my parents], ‘This is what I learned from you and your work ethic.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Three New Ways to Celebrate Tết in the Bay Area",
"headTitle": "Three New Ways to Celebrate Tết in the Bay Area | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]D[/dropcap]eep clean your home, settle your debts, and get your haircut. Lunar New Year is just around the corner. In Vietnamese culture, the holiday is known as Tết, and this year it falls on Feb. 1. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Here in the Bay Area, Tết provides no shortage of opportunities to participate in tradition and culture, but the holiday and its seasonal eats aren’t prescribed or stagnant. Diasporic Vietnamese communities have always been proficient at recreating nostalgic homeland flavors with local ingredients—incorporating, for instance, Mexican jalapeno as garnish for what we know as American-style phở. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Now, nearly 50 years after the first wave of refugees arrived in the United States, Vietnamese Americans are still finding ways to augment the foods associated with Tết. In San Francisco, San Jose and beyond, young, 1.5- and second-generation Vietnamese chefs are using banana leaves instead of arrow leaves for rice cakes or lucky sticky rice dyed with red coloring in place of baby jackfruits. In doing so, pop-ups like Het Say Cali, Claws of Mantis and Bánh Chưng Collective pay homage to tradition while also helping to evolve Vietnamese American cuisine—and creating more inclusive, new communities along the way.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hết Sẩy Cali\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/hetsay.cali/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hết Sẩy Cali\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a colorful pop-up at the Rose Garden Farmers Market in San Jose, approaches Lunar New Year as just one part of its founders’ continued practice in honoring the craftsmanship of regional Vietnamese cuisine—always with plenty of verve and style. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Every Saturday, you’ll find the booth decorated in vibrant Vietnamese opera paraphernalia. Owners DuyAn and Hieu Le, who dress just as colorfully, became engaged after only three days of knowing one another. Their Tết offering is a continuation of their decade-long love story—one that includes a passion for DuyAn’s Miền Tây heritage, the Northern California landscape of Hieu’s upbringing and the couple’s desire to carry on the culinary legacy of Eastside San Jose.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For a brief while the couple traveled across the Bay Area, until they noticed an aging generation of Vietnamese cooks retiring in their old neighborhood. The slow but steady decline of legacy restaurants inspired the couple to hunker down in San Jose and focus on making their own contribution to the “ESSJ Vietnamese” food scene. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908704\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Overhead view of banh tet, a kind of savory rice cake served on top of a banana leaf.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hết Sẩy Cali’s main Tết offering this year is bánh tét thịt chiên, a kind of savory pan-fried rice cake. \u003ccite>(Hết Sẩy Cali)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At their Saturday, Jan. 29 farmers market pop-up, the duo will celebrate Tết by passing out lucky red envelopes to children and encouraging customers to dress in áo dài and áo bà ba. This holiday, they’re serving bánh tét thịt chiên, a pan-fried version of the southern Vietnamese steamed glutinous rice cake that’s most commonly filled with pork belly and mung beans. Even as Hết Sẩy references these familiar flavors, Hieu clarifies that he’s “not romanticizing the past either,” unlike older-generation cooks who tend to prefer the 1970s Saigon-centric style of Vietnamese food. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908709\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908709\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An oatmeal cooking on a plate, on top of a stack of books.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-scaled.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An oatmeal cookie with hoshigaki and creme fraiche is one of Hết Sẩy’s not-so-traditional Lunar New Year items. \u003ccite>(Hết Sẩy Cali)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While the Les follow tradition—cooking glutinous rice for over 10 hours with banana leaves, coconut cream, black beans, mung bean puree and pork belly—they also incorporate a very Californian emphasis on artisan ingredients and processes. They source Koda farm glutinous rice for the cylindrical rice cake, and top the dish with pickled dried shrimp, muskmelons, Asian pear and housemade fermented shrimp-and-krill sa tế.\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On the weekend before the holiday, you’ll also be able to order a serving of thịt kho, Hết Sẩy’s homey version of the classic caramelized pork belly stew.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In addition to their entrees, a special selection of pantry items inspired by trips to Vietnam’s Miền Tây region are available for purchase. Bring home your own full-sized bánh tét or its vegan counterpart, bánh tét chuối sứ, which replaces the pork belly filling with a sweet Southeast Asian banana. To commemorate DuyAn’s hometown specialty, Hết Sẩy offers two types of Chinese sausage: Mekong lạp xưởng, which is air-dried using all-natural ingredients, and lạp xưởng hot vit, a version with salted duck egg. While their homemade tôm ớt sa tế—a funk-filled, umami-packed fermented chili oil made with wild shrimp brine—holds true to form, the real star is the vegan ớt sa tế chay, made with preserved lemons from a maker in DuyAn’s hometown. It brings a one-of-a-kind, pungent zest that can be served with rice and noodles, as a soup base or however you enjoy chili oils.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Busy that weekend and can’t make it to San Jose? Order a Lunar New Year meal kit for pick-up in the East Bay, Peninsula, SF and North Bay exclusive to the\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/discoverpastel/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Pastel delivery service\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The meal kit contains a flakey patê sô starter; thịt kho served atop bánh tét with pickles; and a fudgy style oatmeal cookie with hoshigaki, creme fraiche and other fixins.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Claws of Mantis\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When asked to describe \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/clawsofmantis/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Claws of Mantis’\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> cooking style, chef Kevin Trang echoes the founders of Hết Sẩy Cali: “Eastside San Jose Vietnamese food.” The \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://clawsofmantis.com/about\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Michelin-experienced chefs\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> behind the buzzy pop-up restaurant started out selling takeout dinner sets during the first summer of the pandemic, with a menu that interprets memories from Trang’s childhood in the Vietnamese enclave. The pop-up’s approach to Tết is similarly nostalgic.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For 2021’s Year of the Ox, which arrived just before vaccines were widely distributed in the U.S., the Claws crew wanted to provide a way for people to enjoy festivities at home in lieu of being able to host large gatherings. So, they created the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CK1v1PjBuEm/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Tết Power Pack,”\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a 10-item takeaway New Year’s spread for four. Trang made sure to include all of the important symbolic dishes—banh tét for gratitude to the ancestors, thịt kho for wealth and prosperity, xôi gấc for fortune and joy, mì xào for long life and chives for everlasting eternity. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.instagram.com/p/CLcatNxBkkU/\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It was for Vietnamese people either missing their families for Tết,” Trang explains, “or people not necessarily knowing why we do the things we do.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The set also included bầu cua tôm cá, a gambling game popular during the holiday (putting our red envelope money to work!), and variations on the game’s rules. Trang realized that each member of his crew grew up with their own way of playing the game: “Everyone had different rules. Sharing different traditions. Making it our way.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This year’s Tết set ($125 for two people) is available for \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CZcZBAqP7vy/?utm_medium=copy_link\">pickup on Sunday, Feb. 6\u003c/a>. It features bánh tét, crab garlic noodles and half a fish sauce–glazed chicken\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bánh Chưng Collective\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Whether you’ve stayed up late making pots of bánh chưng or this is the first time you’ve heard of it, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.banhchungcollective.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bánh Chưng Collective\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> welcomes you to their 10th annual workshop on Saturday, Jan. 29 via Zoom. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The workshops began as a way for Diep Tran, the community organizer-turned-restauranter and now R&D chef at \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://redboatfishsauce.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Red Boat Fish Sauce\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, to create her own New Year’s traditions. After coming out to her family, she didn’t feel as welcome at Tết gatherings. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I really missed [making bánh chưng],” Tran explains, referring to bánh tét’s northern cousin, the only difference being the cakes’ square shape. “I couldn’t remember how to do it. So maybe, I thought, I could just make it for myself.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fortunately, she was far from alone. Many of her queer friends had similar experiences with their families—they, too, were “people that also feel like they had to mute themselves when they go to these functions.” Tran’s informal bánh chưng parties helped them build a new sense of community. Together, they formed the Bánh Chưng Collective.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908707\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 805px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908707\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung.jpg\" alt=\"A spread of ingredients for making banh chung, a northern Vietnamese steamed rice cake.\" width=\"805\" height=\"574\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung.jpg 805w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung-800x570.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung-768x548.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 805px) 100vw, 805px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Bánh Chưng Collective’s virtual workshop will teach participants to prepare bánh chưng—a kind of savory rice cake popular in northern Vietnamese—in the comfort of their own home. \u003ccite>(Bánh Chưng Collective)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After hosting a second private bánh chưng party in Los Angeles, where she’s based, Tran decided to open the third year’s edition to the public, attracting attendees across generations. When the pandemic forced the workshop online, Tran worried that the collective’s momentum would come to halt. Instead she found that the online format brought in more attendees than ever. This year, over 450 people, from the West Coast to the East, registered for the class. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tran notes that it’s not merely a queer-friendly space, but instead a queer-centered one. She reflects on her own ostracization as a queer woman, and the ways that this collective has allowed her to reclaim her heritage, which she would like to extend to both LGBT and diasporic youth: “If you’re young [and] you don’t have a connection to culture, you’re not making a good bánh chưng. Somehow you think you’re not ‘Vietnamese enough.’ I always start the class telling people to let go of those expectations. We’re not here to perform ‘enough.’” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This year, Bay Area attendees who were lucky enough to order a bánh chưng kit before they sold out can pick them up from the San Francisco-based Vietnamese catering business \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.noodlegirlrestaurant.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Noodle Girl\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Chef Hang Truong will include a Đà Lạt style papaya salad, the snack she spent all of her lucky money on as a child. Class begins with Tran demonstrating the overall process over Zoom, and then transitions to small breakout groups where attendees will learn more intimately with an instructor. Small groups will learn how to create banana leaf boxes, assemble the bánh chưng, and cook them on the stovetop or with a pressure cooker. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Diep Tran of the Bánh Chưng Collective\"]“You don’t have to worry about what other generations have done. Culture belongs to you. It belongs to every generation.”[/pullquote]Though the class features bánh chưng at its simplest, Tran encourages curiosity and creativity. In the last decade, the collective has experimented with sous vide bánh chưng, resulting in the “most béo (rich and fatty) bánh chưng ever” and even an Elvis bánh chưng, adding banana, bacon and maple syrup. She encourages students to make bánh chưng with butter, shallots, mushrooms, crab—whatever your heart desires: “We don’t care; we’re a bunch of queers!” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904913,arts_13908103,arts_13905293']At the end of the class, participants will have four delightful handmade cakes to eat and share with loved ones. Although kits are sold out, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/banh-chung-collective-2022-kit-with-zoom-class-tickets-235348923967\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">tickets are still available for the Zoom class\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> for those who are willing to make a grocery store run for ingredients and supplies. A recording of the session will also be available for those who want to make bánh chưng at their leisure. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the heart of these three next-generation Tết offerings is a focus on education and community-building. The chefs behind pop-ups like Hết Sẩy Cali and Claws of Mantis scoff at the notion that “tradition” is rigid and uncompromising. Instead, they celebrate the new year on their own terms by educating customers who haven’t had a chance to learn about their heritage with empathetic welcomes, starting with what’s on the plate.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“They get to engage in culture on their terms,” Bánh Chưng Collective’s Tran says of the Vietnamese Americans who attend her workshops. “You don’t have to worry about what other generations have done. Culture belongs to you. It belongs to every generation.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Update: This article has been updated to include details about Claws of Mantis’ \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tết set—a late addition on the part of the pop-up.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\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>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/hetsay.cali/?hl=en\">Hết Sẩy Cali’s\u003c/a> Jan. 29 Lunar New Year event will take place at the\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.hotplate.com/hetsay\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Rose Garden Farmers Market (577 Dana Ave., San Jose)\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, or order the pop-up’s New Year’s take-home kit for 1/28 and 1/29 pick-up on \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discoverpastel.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pastel\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/clawsofmantis/?hl=en\">Claws of Mantis’\u003c/a> take-home Tết kit is available for pickup on Sunday, Feb. 6 at Joint Venture Kitchen (167 11th St, San Francisco). Limited quantities are for pre-order on \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.exploretock.com/clawsofmantissanfrancisco\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tock\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thebanhchungcollective/?hl=en\">Bánh Chưng Collective’s\u003c/a> virtual bánh chưng workshop will take place on Jan. 29, from 10 to 11:30am PT. The prepared kits are sold out, but tickets are still available via \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/banh-chung-collective-2022-kit-with-zoom-class-tickets-235348923967\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventbrite\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Vietnamese Americans in the diaspora are creating their own Lunar New Year food traditions.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">D\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>eep clean your home, settle your debts, and get your haircut. Lunar New Year is just around the corner. In Vietnamese culture, the holiday is known as Tết, and this year it falls on Feb. 1. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Here in the Bay Area, Tết provides no shortage of opportunities to participate in tradition and culture, but the holiday and its seasonal eats aren’t prescribed or stagnant. Diasporic Vietnamese communities have always been proficient at recreating nostalgic homeland flavors with local ingredients—incorporating, for instance, Mexican jalapeno as garnish for what we know as American-style phở. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Now, nearly 50 years after the first wave of refugees arrived in the United States, Vietnamese Americans are still finding ways to augment the foods associated with Tết. In San Francisco, San Jose and beyond, young, 1.5- and second-generation Vietnamese chefs are using banana leaves instead of arrow leaves for rice cakes or lucky sticky rice dyed with red coloring in place of baby jackfruits. In doing so, pop-ups like Het Say Cali, Claws of Mantis and Bánh Chưng Collective pay homage to tradition while also helping to evolve Vietnamese American cuisine—and creating more inclusive, new communities along the way.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hết Sẩy Cali\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/hetsay.cali/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hết Sẩy Cali\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a colorful pop-up at the Rose Garden Farmers Market in San Jose, approaches Lunar New Year as just one part of its founders’ continued practice in honoring the craftsmanship of regional Vietnamese cuisine—always with plenty of verve and style. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Every Saturday, you’ll find the booth decorated in vibrant Vietnamese opera paraphernalia. Owners DuyAn and Hieu Le, who dress just as colorfully, became engaged after only three days of knowing one another. Their Tết offering is a continuation of their decade-long love story—one that includes a passion for DuyAn’s Miền Tây heritage, the Northern California landscape of Hieu’s upbringing and the couple’s desire to carry on the culinary legacy of Eastside San Jose.\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\">For a brief while the couple traveled across the Bay Area, until they noticed an aging generation of Vietnamese cooks retiring in their old neighborhood. The slow but steady decline of legacy restaurants inspired the couple to hunker down in San Jose and focus on making their own contribution to the “ESSJ Vietnamese” food scene. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908704\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Overhead view of banh tet, a kind of savory rice cake served on top of a banana leaf.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_banh-tet-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hết Sẩy Cali’s main Tết offering this year is bánh tét thịt chiên, a kind of savory pan-fried rice cake. \u003ccite>(Hết Sẩy Cali)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At their Saturday, Jan. 29 farmers market pop-up, the duo will celebrate Tết by passing out lucky red envelopes to children and encouraging customers to dress in áo dài and áo bà ba. This holiday, they’re serving bánh tét thịt chiên, a pan-fried version of the southern Vietnamese steamed glutinous rice cake that’s most commonly filled with pork belly and mung beans. Even as Hết Sẩy references these familiar flavors, Hieu clarifies that he’s “not romanticizing the past either,” unlike older-generation cooks who tend to prefer the 1970s Saigon-centric style of Vietnamese food. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908709\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908709\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An oatmeal cooking on a plate, on top of a stack of books.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-scaled.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/het-say_cookie-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An oatmeal cookie with hoshigaki and creme fraiche is one of Hết Sẩy’s not-so-traditional Lunar New Year items. \u003ccite>(Hết Sẩy Cali)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While the Les follow tradition—cooking glutinous rice for over 10 hours with banana leaves, coconut cream, black beans, mung bean puree and pork belly—they also incorporate a very Californian emphasis on artisan ingredients and processes. They source Koda farm glutinous rice for the cylindrical rice cake, and top the dish with pickled dried shrimp, muskmelons, Asian pear and housemade fermented shrimp-and-krill sa tế.\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On the weekend before the holiday, you’ll also be able to order a serving of thịt kho, Hết Sẩy’s homey version of the classic caramelized pork belly stew.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In addition to their entrees, a special selection of pantry items inspired by trips to Vietnam’s Miền Tây region are available for purchase. Bring home your own full-sized bánh tét or its vegan counterpart, bánh tét chuối sứ, which replaces the pork belly filling with a sweet Southeast Asian banana. To commemorate DuyAn’s hometown specialty, Hết Sẩy offers two types of Chinese sausage: Mekong lạp xưởng, which is air-dried using all-natural ingredients, and lạp xưởng hot vit, a version with salted duck egg. While their homemade tôm ớt sa tế—a funk-filled, umami-packed fermented chili oil made with wild shrimp brine—holds true to form, the real star is the vegan ớt sa tế chay, made with preserved lemons from a maker in DuyAn’s hometown. It brings a one-of-a-kind, pungent zest that can be served with rice and noodles, as a soup base or however you enjoy chili oils.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Busy that weekend and can’t make it to San Jose? Order a Lunar New Year meal kit for pick-up in the East Bay, Peninsula, SF and North Bay exclusive to the\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/discoverpastel/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Pastel delivery service\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The meal kit contains a flakey patê sô starter; thịt kho served atop bánh tét with pickles; and a fudgy style oatmeal cookie with hoshigaki, creme fraiche and other fixins.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Claws of Mantis\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When asked to describe \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/clawsofmantis/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Claws of Mantis’\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> cooking style, chef Kevin Trang echoes the founders of Hết Sẩy Cali: “Eastside San Jose Vietnamese food.” The \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://clawsofmantis.com/about\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Michelin-experienced chefs\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> behind the buzzy pop-up restaurant started out selling takeout dinner sets during the first summer of the pandemic, with a menu that interprets memories from Trang’s childhood in the Vietnamese enclave. The pop-up’s approach to Tết is similarly nostalgic.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For 2021’s Year of the Ox, which arrived just before vaccines were widely distributed in the U.S., the Claws crew wanted to provide a way for people to enjoy festivities at home in lieu of being able to host large gatherings. So, they created the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CK1v1PjBuEm/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Tết Power Pack,”\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a 10-item takeaway New Year’s spread for four. Trang made sure to include all of the important symbolic dishes—banh tét for gratitude to the ancestors, thịt kho for wealth and prosperity, xôi gấc for fortune and joy, mì xào for long life and chives for everlasting eternity. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It was for Vietnamese people either missing their families for Tết,” Trang explains, “or people not necessarily knowing why we do the things we do.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The set also included bầu cua tôm cá, a gambling game popular during the holiday (putting our red envelope money to work!), and variations on the game’s rules. Trang realized that each member of his crew grew up with their own way of playing the game: “Everyone had different rules. Sharing different traditions. Making it our way.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This year’s Tết set ($125 for two people) is available for \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CZcZBAqP7vy/?utm_medium=copy_link\">pickup on Sunday, Feb. 6\u003c/a>. It features bánh tét, crab garlic noodles and half a fish sauce–glazed chicken\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bánh Chưng Collective\u003c/span>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Whether you’ve stayed up late making pots of bánh chưng or this is the first time you’ve heard of it, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.banhchungcollective.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Bánh Chưng Collective\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> welcomes you to their 10th annual workshop on Saturday, Jan. 29 via Zoom. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The workshops began as a way for Diep Tran, the community organizer-turned-restauranter and now R&D chef at \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://redboatfishsauce.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Red Boat Fish Sauce\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, to create her own New Year’s traditions. After coming out to her family, she didn’t feel as welcome at Tết gatherings. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I really missed [making bánh chưng],” Tran explains, referring to bánh tét’s northern cousin, the only difference being the cakes’ square shape. “I couldn’t remember how to do it. So maybe, I thought, I could just make it for myself.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fortunately, she was far from alone. Many of her queer friends had similar experiences with their families—they, too, were “people that also feel like they had to mute themselves when they go to these functions.” Tran’s informal bánh chưng parties helped them build a new sense of community. Together, they formed the Bánh Chưng Collective.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13908707\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 805px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13908707\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung.jpg\" alt=\"A spread of ingredients for making banh chung, a northern Vietnamese steamed rice cake.\" width=\"805\" height=\"574\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung.jpg 805w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung-800x570.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/01/BanhChung-768x548.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 805px) 100vw, 805px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Bánh Chưng Collective’s virtual workshop will teach participants to prepare bánh chưng—a kind of savory rice cake popular in northern Vietnamese—in the comfort of their own home. \u003ccite>(Bánh Chưng Collective)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After hosting a second private bánh chưng party in Los Angeles, where she’s based, Tran decided to open the third year’s edition to the public, attracting attendees across generations. When the pandemic forced the workshop online, Tran worried that the collective’s momentum would come to halt. Instead she found that the online format brought in more attendees than ever. This year, over 450 people, from the West Coast to the East, registered for the class. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tran notes that it’s not merely a queer-friendly space, but instead a queer-centered one. She reflects on her own ostracization as a queer woman, and the ways that this collective has allowed her to reclaim her heritage, which she would like to extend to both LGBT and diasporic youth: “If you’re young [and] you don’t have a connection to culture, you’re not making a good bánh chưng. Somehow you think you’re not ‘Vietnamese enough.’ I always start the class telling people to let go of those expectations. We’re not here to perform ‘enough.’” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This year, Bay Area attendees who were lucky enough to order a bánh chưng kit before they sold out can pick them up from the San Francisco-based Vietnamese catering business \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.noodlegirlrestaurant.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Noodle Girl\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Chef Hang Truong will include a Đà Lạt style papaya salad, the snack she spent all of her lucky money on as a child. Class begins with Tran demonstrating the overall process over Zoom, and then transitions to small breakout groups where attendees will learn more intimately with an instructor. Small groups will learn how to create banana leaf boxes, assemble the bánh chưng, and cook them on the stovetop or with a pressure cooker. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“You don’t have to worry about what other generations have done. Culture belongs to you. It belongs to every generation.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Though the class features bánh chưng at its simplest, Tran encourages curiosity and creativity. In the last decade, the collective has experimented with sous vide bánh chưng, resulting in the “most béo (rich and fatty) bánh chưng ever” and even an Elvis bánh chưng, adding banana, bacon and maple syrup. She encourages students to make bánh chưng with butter, shallots, mushrooms, crab—whatever your heart desires: “We don’t care; we’re a bunch of queers!” \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>At the end of the class, participants will have four delightful handmade cakes to eat and share with loved ones. Although kits are sold out, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/banh-chung-collective-2022-kit-with-zoom-class-tickets-235348923967\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">tickets are still available for the Zoom class\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> for those who are willing to make a grocery store run for ingredients and supplies. A recording of the session will also be available for those who want to make bánh chưng at their leisure. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the heart of these three next-generation Tết offerings is a focus on education and community-building. The chefs behind pop-ups like Hết Sẩy Cali and Claws of Mantis scoff at the notion that “tradition” is rigid and uncompromising. Instead, they celebrate the new year on their own terms by educating customers who haven’t had a chance to learn about their heritage with empathetic welcomes, starting with what’s on the plate.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“They get to engage in culture on their terms,” Bánh Chưng Collective’s Tran says of the Vietnamese Americans who attend her workshops. “You don’t have to worry about what other generations have done. Culture belongs to you. It belongs to every generation.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Update: This article has been updated to include details about Claws of Mantis’ \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tết set—a late addition on the part of the pop-up.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\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>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/hetsay.cali/?hl=en\">Hết Sẩy Cali’s\u003c/a> Jan. 29 Lunar New Year event will take place at the\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.hotplate.com/hetsay\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Rose Garden Farmers Market (577 Dana Ave., San Jose)\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, or order the pop-up’s New Year’s take-home kit for 1/28 and 1/29 pick-up on \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discoverpastel.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pastel\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/clawsofmantis/?hl=en\">Claws of Mantis’\u003c/a> take-home Tết kit is available for pickup on Sunday, Feb. 6 at Joint Venture Kitchen (167 11th St, San Francisco). Limited quantities are for pre-order on \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.exploretock.com/clawsofmantissanfrancisco\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tock\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thebanhchungcollective/?hl=en\">Bánh Chưng Collective’s\u003c/a> virtual bánh chưng workshop will take place on Jan. 29, from 10 to 11:30am PT. The prepared kits are sold out, but tickets are still available via \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/banh-chung-collective-2022-kit-with-zoom-class-tickets-235348923967\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventbrite\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Long Live La Pulga, the San Jose Flea Market No ‘Urban Village’ Can Ever Replace",
"headTitle": "Long Live La Pulga, the San Jose Flea Market No ‘Urban Village’ Can Ever Replace | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905402\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905402\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A taco truck employee hands a plate of food to a customer through the window.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An employee at Virrueta’s Tacos, one of some 400 vendors who show up at the San Jose Flea Market (aka “La Pulga”) every week. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]R[/dropcap]ial Cruz deftly maneuvers his way through the crowded aisle in front of the FruJuice So So Fresh stand at the San Jose Flea Market. Behind the counter, his coworkers chop fruit of all different colors and sizes, blending them together to make fresh juices and aguas frescas. \u003c/span> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Pásenle, pásenle,” Cruz calls out to the people walking by. “You have to try this fruit, there’s nothing fresher.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On a hot September afternoon, FruiJuice stands as an oasis under the unrelenting South Bay sun. A sip of the cucumber-lime agua fresca provides immediate relief from the heat—a mix of tangy sweetness and coolness that washes over you, reaching all the way up to the top-of-the-scalp spot where the sun almost seems to sit.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The juice stand is located in the produce corridor of the flea market—also known as La Pulga—where dozens of stalls sell spices, nuts and vegetables from California, Latin America and the rest of the world. Elsewhere in the market’s 60 acres of winding passageways, merchants buy and sell almost anything you can imagine: plants, rugs, craftwork, toys, clothes, furniture and the list goes on. It’s one of the biggest outdoor swap meets in California.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">La Pulga’s sprawling nature evokes a bygone era, when Silicon Valley was an agricultural hub and empty tracts of land were plentiful—something the first owners of the market took advantage of when they opened up in 1960. The founder of the market, George Bumb Sr., worked in the solid waste and landfill management business and wanted to resell items that would otherwise be discarded.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Originally called the Berryessa Flea Market, the market was built off of land that used to house an old meat processing plant. Produce stands opened up, selling fresh fruits and vegetables. The farmers who brought that produce were predominantly Latino, and soon enough they brought their foods and other cultural products into the market. Thus, La Pulga was born.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905407\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905407\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A row of open-air produce stands.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A corridor of produce stands during a quiet day at La Pulga, San Jose’s sprawling, 60-acre outdoor market. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fast forward 60 years, and San Jose has become the largest city in the Bay Area and one of the global capitals of the tech industry. The orchards that used to surround the flea market have been replaced by modern, brand-name shopping complexes and sleek, modular high-rise apartments. This transformation has put the city between two possible futures: continue embracing the tradition of large, loud, sprawling spaces like La Pulga or move towards a more urbanized and sleeker version of itself that’s more in line with the needs and wants of Silicon Valley.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In June of this year, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11878548/san-jose-flea-market-leaders-end-hunger-strike-but-future-of-la-pulga-still-hangs-in-the-balance\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose city officials approved a plan\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> to rezone the north San Jose flea market site to make way for a major mixed-use development called the Berryessa BART Urban Village, which includes more than 3 million square feet of office and retail space and 3,400 housing units, a quarter of which the City promises will be affordable to “very low, low and moderate-income households”—though it’s not clear what that breakdown will be. Plans to redesign the flea market’s layout had been in the works for almost two decades when the city council voted in 2007 to rezone the market as a “mixed-use transit village” surrounding the new BART station, which opened last year. When San Jose’s current city council unanimously approved the Urban Village plan this year, council members said the project \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11879717/san-jose-approves-plan-to-radically-transform-flea-market-site\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">would bring more housing, jobs and business to the city\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"left\"]“[San Jose’s] transformation has put the city between two possible futures: continue embracing the tradition of large, loud, sprawling spaces like La Pulga or move towards a more urbanized and sleeker version of itself.”[/pullquote]But the project, expected to begin construction in three years, sets aside only five acres—down from 60—for a so-called “urban market” in the middle of the development. It’s a space advocates say is not nearly large enough to fit the more than 400 vendors who show up to La Pulga every week to make a living.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And there’s no question: The design shake-up is likely to have dire consequences for the long-running family businesses that have established a base at the flea market—that rely on the place for steady income. Many of the merchants—like Cruz, the juice vendor—are close to retirement and troubled by the uncertainty of where their stall will land. At this point, however, they have little choice but to carry on with their business.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On this particular Saturday in September, Cruz lists off the juices and aguas frescas the stall offers: nanche, guanábana, tamarindo, tunita (or prickly fruit), strawberry horchata, maracuyá, lemon cucumber and more. “We believe in freshness,” he says. “What doesn’t sell, sadly enough, we throw away.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905425\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905425\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Two agua frescas, one green and one white, arranged on a table in front of a juice stand.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hundreds of customers flock to the FruJuice So So Fresh stand to beat the South Bay heat. The cucumber-lime (left) and coconut milk drinks are especially refreshing. \u003ccite>(Adhiti Bandlamudi/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Cruz, this is more than a marketing statement; it’s a point of pride. He’s worked at the market for more than 50 years, and in that time he has come to understand the needs of the thousands of people who walk through the corridors of La Pulga each week. The need for accessible fresh fruit, for instance, is especially acute \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ers.usda.gov/data-products/food-access-research-atlas/go-to-the-atlas/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">in some parts of the South Bay\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“We didn’t have half of all of [these juices] when we started,” Cruz says. Since the stall opened its doors roughly eight years ago, more families from Latin America, specifically Central America, have made their home in San Jose and have come looking for fruits that remind them a bit of home.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“People want guanábana? Go fly it from Guatemala. They want passion fruit? Then, Honduras.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Cruz wonders where his customers will be able to find flavors like his if his stall isn’t included in the new Urban Village plan. Although FruJuice So So Fresh operates several other stands in San Jose, the flea market’s outdoor atmosphere is what allows this particular location to really thrive. Without it, his entire business’s future is uncertain. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>A Family Tradition\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While La Pulga’s transformation—and dramatic down-sizing—is still a few years away, María Piñeda is nervous about what these changes could mean for her family’s future. Along with her husband, she owns Virrueta’s Tacos, a Mexican food truck that’s parked a few corridors down from FruJuice.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“This is so sad,” she says in Spanish. “I first started coming here with my grandmother when I was a little girl.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905428\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905428\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A man and woman stand in front of a green taco truck.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">María Piñeda (left) opened the Viruetta’s Tacos truck at the flea market this year. The food truck specializes in cuisine from Mexico’s southwestern state of Michoacán. \u003ccite>(Adhiti Bandlamudi/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The flea market tradition runs deep in her blood. So many of her relatives worked at La Pulga at some point in their lives, and currently, her family also owns a pistachio business that operates there. All through Piñeda’s childhood, she would come with her family every Sunday to help out and shop. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Virrueta’s Tacos started as a dream that Piñeda and her husband had for many years. This year, they finally secured the food truck and began cooking recipes handed down by Piñeda’s mother—dishes specific to the town of Apatzingán, in the southwest state of Michoacán.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The flavors of Michoacán are very special,” she says, pointing out her chavindecas, a variation of quesadillas that usually includes a stuffing of carne asada, and her morisquetas, a dish that combines rice, refried beans, tomato sauce, queso fresco and flautas (crisp-fried tacos).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905431\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905431\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Three crispy, red-tinged birria tacos lined up on a piece of red-checked butcher paper.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Viruetta’s serves an excellent version of quesabirria, the recent internet taco sensation. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But what customers love the most is the birria, a slowly-cooked stew that brings together goat meat, garlic, thyme and a unique combination of chiles and spices—the exact combination varies by family recipe and region.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Even on a hot day, a cup of birria and consomé (the broth the birria is cooked in), go down quite easily. Even better are the quesabirrias, or quesadillas stuffed with birria, with the consomé on the side for dipping to avoid a mess.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These trendy tacos have become commonplace in the South Bay’s Mexican food scene, and Piñeda’s spicy, tangy version is especially great. The slightly crunchy tortilla envelops the melted cheese and tender, shredded goat meat, with thinly sliced radish and cucumber to serve as cool relief.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Piñeda smiles when asked about the secret to her family’s recipe. “It’s a lot of affection, a lot of love,” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Already, she is mentally preparing for a future outside of La Pulga, but she says it won’t be easy. Her taco truck is relatively easy to move, but finding a new home for her family’s pistachio stand will be much harder. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It’s not just anywhere they’ll let you sell pistachios,” Piñeda says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905433\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905433\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A styrofoam cup of consomé (birria cooking broth) on an orange tabletop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cup of well-spiced consomé is perfect for dipping or sipping. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>The Fight to Save La Pulga\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Many vendors feel the same way about their stalls—that La Pulga provides a place for them to display their products and reel in customers in ways no other market could. And so, they’re still holding out hope that they might all fit into the redesigned market’s space, or at least negotiate terms that will make leaving the market less painful. Toward that end, they formed the Berryessa Flea Market Vendors Association (BFVA), a nonprofit organization that has been on the forefront of the fight to protect vendors in the flea market’s redevelopment. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before the City Council’s big vote in June to approve the BART Urban Village Plan, some BFVA members \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11878548/san-jose-flea-market-leaders-end-hunger-strike-but-future-of-la-pulga-still-hangs-in-the-balance\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">led a hunger strike\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, demanding flea market space in the new design and monetary support during the transition. After all, the developers’ initial proposal didn’t guarantee \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">any \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">space for La Pulga’s vendors. The City Council and the Bumb family—which still owns the market—eventually agreed to include 5 acres of designated flea market space in the Urban Village’s design plan and $5 million for a vendor transition fund. Still, the redevelopment plans have strained the relationship between the landlord and the tenants. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Roberto Gonzalez, president of the Berryessa Flea Market Vendors Association\"]“More than anything, it’s [the owners] posturing and puffing out their chests to say, ‘Hey, we’re the ones who rule this land.’”[/pullquote]The most recent battle was over license agreement rates. Vendors currently hold license agreements for a space in the market on a month-to-month basis, and for the past year, they’ve been asking the Bumb family to make those agreements longer. In mid-September, the flea market owners did offer six-month license agreements, but with a catch: The rent for those six months had to be paid fully up front. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">BFVA President Roberto Gonzalez, who runs a piñata stand at La Pulga, says the terms of the new license agreement felt like a “spit in the face” to vendors who just wanted more stability for their small business’s space in the flea market. “It’s really unfortunate that these terms are laid out that way, and the way we see it is that they’re not working in good faith with us,” he says. “More than anything, it’s them posturing and puffing out their chests to say, ‘Hey, we’re the ones who rule this land.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Speaking on behalf of the Bumbs, Rich Alvari, the flea market’s director of marketing, said in a press release that the license agreement is similar to buying season tickets for a football game—that to “reserve the same seat for future football games, a season pass is required” and is usually paid for up front. The market owners are also asking the vendors to pay a $300 damage deposit—another fee that hadn’t been required in the past. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The net effect is that Gonzalez and the other vendors feel they’re being taken advantage of. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There is at least one other option: La Pulga’s vendors could simply leave and try to form their own market. Gonzales has \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/FleaVendors/status/1442604193160708102\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">expressed interest\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in finding another space for the displaced vendors, but that won’t exactly be an easy task given how expensive real estate is in San Jose, especially as more and more of the city gets developed into office spaces, shopping centers and apartment complexes.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Reimagining the Panadería\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As the afternoon rolls in and the lunchtime crowd dissipates across the flea market, one stall stays busy. From a distance, all that is visible are several shiny glass cabinets with a large sign above that reads “Ricarmi Bakery.” But start moving closer and the smell hits you first: the familiar smell of a panadería, that sensation that somehow combines sweetness, comfort and memory.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Don’t worry about keeping your eyes open as you make your way there. Your feet know the way with just the smell.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Opened by couple Armida Rodriguez and Ricardo Lopez, Ricarmi operates a small stall in La Pulga in addition to its main bakery in Watsonville. Fernanda Urbina, the couple’s daughter, works at the flea market bakery stand along with her brothers. It features traditional Mexican sweet breads and cakes with a twist.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905435\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905435\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful conchas, or Mexican sweet breads, arranged on a tray by color: red, pink, yellow, green.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ricarmi Bakery’s colorful conchas each have a distinct flavor, including pistachio, pina colada, watermelon and strawberry. \u003ccite>(Adhiti Bandlamudi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“We like to elevate them with new colors, different flavors,” Urbina says. “We specialize in vanilla fillings, arroz con leche fillings.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ricarmi Bakery’s conchas, sweet rolls decorated with a sugary shell, are different from those sold at other bakeries because each color represents a different flavor: turquoise for pistachio, white for horchata, yellow for piña colada and so on. Some of the conchas are filled with a vanilla bean custard while others have soft, subtly sweet rice pudding inside.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Urbina’s dad, Ricardo, is a third-generation Mexican baker. But Urbina says it’s her mom, Armida, who is the one who invented all of the creative new flavors. And that’s ultimately the reason for the business’s success at La Pulga—the reason there’s always a long line of customers peering into the bakery’s glass cases.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In the beginning, it wasn’t this popular, but I don’t know, COVID-19 brought everyone,” Urbina says. “Most businesses were starting to go down, but ours actually went up. It’s because more people started coming to the flea market because that’s all that was open.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"left\"]“That’s the role that the flea market has played in the community for decades now, giving working class immigrants the opportunity to work alongside their families and earn a modest, dignified living in the heart of ever-expensive Silicon Valley.”[/pullquote]Indeed, La Pulga has provided a lifeline to the community during the past year and a half. Unlike most shopping centers which had to close for several months at the start of the pandemic, the outdoor flea market reopened in mid-May, providing an outlet for visitors to walk around after being cooped up at home. Even more importantly, it helped allow the vendors, many of whom have no other source of income, to keep their head above water. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ultimately, that’s the role that the flea market has played in the community for decades now, giving working class immigrants the opportunity to work alongside their families and earn a modest, dignified living in the heart of ever-expensive Silicon Valley. It has allowed low-income families to pass on legacy businesses, like spicy nut stands and Mexican candy stalls, that couldn’t exist anywhere else in the Bay Area.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905439\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905439\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Bags of flavored pistachios of all different colors, displayed at an outdoor market stand.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Assorted flavors of spiced pistachios on display at one of La Pulga’s outdoor market stands. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In Ricarmi Bakery’s case, the entire business isn’t dependent on its spot in La Pulga, but Urbina says it’ll be a real loss if they can’t find a spot in the Urban Village’s reimagined configuration. There are still so many new creations they want to share with the city that has seen their business grow.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, Rial Cruz of FruJuice is determined to stay at the flea market, no matter what the future holds. “This is a well requested service,” Cruz says. “I mean, just imagine right now, as you stand here, imagine you don’t have this in a flea market? This is the attraction right here.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904861,arts_13904788,arts_13904835' label='More San Jose Food']He believes La Pulga can’t exist without a juice stand any more than San Jose would be in any way the same without its flea market. Unlike the sleek high-rises that have been sprouting up around the Bay, La Pulga is loud and colorful and doesn’t fit as neatly within organized lines. And while it offers a glimpse into San Jose’s past and present, the future remains an open question. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One thing is clear, however: This is almost certainly the end of La Pulga as we know it. Even if the flea market does reopen at the new Berryessa BART Urban Village three years from now, it won’t exist the way it does today—not after it’s gotten packed into an indoor space that’s less than 10 percent of its current, wonderfully sprawling form. Whatever promises its owners might make about the modern “indoor marketplace,” it can’t possibly recreate the outdoor heat; the pedestrians’ passing glances; and the mingling of sights, smells and sounds that you can only get from walking around an open-air market. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And if this is the end, what a run it has been. What a spectacular gift to the San Jose community to have provided a place to belong and so many memories—and, of course, so much delicious food—for all these years. And what a gift it will continue to be for at least the next three years, until this chapter finally comes to a close. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s no wonder, then, that so many of the vendors themselves are reluctant to give up their belief that La Pulga might still be saved. Vendors like Rial Cruz have spent literal decades at the market. They’ve greeted the same familiar faces week after week, seen their kids grow up into enterprising adults running their own stalls at the market. Whatever form the new iteration of the flea market might take, he’s determined to be a part of it—to help turn it into something good. “It’s like I was here when it began and I’ll be here,” Cruz says with a grin. “I’ll be here till the end.”\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>\u003cem>Adhiti Bandlamudi is a reporter on KQED’s Silicon Valley Desk, where she covers anything related to the South Bay. Follow her on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/oddity_adhiti\">@oddity_adhiti\u003c/a>.\u003cbr>\n\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí is a reporter and producer with KQED News and KQED en Español. He grew up in San Francisco but spent weekends in the South Bay. Every time he visits San Jose, he learns—and tastes—something completely new. Follow him on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/LomeliCabrera\">@LomeliCabrera\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "The Berryessa Flea Market has long been a staple for the city's Latino community. Soon, it may no longer exist.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905402\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905402\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A taco truck employee hands a plate of food to a customer through the window.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An employee at Virrueta’s Tacos, one of some 400 vendors who show up at the San Jose Flea Market (aka “La Pulga”) every week. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">R\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ial Cruz deftly maneuvers his way through the crowded aisle in front of the FruJuice So So Fresh stand at the San Jose Flea Market. Behind the counter, his coworkers chop fruit of all different colors and sizes, blending them together to make fresh juices and aguas frescas. \u003c/span> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Pásenle, pásenle,” Cruz calls out to the people walking by. “You have to try this fruit, there’s nothing fresher.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On a hot September afternoon, FruiJuice stands as an oasis under the unrelenting South Bay sun. A sip of the cucumber-lime agua fresca provides immediate relief from the heat—a mix of tangy sweetness and coolness that washes over you, reaching all the way up to the top-of-the-scalp spot where the sun almost seems to sit.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The juice stand is located in the produce corridor of the flea market—also known as La Pulga—where dozens of stalls sell spices, nuts and vegetables from California, Latin America and the rest of the world. Elsewhere in the market’s 60 acres of winding passageways, merchants buy and sell almost anything you can imagine: plants, rugs, craftwork, toys, clothes, furniture and the list goes on. It’s one of the biggest outdoor swap meets in California.\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\">La Pulga’s sprawling nature evokes a bygone era, when Silicon Valley was an agricultural hub and empty tracts of land were plentiful—something the first owners of the market took advantage of when they opened up in 1960. The founder of the market, George Bumb Sr., worked in the solid waste and landfill management business and wanted to resell items that would otherwise be discarded.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Originally called the Berryessa Flea Market, the market was built off of land that used to house an old meat processing plant. Produce stands opened up, selling fresh fruits and vegetables. The farmers who brought that produce were predominantly Latino, and soon enough they brought their foods and other cultural products into the market. Thus, La Pulga was born.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905407\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905407\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A row of open-air produce stands.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/024_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A corridor of produce stands during a quiet day at La Pulga, San Jose’s sprawling, 60-acre outdoor market. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fast forward 60 years, and San Jose has become the largest city in the Bay Area and one of the global capitals of the tech industry. The orchards that used to surround the flea market have been replaced by modern, brand-name shopping complexes and sleek, modular high-rise apartments. This transformation has put the city between two possible futures: continue embracing the tradition of large, loud, sprawling spaces like La Pulga or move towards a more urbanized and sleeker version of itself that’s more in line with the needs and wants of Silicon Valley.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In June of this year, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11878548/san-jose-flea-market-leaders-end-hunger-strike-but-future-of-la-pulga-still-hangs-in-the-balance\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose city officials approved a plan\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> to rezone the north San Jose flea market site to make way for a major mixed-use development called the Berryessa BART Urban Village, which includes more than 3 million square feet of office and retail space and 3,400 housing units, a quarter of which the City promises will be affordable to “very low, low and moderate-income households”—though it’s not clear what that breakdown will be. Plans to redesign the flea market’s layout had been in the works for almost two decades when the city council voted in 2007 to rezone the market as a “mixed-use transit village” surrounding the new BART station, which opened last year. When San Jose’s current city council unanimously approved the Urban Village plan this year, council members said the project \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11879717/san-jose-approves-plan-to-radically-transform-flea-market-site\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">would bring more housing, jobs and business to the city\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \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>But the project, expected to begin construction in three years, sets aside only five acres—down from 60—for a so-called “urban market” in the middle of the development. It’s a space advocates say is not nearly large enough to fit the more than 400 vendors who show up to La Pulga every week to make a living.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And there’s no question: The design shake-up is likely to have dire consequences for the long-running family businesses that have established a base at the flea market—that rely on the place for steady income. Many of the merchants—like Cruz, the juice vendor—are close to retirement and troubled by the uncertainty of where their stall will land. At this point, however, they have little choice but to carry on with their business.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On this particular Saturday in September, Cruz lists off the juices and aguas frescas the stall offers: nanche, guanábana, tamarindo, tunita (or prickly fruit), strawberry horchata, maracuyá, lemon cucumber and more. “We believe in freshness,” he says. “What doesn’t sell, sadly enough, we throw away.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905425\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905425\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Two agua frescas, one green and one white, arranged on a table in front of a juice stand.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_juice_adhiti-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hundreds of customers flock to the FruJuice So So Fresh stand to beat the South Bay heat. The cucumber-lime (left) and coconut milk drinks are especially refreshing. \u003ccite>(Adhiti Bandlamudi/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Cruz, this is more than a marketing statement; it’s a point of pride. He’s worked at the market for more than 50 years, and in that time he has come to understand the needs of the thousands of people who walk through the corridors of La Pulga each week. The need for accessible fresh fruit, for instance, is especially acute \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ers.usda.gov/data-products/food-access-research-atlas/go-to-the-atlas/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">in some parts of the South Bay\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“We didn’t have half of all of [these juices] when we started,” Cruz says. Since the stall opened its doors roughly eight years ago, more families from Latin America, specifically Central America, have made their home in San Jose and have come looking for fruits that remind them a bit of home.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“People want guanábana? Go fly it from Guatemala. They want passion fruit? Then, Honduras.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Cruz wonders where his customers will be able to find flavors like his if his stall isn’t included in the new Urban Village plan. Although FruJuice So So Fresh operates several other stands in San Jose, the flea market’s outdoor atmosphere is what allows this particular location to really thrive. Without it, his entire business’s future is uncertain. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>A Family Tradition\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While La Pulga’s transformation—and dramatic down-sizing—is still a few years away, María Piñeda is nervous about what these changes could mean for her family’s future. Along with her husband, she owns Virrueta’s Tacos, a Mexican food truck that’s parked a few corridors down from FruJuice.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“This is so sad,” she says in Spanish. “I first started coming here with my grandmother when I was a little girl.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905428\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905428\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A man and woman stand in front of a green taco truck.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_taco-truck_adhiti-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">María Piñeda (left) opened the Viruetta’s Tacos truck at the flea market this year. The food truck specializes in cuisine from Mexico’s southwestern state of Michoacán. \u003ccite>(Adhiti Bandlamudi/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The flea market tradition runs deep in her blood. So many of her relatives worked at La Pulga at some point in their lives, and currently, her family also owns a pistachio business that operates there. All through Piñeda’s childhood, she would come with her family every Sunday to help out and shop. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Virrueta’s Tacos started as a dream that Piñeda and her husband had for many years. This year, they finally secured the food truck and began cooking recipes handed down by Piñeda’s mother—dishes specific to the town of Apatzingán, in the southwest state of Michoacán.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The flavors of Michoacán are very special,” she says, pointing out her chavindecas, a variation of quesadillas that usually includes a stuffing of carne asada, and her morisquetas, a dish that combines rice, refried beans, tomato sauce, queso fresco and flautas (crisp-fried tacos).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905431\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905431\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Three crispy, red-tinged birria tacos lined up on a piece of red-checked butcher paper.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Viruetta’s serves an excellent version of quesabirria, the recent internet taco sensation. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But what customers love the most is the birria, a slowly-cooked stew that brings together goat meat, garlic, thyme and a unique combination of chiles and spices—the exact combination varies by family recipe and region.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Even on a hot day, a cup of birria and consomé (the broth the birria is cooked in), go down quite easily. Even better are the quesabirrias, or quesadillas stuffed with birria, with the consomé on the side for dipping to avoid a mess.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These trendy tacos have become commonplace in the South Bay’s Mexican food scene, and Piñeda’s spicy, tangy version is especially great. The slightly crunchy tortilla envelops the melted cheese and tender, shredded goat meat, with thinly sliced radish and cucumber to serve as cool relief.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Piñeda smiles when asked about the secret to her family’s recipe. “It’s a lot of affection, a lot of love,” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Already, she is mentally preparing for a future outside of La Pulga, but she says it won’t be easy. Her taco truck is relatively easy to move, but finding a new home for her family’s pistachio stand will be much harder. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It’s not just anywhere they’ll let you sell pistachios,” Piñeda says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905433\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905433\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A styrofoam cup of consomé (birria cooking broth) on an orange tabletop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/012_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cup of well-spiced consomé is perfect for dipping or sipping. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>The Fight to Save La Pulga\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Many vendors feel the same way about their stalls—that La Pulga provides a place for them to display their products and reel in customers in ways no other market could. And so, they’re still holding out hope that they might all fit into the redesigned market’s space, or at least negotiate terms that will make leaving the market less painful. Toward that end, they formed the Berryessa Flea Market Vendors Association (BFVA), a nonprofit organization that has been on the forefront of the fight to protect vendors in the flea market’s redevelopment. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before the City Council’s big vote in June to approve the BART Urban Village Plan, some BFVA members \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11878548/san-jose-flea-market-leaders-end-hunger-strike-but-future-of-la-pulga-still-hangs-in-the-balance\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">led a hunger strike\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, demanding flea market space in the new design and monetary support during the transition. After all, the developers’ initial proposal didn’t guarantee \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">any \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">space for La Pulga’s vendors. The City Council and the Bumb family—which still owns the market—eventually agreed to include 5 acres of designated flea market space in the Urban Village’s design plan and $5 million for a vendor transition fund. Still, the redevelopment plans have strained the relationship between the landlord and the tenants. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“More than anything, it’s [the owners] posturing and puffing out their chests to say, ‘Hey, we’re the ones who rule this land.’”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The most recent battle was over license agreement rates. Vendors currently hold license agreements for a space in the market on a month-to-month basis, and for the past year, they’ve been asking the Bumb family to make those agreements longer. In mid-September, the flea market owners did offer six-month license agreements, but with a catch: The rent for those six months had to be paid fully up front. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">BFVA President Roberto Gonzalez, who runs a piñata stand at La Pulga, says the terms of the new license agreement felt like a “spit in the face” to vendors who just wanted more stability for their small business’s space in the flea market. “It’s really unfortunate that these terms are laid out that way, and the way we see it is that they’re not working in good faith with us,” he says. “More than anything, it’s them posturing and puffing out their chests to say, ‘Hey, we’re the ones who rule this land.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Speaking on behalf of the Bumbs, Rich Alvari, the flea market’s director of marketing, said in a press release that the license agreement is similar to buying season tickets for a football game—that to “reserve the same seat for future football games, a season pass is required” and is usually paid for up front. The market owners are also asking the vendors to pay a $300 damage deposit—another fee that hadn’t been required in the past. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The net effect is that Gonzalez and the other vendors feel they’re being taken advantage of. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There is at least one other option: La Pulga’s vendors could simply leave and try to form their own market. Gonzales has \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/FleaVendors/status/1442604193160708102\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">expressed interest\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in finding another space for the displaced vendors, but that won’t exactly be an easy task given how expensive real estate is in San Jose, especially as more and more of the city gets developed into office spaces, shopping centers and apartment complexes.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Reimagining the Panadería\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As the afternoon rolls in and the lunchtime crowd dissipates across the flea market, one stall stays busy. From a distance, all that is visible are several shiny glass cabinets with a large sign above that reads “Ricarmi Bakery.” But start moving closer and the smell hits you first: the familiar smell of a panadería, that sensation that somehow combines sweetness, comfort and memory.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Don’t worry about keeping your eyes open as you make your way there. Your feet know the way with just the smell.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Opened by couple Armida Rodriguez and Ricardo Lopez, Ricarmi operates a small stall in La Pulga in addition to its main bakery in Watsonville. Fernanda Urbina, the couple’s daughter, works at the flea market bakery stand along with her brothers. It features traditional Mexican sweet breads and cakes with a twist.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905435\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905435\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful conchas, or Mexican sweet breads, arranged on a tray by color: red, pink, yellow, green.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/lapulga_conchas_adhiti-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ricarmi Bakery’s colorful conchas each have a distinct flavor, including pistachio, pina colada, watermelon and strawberry. \u003ccite>(Adhiti Bandlamudi)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“We like to elevate them with new colors, different flavors,” Urbina says. “We specialize in vanilla fillings, arroz con leche fillings.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ricarmi Bakery’s conchas, sweet rolls decorated with a sugary shell, are different from those sold at other bakeries because each color represents a different flavor: turquoise for pistachio, white for horchata, yellow for piña colada and so on. Some of the conchas are filled with a vanilla bean custard while others have soft, subtly sweet rice pudding inside.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Urbina’s dad, Ricardo, is a third-generation Mexican baker. But Urbina says it’s her mom, Armida, who is the one who invented all of the creative new flavors. And that’s ultimately the reason for the business’s success at La Pulga—the reason there’s always a long line of customers peering into the bakery’s glass cases.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In the beginning, it wasn’t this popular, but I don’t know, COVID-19 brought everyone,” Urbina says. “Most businesses were starting to go down, but ours actually went up. It’s because more people started coming to the flea market because that’s all that was open.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“That’s the role that the flea market has played in the community for decades now, giving working class immigrants the opportunity to work alongside their families and earn a modest, dignified living in the heart of ever-expensive Silicon Valley.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Indeed, La Pulga has provided a lifeline to the community during the past year and a half. Unlike most shopping centers which had to close for several months at the start of the pandemic, the outdoor flea market reopened in mid-May, providing an outlet for visitors to walk around after being cooped up at home. Even more importantly, it helped allow the vendors, many of whom have no other source of income, to keep their head above water. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ultimately, that’s the role that the flea market has played in the community for decades now, giving working class immigrants the opportunity to work alongside their families and earn a modest, dignified living in the heart of ever-expensive Silicon Valley. It has allowed low-income families to pass on legacy businesses, like spicy nut stands and Mexican candy stalls, that couldn’t exist anywhere else in the Bay Area.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905439\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905439\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Bags of flavored pistachios of all different colors, displayed at an outdoor market stand.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/019_SanJose_BerryessaFleaMarket_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Assorted flavors of spiced pistachios on display at one of La Pulga’s outdoor market stands. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In Ricarmi Bakery’s case, the entire business isn’t dependent on its spot in La Pulga, but Urbina says it’ll be a real loss if they can’t find a spot in the Urban Village’s reimagined configuration. There are still so many new creations they want to share with the city that has seen their business grow.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, Rial Cruz of FruJuice is determined to stay at the flea market, no matter what the future holds. “This is a well requested service,” Cruz says. “I mean, just imagine right now, as you stand here, imagine you don’t have this in a flea market? This is the attraction right here.”\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>He believes La Pulga can’t exist without a juice stand any more than San Jose would be in any way the same without its flea market. Unlike the sleek high-rises that have been sprouting up around the Bay, La Pulga is loud and colorful and doesn’t fit as neatly within organized lines. And while it offers a glimpse into San Jose’s past and present, the future remains an open question. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One thing is clear, however: This is almost certainly the end of La Pulga as we know it. Even if the flea market does reopen at the new Berryessa BART Urban Village three years from now, it won’t exist the way it does today—not after it’s gotten packed into an indoor space that’s less than 10 percent of its current, wonderfully sprawling form. Whatever promises its owners might make about the modern “indoor marketplace,” it can’t possibly recreate the outdoor heat; the pedestrians’ passing glances; and the mingling of sights, smells and sounds that you can only get from walking around an open-air market. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And if this is the end, what a run it has been. What a spectacular gift to the San Jose community to have provided a place to belong and so many memories—and, of course, so much delicious food—for all these years. And what a gift it will continue to be for at least the next three years, until this chapter finally comes to a close. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s no wonder, then, that so many of the vendors themselves are reluctant to give up their belief that La Pulga might still be saved. Vendors like Rial Cruz have spent literal decades at the market. They’ve greeted the same familiar faces week after week, seen their kids grow up into enterprising adults running their own stalls at the market. Whatever form the new iteration of the flea market might take, he’s determined to be a part of it—to help turn it into something good. “It’s like I was here when it began and I’ll be here,” Cruz says with a grin. “I’ll be here till the end.”\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>\u003cem>Adhiti Bandlamudi is a reporter on KQED’s Silicon Valley Desk, where she covers anything related to the South Bay. Follow her on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/oddity_adhiti\">@oddity_adhiti\u003c/a>.\u003cbr>\n\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí is a reporter and producer with KQED News and KQED en Español. He grew up in San Francisco but spent weekends in the South Bay. Every time he visits San Jose, he learns—and tastes—something completely new. Follow him on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/LomeliCabrera\">@LomeliCabrera\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "How Vietnamese Americans Made San Jose America’s Tofu Capital",
"headTitle": "How Vietnamese Americans Made San Jose America’s Tofu Capital | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905357\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905357\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A steamer tray full of freshly fried tofu, as part of a buffet-style display.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Freshly fried tofu is one of the star attractions at Dong Phuong—one of San Jose’s many Vietnamese tofu delis. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]S[/dropcap]an Jose is America’s tofu capital, and nowhere else comes close. Soy milk curds have been strained and pressed in the South Bay since the early 20th century, but it’s not San Jose’s long history with tofu that earns it the title: It’s the diversity, freshness and convenience of the tofu on offer throughout the area in restaurants, supermarkets and an uncommonly large number of dedicated tofu storefronts.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To put San Jose’s embarrassment of bean curd riches in perspective, San Francisco has only one dedicated tofu storefront to its name—Chinatown’s reliably inexpensive Wo Chong. Megacities like Los Angeles or New York might eke out a technical numerical victory, but San Jose comes out on top when calculating tofu wealth on a per capita basis: With its population of a little over one million, the city still manages to sustain a diverse and lucrative soybean scene that can go toe to toe with any place in America. By my count, San Jose is home to at least 10 outlets specializing in fresh tofu, catering to a dedicated clientele of workers looking for a hot snack, home cooks picking up tonight’s dinner and local restaurateurs stocking up on their supply. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The tofu in the Bay’s U-bend covers a wide swath of traditions and cultures: At US SoyPresso, Japanese-style tofu pudding is topped with soy milk and sweet beans. At Taiwanese Sogo Tofu, it is deep fried in “biandang” lunchbox-sized pieces. And at Vietnamese Thanh Son Tofu, it can be ordered tucked inside a banh mi. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Today, the dominant style of tofu in San Jose is Vietnamese, with a half-dozen strip-mall tofu delicatessens like Thanh Son clustered in a small stretch of San Jose’s heavily Vietnamese East Side, with additional outposts spread out across the city.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905358\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An employee helps a customer with their tofu order at Thanh Son Tofu.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This wasn’t always the case, though. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As documented in William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi’s exhaustive \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.soyinfocenter.com/books/163\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">history of tofu making, \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the first tofu shops in San Jose came with the earliest Japanese American immigrants, who settled in the Santa Clara Valley to work as farm laborers. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Okumura Tofu-ya, founded in 1906, was the first recorded tofu business in the city. It was located on 6th Street, smack dab in the middle of Japantown, and the neighborhood would have at least one tofu maker or another for more than a hundred years until the last one \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.mercurynews.com/2017/12/30/san-jose-tofu-japantowns-gem-closes-its-doors-after-71-years/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">closed in 2017\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Tofu shops like Okumura spread wherever there were Japanese immigrants in the U.S.; by 1950, at least 425 Japanese tofu businesses had been established throughout the country.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“Megacities like Los Angeles or New York might eke out a technical numerical victory, but San Jose comes out on top when calculating tofu wealth on a per capita basis.”[/pullquote]The Japanese American community’s grip on tofu started loosening in the late 20th century as the population aged and shrunk relative to other Asian American groups. By then, the growth of tofu shops had slowed if not regressed; they had become redundant after the invention of packaged tofu in Los Angeles in the ‘50s, which enabled the ingredient to be sold in supermarkets instead of specialty stores. In some cities, these developments spelled the end of the tofu shop—but in San Jose, they would live on in the hands of a new population that arrived in the city after 1975 in large numbers: Vietnamese immigrants. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the subsequent decades, Vietnamese Americans would create their own kind of tofu shop, one that sells bean curd alongside a wide variety of snacks and drinks in a deli-like format, and usher in a new tofu renaissance in the South Bay. Vietnamese tofu delis now make up the majority of tofu businesses in San Jose. But despite the delis’ omnipresence—it feels like no Vietnamese grocery store in San Jose is complete without a fresh tofu maker nearby—they rarely get the same level of mainstream recognition as other neighborhood institutions like pho restaurants and banh mi takeout joints. Nevertheless, they play just as essential a role in the community and are just as valuable a part of San Jose’s culinary landscape.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905360\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905360\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An employee refills a metal display case with freshly fried tofu.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An employee at Thanh Son refills the display case with freshly fried tofu. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For the loyal customers these delis serve, the prepackaged stuff sold in grocery stores is no substitute for what their local tofu store can offer. Andrea Nguyen, an authority on Vietnamese cooking and the author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781607740254\">an entire book on tofu\u003c/a>, is a longtime customer of tofu delis. “Americans want tofu to be sturdy,” she says about Safeway refrigerator aisle tofu, “whereas the tofu that you buy at an Asian tofu shop, whether that’s Japanese, Chinese or Vietnamese, tends to be more tender because we love that tenderness. That tenderness means that the curds are not as compressed and they suck up flavor.“\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s a difference that customers can feel—literally. Nguyen claims it is a Vietnamese American habit to poke at the Saran-wrapped tofu on display to check for quality, “like you’re poking the belly of the Pillsbury Doughboy.” Good Vietnamese tofu should, like a soft cheese, threaten to fall apart into airy curls with the slightest pressure. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The texture is one that many Americans might not be familiar with, as Japanese and Chinese–style firm tofu dominates the grocery aisle. Aside from the creamy kind that’s only used for pudding, Vietnamese bean curd comes in one, ricotta-esque consistency. Vietnamese tofu makers play up this textural quality by using a different process than Japanese and Chinese artisans. Instead of using nigari or gypsum, they use the leftover “whey” from straining the last batch to thicken the soy milk into curds. While it cools, they leave it to set loosely in a bread pan-sized trough instead of, say, subjecting it to the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://issuu.com/hyphenmagazine/docs/issue21/28\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">wooden press\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> of Japanese tofu making. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Andrea Nguyen\"]“Americans want tofu to be sturdy, whereas the tofu that you buy at an Asian tofu shop … tends to be more tender because we love that tenderness.”[/pullquote]This process produces a softer, wispier tofu than rival methods, highlighting the supple mouthfeel that makes the ingredient a desirable addition to Vietnamese soups, stir-fries and noodles. It also doesn’t turn tofu into anything resembling ersatz meat—intentionally so, because Vietnamese cuisine, like most Asian food cultures, doesn’t only treat tofu as a meat substitute. Sometimes tofu can be a velvety complement to the savoriness of meat. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But it’s not just the culinary superiority of the fresh stuff that draws Vietnamese Americans to their tofu delis, says Nguyen. “People like fresh tofu because it’s part of the food traditions. We’re a relatively new immigrant refugee community to America, and there has been so much foodcraft, transported and translated to American soil from Vietnam. We value freshness. We also value the community that forms around that freshness—you feel in touch with your people and your soul when you go to these delis.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905359\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905359\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Customers browse a Vietnamese deli's colorful display of snacks and tofu products.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1708\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Thanh Son’s tables and counters are piled high with colorful packaged snacks. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]T[/dropcap]hanh Son Tofu, a prominent Vietnamese tofu deli located near Lee’s Supermarket on Senter Road, is a good example of how these stores can be an anchor for the community. The shop has been around for three decades now, according to Anh Nguyen, a member of the family who owns the store. The Thanh Son Nguyens were a traditional tofu making family in Vietnam until the Fall of Saigon, after which they fled their country. Reaching America without anything to their name, they resumed making and selling tofu to their new neighbors in Southern California’s Orange County through the ‘70s and ‘80s. Eventually, they saved enough capital to open their first storefront in Westminster’s Little Saigon in the ‘90s—and that operation was successful enough that a cousin who lived in San Jose wanted to open a Northern California location with the same name.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Today, Thanh Son is one of the busiest tofu delis in the neighborhood. The storefront, spacious and buzzing with commotion, sports stainless steel counters and see-through refrigerators packed with green-tinted pandan soy milk, golden fried tofu, yuba sheets rolled up in an imitation of chả lụa ham and soy pudding with bright noodles of fruit jelly. A long line of customers wraps around the counters. They point at their preferred soybean product behind the glass, the staff bags it up, and then they head to the register to pay and receive their gelatinous treats. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s no accident that Thanh Son does brisk business. Tofu this fresh doesn’t last more than a few days in a refrigerator, so customers need to come back regularly for their fix. That also means the store needs to refresh its stock regularly, so the staff makes most of its inventory from scratch every morning—all of which will be gone by the afternoon. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The store also sells a wide variety of packaged snacks and goodies like bánh bèo (shrimp-dusted rice cakes), nem chua (tangy rolls of raw fermented pork) and bánh bò nướng (pandan-flavored “honeycomb” cakes)—some made by Thanh Son staff, some sourced from smaller local producers, but all very addictive. These snacks are piled up on every available inch of counter and shelf space, giving the deli a lively, market hall feel. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905361\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905361\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Packages of green and white sponge cake lined up on a tabletop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A display of bánh bò—a sweet, chewy Vietnamese sponge cake—at Thanh Son. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s the kind of store that can be found all over Vietnamese American enclaves, from Houston to Los Angeles, but, crucially, not in Vietnam. These delis are uniquely a diaspora phenomenon. “When I have seen tofu vendors in Vietnam, they’re just selling tofu, sometimes soy milk, too. But the whole thing about these delis serving other dishes and having a menu, that’s the next level of Vietnamese American-ness,” says Andrea Nguyen, the cookbook author. The fusion of the Vietnamese tofu market stall with the German-Jewish-American delicatessen is an adaptation of one shopping culture to another, a synthesis encouraged along by the generous real estate of the California strip mall. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thanh Son isn’t the only kind of Vietnamese tofu deli that’s out there. Some, like Binh Minh (1180 Tully Road) or \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13904913/vietnamese-drinks-boba-che-guide-san-jose\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hung Vuong\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> (1741 Berryessa Road), serve only vegetarian food, in accordance with a Buddhist monk’s diet. Not all Vietnamese Buddhists are vegetarian, but many do observe a vegetarian diet on occasion as an act of religious piety. These Buddhist delis have a slightly different format than their non-vegetarian peers, with a greater focus on hot prepared meals and, of course, the presence of lots of Buddhist tchotchkes on sale. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905362\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905362\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Buddha statue is displayed prominently inside a Vietnamese deli.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Buddha statue is displayed prominently inside Dong Phuong’s McKee Road shopping center location. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dong Phuong Tofu is a longstanding example of this alternative format; it has stood across from Lion Market in the heart of San Jose’s Little Saigon for almost two decades. There are meditation CDs and Buddhist scripture posters for sale at the doorway, and a small selection of specialty groceries like vegetarian fish sauce and pork floss displayed on a wooden island in the middle of the store. At the front, hungry patrons dawdle trying to decide between the two dozen dishes in the hot food counter tubs as well as everything else on the large menu of made-to-order food tacked up on the wall. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The star attractions are the meatless stir-fries, rice noodles and other mealtime staples at the hot food counter. The staff at Dong Phuong make the tofu for these dishes on site, which gives its lemongrass tofu, for example, a springy chew that other restaurants can’t pull off. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“In a lopsided American food system that gives artisanal food to the rich and the processed scraps to the poor, fresh tofu is the rare luxury that remains stubbornly affordable.”[/pullquote]While some vegetarian diets, like those of brahminical Hindus or white American hippies, shy away from the close imitation of meat, East Asian vegetarianism doesn’t have such scruples. Some of the double-take-inducing dishes on display at the hot counter include seitan “fish” battered, deep fried and coated in a brown sauce, as well as a pork belly clay pot where the “belly” has convincing stripes of konjac jelly “fat.” Some of the seitan is made in the kitchen, but the most convincing meat substitutes are sourced from specialized Asian fake-meat producers, who have been operating on the continent long before the Impossible Burger was an idea in a Stanford biochemist’s head.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The quick service counter at delis such as Dong Phuong plug an important hole in the market, providing convenient and tasty meals at a price better than sit-down vegetarian places like Green Lotus, which is just across the street. Plus the quality of the food doesn’t suffer despite sitting out for most of the day: Tofu and seitan dishes only suck up more flavor during a long marination time. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905363\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905363\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Two customers browse the display of goods inside a Vietnamese deil.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Customers browse a small display of grocery items at Dong Phuong. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]O[/dropcap]n a recent Saturday, I visited both Thanh Son and Dong Phuong to assemble a three-course, under $20, all-tofu lunch, with the former providing an appetizer (fried tofu) and dessert (ginger tofu pudding), and the latter providing the entree (lemongrass tofu with rice noodles). Afterwards, I sat on the lip of the Grand Century mall fountain, set out my assorted tofu, and thought about how lucky the neighborhood is to have this abundance. In a lopsided American food system that gives artisanal food to the rich and the processed scraps to the poor, fresh tofu is the rare luxury that remains stubbornly affordable, able to be enjoyed by all. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As I ate, I couldn’t stop thinking of the melancholy note on which my conversation with Nguyen ended: “I think that we take for granted what is available in these enclaves,” she mused. “Because I think, my God, how lucky are we to be in America and be standing here, waiting in line to buy this tofu that’s been freshly made. It’s not the same as going to buy it on a wet market in Vietnam, but gosh darn it, it’s a very similar experience. I think about the many depths of these experiences. And I said to myself: How fucking lucky am I? How long is that going to last?“\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13905153,arts_13904913,arts_13905230' label='More San Jose Food']Nguyen points out that young Vietnamese Americans usually aren’t the ones behind the register at these tofu shops, but an older generation of first wave immigrants. She’s worried that the graying of the community might spell an end for the tofu. There’s some precedent for this in San Jose: The last tofu maker in Japantown, San Jose Tofu Company, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.mercurynews.com/2017/12/30/san-jose-tofu-japantowns-gem-closes-its-doors-after-71-years/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">closed\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> three years ago after the retirement of its owners. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But perhaps tofu will survive in San Jose like it always has. Hodo Soy, the buzzy, high-end tofu factory now based in Oakland, got its start in the South Bay. The company is owned by Minh Tsai, whose parents would bring him to traditional tofu stands in Vietnam when he was a child. Tsai started making the product for his new brand at Sogo Tofu, San Jose’s only Taiwanese tofu makers, and his dense style of tofu still betrays a strong Chinese influence. And when it came time to introduce his line to a wider audience, he opted for Japanese terminology, like “yuba” for tofu skins. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Maybe the next generation of South Bay tofu entrepreneurs will be more like Tsai: multicultural in emphasis, reflecting the diverse history of tofu making in San Jose itself. Still, what’s lost \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2018-08-23/the-california-startup-selling-america-on-tofu\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">in the hype\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is that companies like Hodo stand on the shoulders of the humble strip mall tofu shops, which have been making fresh bean curd with care and sophistication, and with little fanfare, long before mainstream America deemed the product worthy of fine-dining menus. Let’s keep their memory alive, too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Correction: This article originally stated that Minh Tsai’s father was a tofu maker. He was not.\u003c/em>\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>Adesh Thapliyal is KQED Arts’ Editorial Intern. Previously, he wrote for the experimental newsletter \u003c/em>Tone Glow\u003cem> and the pop music blog \u003c/em>The Singles Jukebox\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Mai Ly and Truc Tran provided interpretation for this story.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905357\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905357\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A steamer tray full of freshly fried tofu, as part of a buffet-style display.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Freshly fried tofu is one of the star attractions at Dong Phuong—one of San Jose’s many Vietnamese tofu delis. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">S\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>an Jose is America’s tofu capital, and nowhere else comes close. Soy milk curds have been strained and pressed in the South Bay since the early 20th century, but it’s not San Jose’s long history with tofu that earns it the title: It’s the diversity, freshness and convenience of the tofu on offer throughout the area in restaurants, supermarkets and an uncommonly large number of dedicated tofu storefronts.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To put San Jose’s embarrassment of bean curd riches in perspective, San Francisco has only one dedicated tofu storefront to its name—Chinatown’s reliably inexpensive Wo Chong. Megacities like Los Angeles or New York might eke out a technical numerical victory, but San Jose comes out on top when calculating tofu wealth on a per capita basis: With its population of a little over one million, the city still manages to sustain a diverse and lucrative soybean scene that can go toe to toe with any place in America. By my count, San Jose is home to at least 10 outlets specializing in fresh tofu, catering to a dedicated clientele of workers looking for a hot snack, home cooks picking up tonight’s dinner and local restaurateurs stocking up on their supply. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The tofu in the Bay’s U-bend covers a wide swath of traditions and cultures: At US SoyPresso, Japanese-style tofu pudding is topped with soy milk and sweet beans. At Taiwanese Sogo Tofu, it is deep fried in “biandang” lunchbox-sized pieces. And at Vietnamese Thanh Son Tofu, it can be ordered tucked inside a banh mi. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Today, the dominant style of tofu in San Jose is Vietnamese, with a half-dozen strip-mall tofu delicatessens like Thanh Son clustered in a small stretch of San Jose’s heavily Vietnamese East Side, with additional outposts spread out across the city.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905358\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An employee helps a customer with their tofu order at Thanh Son Tofu.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This wasn’t always the case, though. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As documented in William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi’s exhaustive \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.soyinfocenter.com/books/163\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">history of tofu making, \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the first tofu shops in San Jose came with the earliest Japanese American immigrants, who settled in the Santa Clara Valley to work as farm laborers. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Okumura Tofu-ya, founded in 1906, was the first recorded tofu business in the city. It was located on 6th Street, smack dab in the middle of Japantown, and the neighborhood would have at least one tofu maker or another for more than a hundred years until the last one \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.mercurynews.com/2017/12/30/san-jose-tofu-japantowns-gem-closes-its-doors-after-71-years/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">closed in 2017\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Tofu shops like Okumura spread wherever there were Japanese immigrants in the U.S.; by 1950, at least 425 Japanese tofu businesses had been established throughout the country.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“Megacities like Los Angeles or New York might eke out a technical numerical victory, but San Jose comes out on top when calculating tofu wealth on a per capita basis.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The Japanese American community’s grip on tofu started loosening in the late 20th century as the population aged and shrunk relative to other Asian American groups. By then, the growth of tofu shops had slowed if not regressed; they had become redundant after the invention of packaged tofu in Los Angeles in the ‘50s, which enabled the ingredient to be sold in supermarkets instead of specialty stores. In some cities, these developments spelled the end of the tofu shop—but in San Jose, they would live on in the hands of a new population that arrived in the city after 1975 in large numbers: Vietnamese immigrants. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the subsequent decades, Vietnamese Americans would create their own kind of tofu shop, one that sells bean curd alongside a wide variety of snacks and drinks in a deli-like format, and usher in a new tofu renaissance in the South Bay. Vietnamese tofu delis now make up the majority of tofu businesses in San Jose. But despite the delis’ omnipresence—it feels like no Vietnamese grocery store in San Jose is complete without a fresh tofu maker nearby—they rarely get the same level of mainstream recognition as other neighborhood institutions like pho restaurants and banh mi takeout joints. Nevertheless, they play just as essential a role in the community and are just as valuable a part of San Jose’s culinary landscape.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905360\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905360\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An employee refills a metal display case with freshly fried tofu.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/009_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An employee at Thanh Son refills the display case with freshly fried tofu. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For the loyal customers these delis serve, the prepackaged stuff sold in grocery stores is no substitute for what their local tofu store can offer. Andrea Nguyen, an authority on Vietnamese cooking and the author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781607740254\">an entire book on tofu\u003c/a>, is a longtime customer of tofu delis. “Americans want tofu to be sturdy,” she says about Safeway refrigerator aisle tofu, “whereas the tofu that you buy at an Asian tofu shop, whether that’s Japanese, Chinese or Vietnamese, tends to be more tender because we love that tenderness. That tenderness means that the curds are not as compressed and they suck up flavor.“\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s a difference that customers can feel—literally. Nguyen claims it is a Vietnamese American habit to poke at the Saran-wrapped tofu on display to check for quality, “like you’re poking the belly of the Pillsbury Doughboy.” Good Vietnamese tofu should, like a soft cheese, threaten to fall apart into airy curls with the slightest pressure. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The texture is one that many Americans might not be familiar with, as Japanese and Chinese–style firm tofu dominates the grocery aisle. Aside from the creamy kind that’s only used for pudding, Vietnamese bean curd comes in one, ricotta-esque consistency. Vietnamese tofu makers play up this textural quality by using a different process than Japanese and Chinese artisans. Instead of using nigari or gypsum, they use the leftover “whey” from straining the last batch to thicken the soy milk into curds. While it cools, they leave it to set loosely in a bread pan-sized trough instead of, say, subjecting it to the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://issuu.com/hyphenmagazine/docs/issue21/28\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">wooden press\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> of Japanese tofu making. \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>This process produces a softer, wispier tofu than rival methods, highlighting the supple mouthfeel that makes the ingredient a desirable addition to Vietnamese soups, stir-fries and noodles. It also doesn’t turn tofu into anything resembling ersatz meat—intentionally so, because Vietnamese cuisine, like most Asian food cultures, doesn’t only treat tofu as a meat substitute. Sometimes tofu can be a velvety complement to the savoriness of meat. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But it’s not just the culinary superiority of the fresh stuff that draws Vietnamese Americans to their tofu delis, says Nguyen. “People like fresh tofu because it’s part of the food traditions. We’re a relatively new immigrant refugee community to America, and there has been so much foodcraft, transported and translated to American soil from Vietnam. We value freshness. We also value the community that forms around that freshness—you feel in touch with your people and your soul when you go to these delis.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905359\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905359\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Customers browse a Vietnamese deli's colorful display of snacks and tofu products.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1708\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Thanh Son’s tables and counters are piled high with colorful packaged snacks. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hanh Son Tofu, a prominent Vietnamese tofu deli located near Lee’s Supermarket on Senter Road, is a good example of how these stores can be an anchor for the community. The shop has been around for three decades now, according to Anh Nguyen, a member of the family who owns the store. The Thanh Son Nguyens were a traditional tofu making family in Vietnam until the Fall of Saigon, after which they fled their country. Reaching America without anything to their name, they resumed making and selling tofu to their new neighbors in Southern California’s Orange County through the ‘70s and ‘80s. Eventually, they saved enough capital to open their first storefront in Westminster’s Little Saigon in the ‘90s—and that operation was successful enough that a cousin who lived in San Jose wanted to open a Northern California location with the same name.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Today, Thanh Son is one of the busiest tofu delis in the neighborhood. The storefront, spacious and buzzing with commotion, sports stainless steel counters and see-through refrigerators packed with green-tinted pandan soy milk, golden fried tofu, yuba sheets rolled up in an imitation of chả lụa ham and soy pudding with bright noodles of fruit jelly. A long line of customers wraps around the counters. They point at their preferred soybean product behind the glass, the staff bags it up, and then they head to the register to pay and receive their gelatinous treats. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s no accident that Thanh Son does brisk business. Tofu this fresh doesn’t last more than a few days in a refrigerator, so customers need to come back regularly for their fix. That also means the store needs to refresh its stock regularly, so the staff makes most of its inventory from scratch every morning—all of which will be gone by the afternoon. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The store also sells a wide variety of packaged snacks and goodies like bánh bèo (shrimp-dusted rice cakes), nem chua (tangy rolls of raw fermented pork) and bánh bò nướng (pandan-flavored “honeycomb” cakes)—some made by Thanh Son staff, some sourced from smaller local producers, but all very addictive. These snacks are piled up on every available inch of counter and shelf space, giving the deli a lively, market hall feel. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905361\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905361\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Packages of green and white sponge cake lined up on a tabletop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ThanhSonTofu_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A display of bánh bò—a sweet, chewy Vietnamese sponge cake—at Thanh Son. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s the kind of store that can be found all over Vietnamese American enclaves, from Houston to Los Angeles, but, crucially, not in Vietnam. These delis are uniquely a diaspora phenomenon. “When I have seen tofu vendors in Vietnam, they’re just selling tofu, sometimes soy milk, too. But the whole thing about these delis serving other dishes and having a menu, that’s the next level of Vietnamese American-ness,” says Andrea Nguyen, the cookbook author. The fusion of the Vietnamese tofu market stall with the German-Jewish-American delicatessen is an adaptation of one shopping culture to another, a synthesis encouraged along by the generous real estate of the California strip mall. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thanh Son isn’t the only kind of Vietnamese tofu deli that’s out there. Some, like Binh Minh (1180 Tully Road) or \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13904913/vietnamese-drinks-boba-che-guide-san-jose\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hung Vuong\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> (1741 Berryessa Road), serve only vegetarian food, in accordance with a Buddhist monk’s diet. Not all Vietnamese Buddhists are vegetarian, but many do observe a vegetarian diet on occasion as an act of religious piety. These Buddhist delis have a slightly different format than their non-vegetarian peers, with a greater focus on hot prepared meals and, of course, the presence of lots of Buddhist tchotchkes on sale. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905362\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905362\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Buddha statue is displayed prominently inside a Vietnamese deli.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Buddha statue is displayed prominently inside Dong Phuong’s McKee Road shopping center location. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dong Phuong Tofu is a longstanding example of this alternative format; it has stood across from Lion Market in the heart of San Jose’s Little Saigon for almost two decades. There are meditation CDs and Buddhist scripture posters for sale at the doorway, and a small selection of specialty groceries like vegetarian fish sauce and pork floss displayed on a wooden island in the middle of the store. At the front, hungry patrons dawdle trying to decide between the two dozen dishes in the hot food counter tubs as well as everything else on the large menu of made-to-order food tacked up on the wall. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The star attractions are the meatless stir-fries, rice noodles and other mealtime staples at the hot food counter. The staff at Dong Phuong make the tofu for these dishes on site, which gives its lemongrass tofu, for example, a springy chew that other restaurants can’t pull off. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“In a lopsided American food system that gives artisanal food to the rich and the processed scraps to the poor, fresh tofu is the rare luxury that remains stubbornly affordable.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>While some vegetarian diets, like those of brahminical Hindus or white American hippies, shy away from the close imitation of meat, East Asian vegetarianism doesn’t have such scruples. Some of the double-take-inducing dishes on display at the hot counter include seitan “fish” battered, deep fried and coated in a brown sauce, as well as a pork belly clay pot where the “belly” has convincing stripes of konjac jelly “fat.” Some of the seitan is made in the kitchen, but the most convincing meat substitutes are sourced from specialized Asian fake-meat producers, who have been operating on the continent long before the Impossible Burger was an idea in a Stanford biochemist’s head.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The quick service counter at delis such as Dong Phuong plug an important hole in the market, providing convenient and tasty meals at a price better than sit-down vegetarian places like Green Lotus, which is just across the street. Plus the quality of the food doesn’t suffer despite sitting out for most of the day: Tofu and seitan dishes only suck up more flavor during a long marination time. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905363\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905363\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Two customers browse the display of goods inside a Vietnamese deil.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/013_SanJose_DongPhuong_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Customers browse a small display of grocery items at Dong Phuong. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">O\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n a recent Saturday, I visited both Thanh Son and Dong Phuong to assemble a three-course, under $20, all-tofu lunch, with the former providing an appetizer (fried tofu) and dessert (ginger tofu pudding), and the latter providing the entree (lemongrass tofu with rice noodles). Afterwards, I sat on the lip of the Grand Century mall fountain, set out my assorted tofu, and thought about how lucky the neighborhood is to have this abundance. In a lopsided American food system that gives artisanal food to the rich and the processed scraps to the poor, fresh tofu is the rare luxury that remains stubbornly affordable, able to be enjoyed by all. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As I ate, I couldn’t stop thinking of the melancholy note on which my conversation with Nguyen ended: “I think that we take for granted what is available in these enclaves,” she mused. “Because I think, my God, how lucky are we to be in America and be standing here, waiting in line to buy this tofu that’s been freshly made. It’s not the same as going to buy it on a wet market in Vietnam, but gosh darn it, it’s a very similar experience. I think about the many depths of these experiences. And I said to myself: How fucking lucky am I? How long is that going to last?“\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>Nguyen points out that young Vietnamese Americans usually aren’t the ones behind the register at these tofu shops, but an older generation of first wave immigrants. She’s worried that the graying of the community might spell an end for the tofu. There’s some precedent for this in San Jose: The last tofu maker in Japantown, San Jose Tofu Company, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.mercurynews.com/2017/12/30/san-jose-tofu-japantowns-gem-closes-its-doors-after-71-years/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">closed\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> three years ago after the retirement of its owners. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But perhaps tofu will survive in San Jose like it always has. Hodo Soy, the buzzy, high-end tofu factory now based in Oakland, got its start in the South Bay. The company is owned by Minh Tsai, whose parents would bring him to traditional tofu stands in Vietnam when he was a child. Tsai started making the product for his new brand at Sogo Tofu, San Jose’s only Taiwanese tofu makers, and his dense style of tofu still betrays a strong Chinese influence. And when it came time to introduce his line to a wider audience, he opted for Japanese terminology, like “yuba” for tofu skins. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Maybe the next generation of South Bay tofu entrepreneurs will be more like Tsai: multicultural in emphasis, reflecting the diverse history of tofu making in San Jose itself. Still, what’s lost \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2018-08-23/the-california-startup-selling-america-on-tofu\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">in the hype\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is that companies like Hodo stand on the shoulders of the humble strip mall tofu shops, which have been making fresh bean curd with care and sophistication, and with little fanfare, long before mainstream America deemed the product worthy of fine-dining menus. Let’s keep their memory alive, too.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Correction: This article originally stated that Minh Tsai’s father was a tofu maker. He was not.\u003c/em>\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>Adesh Thapliyal is KQED Arts’ Editorial Intern. Previously, he wrote for the experimental newsletter \u003c/em>Tone Glow\u003cem> and the pop music blog \u003c/em>The Singles Jukebox\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Mai Ly and Truc Tran provided interpretation for this story.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "The Bay Area’s Most Famous Ethiopian Restaurant Started With a Love Story",
"headTitle": "The Bay Area’s Most Famous Ethiopian Restaurant Started With a Love Story | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905234\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905234\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman in a bright yellow dress poses for a portrait inside her restaurant.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Zeni Gebremariam opened her namesake restaurant in San Jose almost 20 years ago. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]K[/dropcap]eeping a restaurant afloat through a pandemic might not be easy. But for Zeni Gebremariam, owner of \u003ca href=\"https://zeniethiopianrestaurant.com/\">Zeni Ethiopian Restaurant\u003c/a>, it doesn’t come close to being the biggest challenge she’s faced: Long before she even thought about opening a restaurant, Gebremariam had to help the love of her life escape from a prison camp in Ethiopia just to have the chance to leave the country. It has been a long road to success.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Today, visitors know they’ve arrived at Gebremariam’s restaurant well before they enter its doors. There’s an aromatic warmth that trails off from the kitchen’s bubbling clay pots and sizzling cast iron pans and into the surrounds of the neighborhood—the scent of cardamom pods, paprika, caramelizing onions and freshly cut hot peppers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nestled in an unassuming row of small businesses in the westside of San Jose, Zeni has built an outsized reputation in the Bay Area: Many in the community confidently say it’s the most exceptional Ethiopian restaurant in Northern California. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You know you’ve arrived when your Ethiopian wedding or event has Zeni as your caterer,” says Yemi Getachew, a San Jose-based immigration lawyer. “People won’t miss it because they don’t want to miss out on the food.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In many ways, it makes sense that the Bay Area’s finest Ethiopian restaurants would be located in San Jose. The first wave of Ethiopian immigrants and refugees arrived in the United States in the ’80s and ’90s, fleeing the long civil war back home. These newcomers built up particularly strong bases in places like Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Minneapolis and the Bay Area. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"left\"]“Long before she even thought about opening a restaurant, Gebremariam had to help the love of her life escape from a prison camp in Ethiopia.”[/pullquote]In the case of the San Jose area, specifically, the first dot-com bubble in the mid ’90s created a demand for an incredible amount of labor to build the electronic components for personal computers, which were quickly becoming a domestic necessity in American homes. Companies like IBM and Cisco went on a hiring spree to keep up with the demand, coinciding with the surge of new immigrants. Ethiopians came to Silicon Valley to take these jobs, and many ended up staying in the area. According to some estimates, the Ethiopian population has swelled to roughly 25,000 in Santa Clara County alone. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But what makes Zeni so uniquely special isn’t just a matter of demographics. Instead, there’s a love story at the heart of the restaurant.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before Gebremariam and her late husband Abebaw “Muna” Feki opened their restaurant almost 20 years ago, they first had to risk their lives to be together. As a member of the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP) when he was just a teenager, Feki fought against the Derg, the oppressive military regime that governed Ethiopia from 1974 to 1991. When Feki wound up getting captured, Gebremariam—who was already married to him at the time—immediately started working with Feki’s family on a scheme to free him.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905252\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905252\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful, long-necked painted bottles arranged on a countertop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Painted long-necked bottles for serving tej, or traditional Ethiopian honey wine. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“His family found a guard to bribe, so when he escaped, the camp never knew he was missing,” Gebremariam recalls. These days, she’s an unflappable veteran of the restaurant industry, but at the time she was just a scared kid. Even then, however, Gebremariam was incredibly clever and resourceful.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back in Addis Ababa, the teenage lovers decided that the only way to ensure their safety was to flee the country altogether. But it wasn’t until the Derg’s crushing rule was nearly over that they were able to make it to Kenya. Gebremariam went ahead to Nairobi first and found a house while Feki finished school. Eventually, he was able to join her, having secured a temporary stay as an agricultural specialist. Once they both got out of Ethiopia they applied for resettlement in the U.S., which was granted to them in 1991.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After the young couple arrived in San Jose, Feki took one of those tech jobs building semiconductors for IBM. After long shifts, he would come home and shuttle orders of homemade Ethiopian food that Gebremariam had made—she’d started a small, informal business catering to other Ethiopians hungry for a taste of home. Eventually, Feki was so inspired by his wife’s passion for cooking that he quit his job and mortgaged the house. He spent the remaining years of his life helping Gebremariam realize her vision of opening and running a successful restaurant. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“[Feki] absolutely loved and adored his wife and wanted to give her whatever it was she wanted,” Getachew, the immigration lawyer, says. “He became the backbone to her dream, and out of that, Zeni Restaurant was born.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905254\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905254\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman cooks a large pot of stew in a restaurant kitchen.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gebremariam says she learned to cook by watching her mother. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]M[/dropcap]ake no mistake about it, though: Zeni is \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gebremariam’s\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> success story through and through. These days, everyone in the Ethiopian community knows about the restaurant, often traveling from distant corners of the Bay just to enjoy a meal. For many years it was one of the only Ethiopian restaurants recommended by the Bay Area edition of the Michelin Guide. Zeni is known for its stunning interior, too: Inside, natural light floods into the space during the day, illuminating the dense, colorful textures of traditional textiles, cultural artifacts and the handmade thatched hut that is the centerpiece of the dining room. The all-female staff works with a level of such collective grace that they almost seem choreographed. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And then, of course, there’s the food, which is spectacular. The base of every order should be the restaurant’s vegetarian combo, a special assortment of five vegetable dishes, each with its own distinct character. For her atakelt wot, for instance, Gebremariam slightly caramelizes cabbage, potatoes and carrots, then enrobes the trio in a delicate turmeric broth. The beg tibs—Getachew’s favorite—is made with cubes of fresh lamb that have been lightly fried in spiced clarified butter called niter kibbeh and tossed with sweet white onions and green peppers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Yemi Getachew\"]“You know you’ve arrived when your Ethiopian wedding or event has Zeni as your caterer.”[/pullquote]You can amplify any of the meat dishes with a fiery spice blend called mitmita, which is made with a base of piri piri peppers and acts as the perfect dip for any of the kitfo options on the menu. Gebremariam is originally from the lush Gurage region, an area in central Ethiopia that’s famous for kitfo, making Zeni a destination for the specialty dish. It’s made with succulent cuts of beef or chicken that are minced and then hand-mixed with aromatic niter kibbeh. Every dish has a comforting quality that’s more like home cooking than restaurant food.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I didn’t go to culinary school, and I learned everything by watching my mother cook,” Gebremariam says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905250\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905250\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A spread of colorful Ethiopian dishes arranged on top of a layer of injera.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">According to the restaurant’s many fans, Zeni serves some of the very best Ethiopian food in Northern California. \u003ccite>(Tana Yonas)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The restaurant itself is a pillar of the Santa Clara County Ethiopian community. Gebremariam is known for helping new immigrants get settled in the area, helping them find affordable housing and work. According to Getachew, “Whenever someone in the community faces an adversity, like a death or a sickness in the family, Zeni has always gone to their home with food.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One sign of how beloved the restaurant is among Ethiopians in San Jose: There are almost always one or two yellow cabs parked right outside while the owners enjoy a quick meal—taxi driving being one of the most common professions for Ethiopians when they first immigrate to the U.S.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And it isn’t just Ethiopians who love Zeni. According to Gebremariam, people from a wide variety of ethnic backgrounds have flocked to the restaurant since the day it opened its doors. “When you look around the restaurant, especially on the weekend, it’s like the United Nations. You see people from all walks of life. It’s so diverse that it’s almost unbelievable,” she says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In a way, this isn’t surprising: Part of Ethiopia’s history is its connection to ancient maritime spice routes that linked the East with the West. This is why the cuisine features ingredients—cumin, turmeric, cloves and fenugreek—that have a botanical origin as far away as Southeast Asia. It’s food with true international appeal. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905253\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905253\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Restaurant owner in a face mask speaks to a smiling customer.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gebremariam greets friends at her restaurant, which has become a fixture in the South Bay Ethiopian community. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many customers, though, this is their first exposure to Ethiopian food. And Zeni is a hospitable place for novices to the cuisine too. The waitstaff is well practiced with their patient charade of the correct techniques for eating the injera—the crepe-like bread made with fermented teff grain—that’s used to scoop up different dishes. They explain how it’s used in place of utensils, adding a special nuance to the dining experience. (According to Gebremariam, using your hands makes whatever you’re eating taste more delicious.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Zeni is also one of just a handful of places in the Bay Area where you can experience a traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony. Ethiopia is famously the birthplace of both the coffee plant and coffee culture—it’s the world’s only coffee-growing country that consumes more of the crop than it exports. At Zeni, a whole portion of the restaurant is dedicated to the ritual. During each brew, clouds of frankincense and myrrh billow from a piece of charcoal, commingling with the smell of the roasting coffee that’s prepared in the same space. Guests are served one by one, just like how someone in Addis Ababa would do if a close friend or family member stops by for a chat. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“To me, cooking and feeding people is an art, and I love what I do because of that,” Gebremariam says. “Cooking and representing my country is my passion.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905251\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905251\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Ten ceramic coffee cups arranged on a small table.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Traditional Ethiopian coffee service is a relative rarity in the Bay Area. \u003ccite>(Tana Yonas)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]A[/dropcap]s is the case for so many restaurants, the pandemic has been a blow to the business. Zeni closed for two months when the statewide stay-at-home orders first went into effect, and even after it reopened, people seemed to want to order takeout instead of dining in. Before the pandemic, Gebremariam recalls, “There was an hour-and-a-half wait, and now it’s not too busy.” She misses the days when some guests would fly to San Jose just to try her food. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904861,arts_13905153,arts_13904835' label='More San Jose Food']Still, Gebremariam remains optimistic. Her son Zeru Feki says she could simply step away from the restaurant now without major repercussions. But she doesn’t want to. “What really stands out is her resiliency throughout this whole thing,” Zeru proudly says of his mother.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This isn’t the only time Zeni has faced a monumental transition. The first was when Feki passed away in 2010 after an intense five-year battle with cancer. In many ways, though, the love that he and Gebremariam shared continues to be the foundation of what makes the restaurant a special place.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One way you see that love express itself at the restaurant is through “gorsha,” an Ethiopian tradition of feeding one another mouthfuls of food by hand. At Zeni, you might see this loving gesture for yourself if you let your eyes follow the laughter. Often the person offering the gorsha makes the bite almost impossible to eat in one go—a challenge that the eater might accept with a coy smile. It’s just one of many acts of care that you might experience during a meal at Zeni—moments when you’ll feel an intimate warmth at the dinner table. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\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\">\u003cbr>\n\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tana Yonas is a Berkeley and Los Angeles–based artist and writer who explores the culture and stories of under-represented communities through the lens of food and music. She’s a regular contributor for the popular vinyl cultural outfit In Sheep’s Clothing HiFi and a resident of Radio Alhara in Palestine. Follow her on Instagram \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/passionfruit.wav/\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">@passionfruit.wav\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905234\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905234\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman in a bright yellow dress poses for a portrait inside her restaurant.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Zeni Gebremariam opened her namesake restaurant in San Jose almost 20 years ago. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">K\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>eeping a restaurant afloat through a pandemic might not be easy. But for Zeni Gebremariam, owner of \u003ca href=\"https://zeniethiopianrestaurant.com/\">Zeni Ethiopian Restaurant\u003c/a>, it doesn’t come close to being the biggest challenge she’s faced: Long before she even thought about opening a restaurant, Gebremariam had to help the love of her life escape from a prison camp in Ethiopia just to have the chance to leave the country. It has been a long road to success.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Today, visitors know they’ve arrived at Gebremariam’s restaurant well before they enter its doors. There’s an aromatic warmth that trails off from the kitchen’s bubbling clay pots and sizzling cast iron pans and into the surrounds of the neighborhood—the scent of cardamom pods, paprika, caramelizing onions and freshly cut hot peppers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nestled in an unassuming row of small businesses in the westside of San Jose, Zeni has built an outsized reputation in the Bay Area: Many in the community confidently say it’s the most exceptional Ethiopian restaurant in Northern California. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You know you’ve arrived when your Ethiopian wedding or event has Zeni as your caterer,” says Yemi Getachew, a San Jose-based immigration lawyer. “People won’t miss it because they don’t want to miss out on the food.”\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\">In many ways, it makes sense that the Bay Area’s finest Ethiopian restaurants would be located in San Jose. The first wave of Ethiopian immigrants and refugees arrived in the United States in the ’80s and ’90s, fleeing the long civil war back home. These newcomers built up particularly strong bases in places like Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Minneapolis and the Bay Area. \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 case of the San Jose area, specifically, the first dot-com bubble in the mid ’90s created a demand for an incredible amount of labor to build the electronic components for personal computers, which were quickly becoming a domestic necessity in American homes. Companies like IBM and Cisco went on a hiring spree to keep up with the demand, coinciding with the surge of new immigrants. Ethiopians came to Silicon Valley to take these jobs, and many ended up staying in the area. According to some estimates, the Ethiopian population has swelled to roughly 25,000 in Santa Clara County alone. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But what makes Zeni so uniquely special isn’t just a matter of demographics. Instead, there’s a love story at the heart of the restaurant.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Before Gebremariam and her late husband Abebaw “Muna” Feki opened their restaurant almost 20 years ago, they first had to risk their lives to be together. As a member of the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP) when he was just a teenager, Feki fought against the Derg, the oppressive military regime that governed Ethiopia from 1974 to 1991. When Feki wound up getting captured, Gebremariam—who was already married to him at the time—immediately started working with Feki’s family on a scheme to free him.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905252\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905252\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful, long-necked painted bottles arranged on a countertop.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Painted long-necked bottles for serving tej, or traditional Ethiopian honey wine. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“His family found a guard to bribe, so when he escaped, the camp never knew he was missing,” Gebremariam recalls. These days, she’s an unflappable veteran of the restaurant industry, but at the time she was just a scared kid. Even then, however, Gebremariam was incredibly clever and resourceful.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Back in Addis Ababa, the teenage lovers decided that the only way to ensure their safety was to flee the country altogether. But it wasn’t until the Derg’s crushing rule was nearly over that they were able to make it to Kenya. Gebremariam went ahead to Nairobi first and found a house while Feki finished school. Eventually, he was able to join her, having secured a temporary stay as an agricultural specialist. Once they both got out of Ethiopia they applied for resettlement in the U.S., which was granted to them in 1991.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After the young couple arrived in San Jose, Feki took one of those tech jobs building semiconductors for IBM. After long shifts, he would come home and shuttle orders of homemade Ethiopian food that Gebremariam had made—she’d started a small, informal business catering to other Ethiopians hungry for a taste of home. Eventually, Feki was so inspired by his wife’s passion for cooking that he quit his job and mortgaged the house. He spent the remaining years of his life helping Gebremariam realize her vision of opening and running a successful restaurant. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“[Feki] absolutely loved and adored his wife and wanted to give her whatever it was she wanted,” Getachew, the immigration lawyer, says. “He became the backbone to her dream, and out of that, Zeni Restaurant was born.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905254\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905254\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman cooks a large pot of stew in a restaurant kitchen.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gebremariam says she learned to cook by watching her mother. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">M\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ake no mistake about it, though: Zeni is \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gebremariam’s\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> success story through and through. These days, everyone in the Ethiopian community knows about the restaurant, often traveling from distant corners of the Bay just to enjoy a meal. For many years it was one of the only Ethiopian restaurants recommended by the Bay Area edition of the Michelin Guide. Zeni is known for its stunning interior, too: Inside, natural light floods into the space during the day, illuminating the dense, colorful textures of traditional textiles, cultural artifacts and the handmade thatched hut that is the centerpiece of the dining room. The all-female staff works with a level of such collective grace that they almost seem choreographed. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And then, of course, there’s the food, which is spectacular. The base of every order should be the restaurant’s vegetarian combo, a special assortment of five vegetable dishes, each with its own distinct character. For her atakelt wot, for instance, Gebremariam slightly caramelizes cabbage, potatoes and carrots, then enrobes the trio in a delicate turmeric broth. The beg tibs—Getachew’s favorite—is made with cubes of fresh lamb that have been lightly fried in spiced clarified butter called niter kibbeh and tossed with sweet white onions and green peppers. \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>You can amplify any of the meat dishes with a fiery spice blend called mitmita, which is made with a base of piri piri peppers and acts as the perfect dip for any of the kitfo options on the menu. Gebremariam is originally from the lush Gurage region, an area in central Ethiopia that’s famous for kitfo, making Zeni a destination for the specialty dish. It’s made with succulent cuts of beef or chicken that are minced and then hand-mixed with aromatic niter kibbeh. Every dish has a comforting quality that’s more like home cooking than restaurant food.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I didn’t go to culinary school, and I learned everything by watching my mother cook,” Gebremariam says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905250\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905250\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A spread of colorful Ethiopian dishes arranged on top of a layer of injera.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_food_tanayonas-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">According to the restaurant’s many fans, Zeni serves some of the very best Ethiopian food in Northern California. \u003ccite>(Tana Yonas)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The restaurant itself is a pillar of the Santa Clara County Ethiopian community. Gebremariam is known for helping new immigrants get settled in the area, helping them find affordable housing and work. According to Getachew, “Whenever someone in the community faces an adversity, like a death or a sickness in the family, Zeni has always gone to their home with food.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One sign of how beloved the restaurant is among Ethiopians in San Jose: There are almost always one or two yellow cabs parked right outside while the owners enjoy a quick meal—taxi driving being one of the most common professions for Ethiopians when they first immigrate to the U.S.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And it isn’t just Ethiopians who love Zeni. According to Gebremariam, people from a wide variety of ethnic backgrounds have flocked to the restaurant since the day it opened its doors. “When you look around the restaurant, especially on the weekend, it’s like the United Nations. You see people from all walks of life. It’s so diverse that it’s almost unbelievable,” she says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In a way, this isn’t surprising: Part of Ethiopia’s history is its connection to ancient maritime spice routes that linked the East with the West. This is why the cuisine features ingredients—cumin, turmeric, cloves and fenugreek—that have a botanical origin as far away as Southeast Asia. It’s food with true international appeal. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905253\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905253\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Restaurant owner in a face mask speaks to a smiling customer.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_SanJose_ZeniEthiopianRestaurant_10222021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gebremariam greets friends at her restaurant, which has become a fixture in the South Bay Ethiopian community. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many customers, though, this is their first exposure to Ethiopian food. And Zeni is a hospitable place for novices to the cuisine too. The waitstaff is well practiced with their patient charade of the correct techniques for eating the injera—the crepe-like bread made with fermented teff grain—that’s used to scoop up different dishes. They explain how it’s used in place of utensils, adding a special nuance to the dining experience. (According to Gebremariam, using your hands makes whatever you’re eating taste more delicious.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Zeni is also one of just a handful of places in the Bay Area where you can experience a traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony. Ethiopia is famously the birthplace of both the coffee plant and coffee culture—it’s the world’s only coffee-growing country that consumes more of the crop than it exports. At Zeni, a whole portion of the restaurant is dedicated to the ritual. During each brew, clouds of frankincense and myrrh billow from a piece of charcoal, commingling with the smell of the roasting coffee that’s prepared in the same space. Guests are served one by one, just like how someone in Addis Ababa would do if a close friend or family member stops by for a chat. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“To me, cooking and feeding people is an art, and I love what I do because of that,” Gebremariam says. “Cooking and representing my country is my passion.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905251\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905251\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Ten ceramic coffee cups arranged on a small table.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Zeni_coffeecups_TanaYonas-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Traditional Ethiopian coffee service is a relative rarity in the Bay Area. \u003ccite>(Tana Yonas)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">A\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>s is the case for so many restaurants, the pandemic has been a blow to the business. Zeni closed for two months when the statewide stay-at-home orders first went into effect, and even after it reopened, people seemed to want to order takeout instead of dining in. Before the pandemic, Gebremariam recalls, “There was an hour-and-a-half wait, and now it’s not too busy.” She misses the days when some guests would fly to San Jose just to try her 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>Still, Gebremariam remains optimistic. Her son Zeru Feki says she could simply step away from the restaurant now without major repercussions. But she doesn’t want to. “What really stands out is her resiliency throughout this whole thing,” Zeru proudly says of his mother.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This isn’t the only time Zeni has faced a monumental transition. The first was when Feki passed away in 2010 after an intense five-year battle with cancer. In many ways, though, the love that he and Gebremariam shared continues to be the foundation of what makes the restaurant a special place.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One way you see that love express itself at the restaurant is through “gorsha,” an Ethiopian tradition of feeding one another mouthfuls of food by hand. At Zeni, you might see this loving gesture for yourself if you let your eyes follow the laughter. Often the person offering the gorsha makes the bite almost impossible to eat in one go—a challenge that the eater might accept with a coy smile. It’s just one of many acts of care that you might experience during a meal at Zeni—moments when you’ll feel an intimate warmth at the dinner table. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\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\">\u003cbr>\n\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tana Yonas is a Berkeley and Los Angeles–based artist and writer who explores the culture and stories of under-represented communities through the lens of food and music. She’s a regular contributor for the popular vinyl cultural outfit In Sheep’s Clothing HiFi and a resident of Radio Alhara in Palestine. Follow her on Instagram \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/passionfruit.wav/\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">@passionfruit.wav\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Social Media Kitchen Confidential",
"headTitle": "Social Media Kitchen Confidential | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905156\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01.jpg\" alt=\"The title, "Social Media Kitchen Confidential," is written as though it's part of a Facebook post, with an illustration of a bowl of soup noodles above.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905157\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02.jpg\" alt=\"A takeout container with Vietnamese clam rice, with fresh herbs, peanuts, clams and pickled vegetables all divided into different compartments. The speech bubble reads, "This is the best com hen I've ever had!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905158\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03.jpg\" alt=\"Two men lean over takeout cartons, shoveling food into their mouths with spoons. The speech bubbles read, "I know! Right?" "Where did you get this?" "I have no idea."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905159\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Two men converse at the table, spoons held aloft in mid-bite. The speech bubbles read, "What do you mean you have no idea? This is amazing!" "You've got to write about this place."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905160\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Balding man with glasses holds up his finger to his mouth and says "Shhh!" Speech bubbles read: "Dude, be cool. Keep your voice down!" "Don't you think I already thought of writing about this place?" "I can't!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905161\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man in glasses covers up his friend's mouth. Speech bubbles read, "What? What do you mean you can't y...mmmm mmmm mm mm" "Dude!" "Okay! If you'll shut up I'll tell you how I got this."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905181\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is describing a conversation with his mother; that scene appears above as a flashback. Speech bubbles: "So the other day I was going to a potluck and I really wanted to impress, so I asked my mom: 'Mom, can you order me the best spring rolls in San Jose?' Alright! I got you, son.'"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905163\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is driving his car. Speech bubbles read, "So then, the next day I go to pick up the spring rolls. 'Mom, where's this restaurant that I'm supposed to pick them up at?' 'Just drive to the address that I texted you.'"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone wp-image-13905164\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is sitting in his parked car, tapping on his cellphone. Speech bubble: "Ok, now park by the biggest tree on the left and have exactly 22 dollars in cash in your hand. Text this number..."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905165\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man continues to wait inside his parked car. Speech bubble: "Now just wait a few minutes."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905166\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man sitting in his car is surprised by a woman who shows up at the passenger's side window. Speech bubble: "Here's your order!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905167\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Back in the present day, the man is again talking to his friend. Speech bubbles: "That day I learned..." "...two things."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905168\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The main character is enjoying a spring roll along with a female friend. Speech bubbles: "Number one: These really were the best spring rolls." "So light, so crunchy, so flavorful." "Wow, these are so good. Thanks for bringing them!" "Where did you get them?"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905169\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is pointing to an imaginary digital cube that represents the social media network. Speech bubble: "And number two: There is a huge underground social media network of Vietnamese kitchens in San Jose."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905170\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man's mother is showing him something on her smartphone. Speech bubbles: "So in an unprecedented role reversal, I had to ask my mom for help with social media." "See, all you have to do is tap this little house, then tap this circle that looks like 3 people. Then you find the group that you want, click this button that says join. The group is private, so you'll have to wait until they approve you."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905171\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man lifts up his glasses so that he can see his mother's phone more clearly. Speech bubble: "So if they approve you, you can see all the different kitchens post what food they are offering, how much it costs, and how to order. They even post pictures of all the delicious dishes..."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905172\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is talking on the phone. Speech bubbles: So even though I didn't get approved, I got the phone number from my mom and called them to see if I could write about them." "Hi! I want to write a story about your amazing spring rolls! I think it might give you some good exposu..." "Click!" "Hello?"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905173\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Man looks down at his phone, confused. Speech bubbles: "That's weird, I must not have been clear, I better call them again." "The number dialed does not exist, and may have never existed..."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905174\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is being poked by his angry mother. Speech bubbles: "Then, like 10 minutes later my mom called me." "What did you do? You just got me banned! Now I have to reapply! Keep your mouth shut. Don't tell anyone you're my son."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905175\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The two friends look down at their food, slightly stunned. Speech bubbles: "Whoa." "Yep. Now I have to beg my mom to order food for me. She'll only do it sometimes." "So when she does, I order a lot!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905176\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Man looks up, smiling, as he shows off another takeout contain full of rice, fried eggs, a pork chop, and more. Speech bubble: "So, are you ready for the most amazing com tam ever?"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\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>Thien Pham moved to San Jose when he was five years old, arriving straight from a refugee camp in Vietnam. His food-based memoir about his family’s immigration story will be out in Spring/Summer 2023 from First Second Books. Follow him on Instagram \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thiendog/\">@thiendog\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Exploring San Jose's underground network of Vietnamese kitchens—via social media.",
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"description": "Exploring San Jose's underground network of Vietnamese kitchens—via social media.",
"title": "Comic: San Jose's Underground Network of Vietnamese Kitchens | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905156\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01.jpg\" alt=\"The title, "Social Media Kitchen Confidential," is written as though it's part of a Facebook post, with an illustration of a bowl of soup noodles above.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-01-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905157\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02.jpg\" alt=\"A takeout container with Vietnamese clam rice, with fresh herbs, peanuts, clams and pickled vegetables all divided into different compartments. The speech bubble reads, "This is the best com hen I've ever had!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-02-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905158\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03.jpg\" alt=\"Two men lean over takeout cartons, shoveling food into their mouths with spoons. The speech bubbles read, "I know! Right?" "Where did you get this?" "I have no idea."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-03-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905159\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Two men converse at the table, spoons held aloft in mid-bite. The speech bubbles read, "What do you mean you have no idea? This is amazing!" "You've got to write about this place."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-04-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905160\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Balding man with glasses holds up his finger to his mouth and says "Shhh!" Speech bubbles read: "Dude, be cool. Keep your voice down!" "Don't you think I already thought of writing about this place?" "I can't!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-05-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905161\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man in glasses covers up his friend's mouth. Speech bubbles read, "What? What do you mean you can't y...mmmm mmmm mm mm" "Dude!" "Okay! If you'll shut up I'll tell you how I got this."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-06-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905181\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is describing a conversation with his mother; that scene appears above as a flashback. Speech bubbles: "So the other day I was going to a potluck and I really wanted to impress, so I asked my mom: 'Mom, can you order me the best spring rolls in San Jose?' Alright! I got you, son.'"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-07-1-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905163\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is driving his car. Speech bubbles read, "So then, the next day I go to pick up the spring rolls. 'Mom, where's this restaurant that I'm supposed to pick them up at?' 'Just drive to the address that I texted you.'"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-08-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone wp-image-13905164\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is sitting in his parked car, tapping on his cellphone. Speech bubble: "Ok, now park by the biggest tree on the left and have exactly 22 dollars in cash in your hand. Text this number..."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-09-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905165\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man continues to wait inside his parked car. Speech bubble: "Now just wait a few minutes."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-10-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905166\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man sitting in his car is surprised by a woman who shows up at the passenger's side window. Speech bubble: "Here's your order!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-11-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905167\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Back in the present day, the man is again talking to his friend. Speech bubbles: "That day I learned..." "...two things."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-12-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905168\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The main character is enjoying a spring roll along with a female friend. Speech bubbles: "Number one: These really were the best spring rolls." "So light, so crunchy, so flavorful." "Wow, these are so good. Thanks for bringing them!" "Where did you get them?"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-13-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905169\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is pointing to an imaginary digital cube that represents the social media network. Speech bubble: "And number two: There is a huge underground social media network of Vietnamese kitchens in San Jose."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-14-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905170\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man's mother is showing him something on her smartphone. Speech bubbles: "So in an unprecedented role reversal, I had to ask my mom for help with social media." "See, all you have to do is tap this little house, then tap this circle that looks like 3 people. Then you find the group that you want, click this button that says join. The group is private, so you'll have to wait until they approve you."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-15-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905171\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man lifts up his glasses so that he can see his mother's phone more clearly. Speech bubble: "So if they approve you, you can see all the different kitchens post what food they are offering, how much it costs, and how to order. They even post pictures of all the delicious dishes..."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-16-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905172\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is talking on the phone. Speech bubbles: So even though I didn't get approved, I got the phone number from my mom and called them to see if I could write about them." "Hi! I want to write a story about your amazing spring rolls! I think it might give you some good exposu..." "Click!" "Hello?"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-17-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905173\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Man looks down at his phone, confused. Speech bubbles: "That's weird, I must not have been clear, I better call them again." "The number dialed does not exist, and may have never existed..."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-18-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905174\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The man is being poked by his angry mother. Speech bubbles: "Then, like 10 minutes later my mom called me." "What did you do? You just got me banned! Now I have to reapply! Keep your mouth shut. Don't tell anyone you're my son."\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-19-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905175\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: The two friends look down at their food, slightly stunned. Speech bubbles: "Whoa." "Yep. Now I have to beg my mom to order food for me. She'll only do it sometimes." "So when she does, I order a lot!"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-20-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-13905176\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21.jpg\" alt=\"Comics panel: Man looks up, smiling, as he shows off another takeout contain full of rice, fried eggs, a pork chop, and more. Speech bubble: "So, are you ready for the most amazing com tam ever?"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-800x667.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-1020x850.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-768x640.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/Social_Media_Kitchen_PANEL-21-1536x1280.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\" />\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>Thien Pham moved to San Jose when he was five years old, arriving straight from a refugee camp in Vietnam. His food-based memoir about his family’s immigration story will be out in Spring/Summer 2023 from First Second Books. Follow him on Instagram \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thiendog/\">@thiendog\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "San Jose's Japantown Stayed the Same for More Than 70 Years. Now, Change Is Coming.",
"headTitle": "San Jose’s Japantown Stayed the Same for More Than 70 Years. Now, Change Is Coming. | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905100\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905100\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17.jpg\" alt='A man in a \"Japantown\" shirt holds out a tray of poke from the window of a Japanese market.' width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">During the pandemic, Mark Santo started serving poke bowls at his 75-year-old Japantown grocery store, Santo Market. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]O[/dropcap]n Jackson Street in San Jose, the one- and two-story wooden buildings—with their mid-century neon signs and lunch specials in the windows—haven’t changed much since Evelyn Hori first visited the neighborhood 30 years ago. A group of fellow Japanese Americans brought the homesick UC Santa Cruz student to \u003ca href=\"http://gombei.com/\">Gombei\u003c/a> restaurant, where the flavors transported her to her mother’s kitchen in Los Angeles. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The style of Gombei restaurant is just so homey, traditional,” recalls Hori. “It’s the side dishes, like ohitashi—spinach with ground sesame seeds, fresh tofu. They’re not fancy, something you would make a batch of at home. When you have their fish, it’s with the bones and all.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hori was so charmed by that first visit to San Jose’s Japantown that she took a job at the senior center after graduation. And she’s raised her own family in the community, too. Since the end of World War II, Jackson Street has been a home away from home for Japanese Americans—first as refuge from racism and, more recently, as a place to attend cultural events, pick up fresh manju or slurp a bowl of udon. Unlike its counterparts in San Francisco and Los Angeles, San Jose’s Japantown is often overlooked. It’s just three blocks of low-slung buildings, and, like San Jose itself, it’s a place even other Bay Area residents don’t know much about.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Author Gil Asakawa, whose history of Japanese food in America, \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tabemasho!\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, is slated for publication in 2022, calls it “Japanese American Mayberry.” Like the impossibly wholesome 1950s town from \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Andy Griffith Show\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, it’s a safe, friendly neighborhood—with a Japanese twist. Bonsai trees stand in front of tidy bungalows, the main church is Buddhist and the corner grocery stocks miso and natto. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This area between downtown and Mineta International Airport is also prime real estate in a housing-strapped market. For decades, Japantown has been a place to get a taste of the past, but a wave of ongoing development projects could bring new life into this sleepy burg—or wipe out its character altogether. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905128\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905128\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei.jpg\" alt=\"From inside a restaurant kitchen, a chef in a black uniform holds out a plate of katsu curry.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shiro Kubota opened Gombei 40 years ago, but he still considers himself one neighborhood’s more “recent” immigrants. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What could be lost is a piece of Asian American history. The neighborhood has attracted immigrants from Asia for over 100 years, as far back as when it was part of a Chinatown that has long since been demolished. Its Japanese identity was cemented during the post-World War II years. After Americans of Japanese descent were released from remote camps, such as Tule Lake or Topaz, at the end of the war, many of them gravitated toward San Jose, where a population of Chinese and Filipinos had maintained homes and businesses. Soon, the blocks around Jackson and Fifth Streets came to life with grocers, dentists and hair salons, as well as Buddhist and Christian houses of worship. In their native tongue, they called it Nihonmachi. For decades, all of the shops in Japantown have been mom-and-pop businesses, some of them handed down through three or four generations. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hovering over Jackson Street’s historic streetscape is the construction of a housing and retail complex that will bring 500 new apartments to the neighborhood. That means an influx of new residents, likely non-Japanese. Will they dine on donburi and join in the Nikkei Matsuri and Obon festivals? Or will they usher in a demand for Starbucks and Chipotle? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>America’s Most Traditional Japantown\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, the comforting flavors at old mainstays like Gombei continue to draw visitors from near and far. “My wife and I go there every time we go to San Francisco. We love driving straight from SFO down to San Jose to have lunch,” Asakawa, the author, explains. “That’s definitely the kind of food I grew up with.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shiro Kubota opened Gombei 40 years ago, dishing up homestyle meals to salarymen from the nearby Sony and Hitachi campuses. Now 70, he’s still behind the counter almost every day alongside a small crew of mostly Latino cooks. Although his staff fries croquettes and grills mackerel, he insists on arriving at the kitchen at 7am to make the curry and soups himself, keeping the flavor consistent, as he’s done nearly every day since 1981. “I have a recipe in here,” he says, chuckling and pointing to his head, “but it’s not written down.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“Will [new Japantown residents] dine on donburi and join in the Nikkei Matsuri and Obon festivals? Or will they usher in a demand for Starbucks and Chipotle?”[/pullquote]Although Kubota occasionally allows new specials, his goal is to serve meals that remind him of growing up in Japan. Even though he arrived in America in the 1970s, he’s still considered one of the “recent” immigrants here. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Some of Japantown’s restaurants go back much further. They evolved from the lunch counters that served the first wave of immigrants, farmers who began arriving around 1900 from rural southern Japan. The fare still reflects these down home roots. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Originally, with the Exclusion Act, there were mostly just guys here, so there were pool halls and barber shops,” says Gene Yoneda, who with his wife JoAnn owns Minato, the oldest operating Japanese restaurant in San Jose. Minato opened its doors in 1961 and changed ownership a few times before the Yonedas bought it. They still serve some of the original dishes, such as deep brown curry over rice or simmering pots of sukiyaki, but other entrées—such as homestyle butadofu, a stir-fry of pork and bean curd—have fallen off the menu. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905129\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905129\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food.jpg\" alt=\"A spread of homey Japanese dishes; a plate of Japanese brown curry over rice is in the foreground.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Minato’s curry over rice has been a menu staple since the restaurant first opened in 1961. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the 1980s, Minato opened San Jose’s first sushi bar, which has now been replaced with additional seating. Today, the menu offers a little bit of this and that, including chicken-and-egg oyakodon or pork chop katsudon, along with several varieties of udon. It’s the kind of family-friendly place where Evelyn Hori brought her children to lunch after preschool or scout meetings. Kids receive tickets to trade in for plastic beads or a Disney notebook. Construction workers might sit next to local politicians. If a presidential candidate were to stump in Japantown, Minato would be the place.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The restaurant also sits directly across the street from the site of the new retail and housing complex under construction, whose exterior is now close to finished. “It was dusty, noisy, with tractors going back and forth,” Yoneda says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Will hundreds of new residents mean more patrons for restaurants like Minato? Japantown eateries walk a fine line between too much and not enough. Even if newcomers choose bentos over burrito bowls, too many new customers could flood these small dining rooms, leaving restaurateurs unable to serve their regulars, much less greet them by name. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For the most part, Yoneda tries to be optimistic. “Parking is the only issue I have,” he says. “We welcome everybody. Anybody that wants to come down here. It’s kind of cool.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905130\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905130\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior.jpg\" alt=\"A view of one of the main stretches of Japantown, with a large construction zone to the right.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Minato sits directly across the street from the site of the new housing and retail complex. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In spite of the looming changes, many of the shops in San Jose’s Japantown seem frozen in time. Shuei-Do Manju, a tiny storefront on Jackson Street, sells nearly a thousand pieces of mochi and other traditional sweets every day. Open since 1953, the shop gives off an old-fashioned candy store vibe. Youth sports trophies and a Kristi Yamaguchi cereal box are proudly displayed behind the counter, which features a glass case with round mochi, wafer-like monaka and pastel cubes of chi chi dango arrayed in lacquer trays. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When Tom and Judy Kumamaru bought the shop in 1987, they spent six months learning the art of making manju from the original owners. Unlike packaged rice cakes sold in many Asian supermarket chains, the fillings and the chewy exteriors are all made from scratch each day, without preservatives. Each morning, the couple soaks azuki and lima beans for the fillings, which they wrap into handmade skins of mochiko sweet rice flour. Judy, whose parents were good friends of the founders, tests the fillings to make sure they’re just like she remembers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Over the decades, Tom has tested out various machines in hopes of perhaps modernizing the mochi-making process, but the equipment couldn’t handle Shuei-Do’s recipe for delicate, chewy dough. He says shops like theirs don’t even exist in Japanese cities. “They’re coming up with different types. Some really fancy, too, so fancy that you don’t want to eat them,” he explains. “When you go into the different countryside areas, the shops are kind of like ours.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905126\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905126\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2.jpg\" alt=\"An assortment of manju wrapped in paper sleeves.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The manju at Shuei-Do are made by hand from scratch each day. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When asked if they plan to branch out into the mochi donuts or muffins that are lighting up Instagram, Tom laughs and points to the peanut butter filled manju as their most adventurous variety. He prefers the kinako flavor, dusted with roasted soybean powder.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Less Nihonmachi, More JTown\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s a deep sense of community in Japantown, and perhaps no one is more deeply invested than James Nagareda. Not only does Nagareda oversee the local history museum, he serves on the board of the Japantown Business Association, and runs the Nikkei Traditions gift store and, until recently, an ice cream shop called Jimbo’s. He’s idealistic yet practical. “You have to look at it from both points of view, right?” Nagareda says about the new shopping plaza. “We’d rather have a small independent or family, which is awesome. But again, economics, it’s got to work.” Today, the only corporate presence is the San Diego-based Niijiya market. For many mom-and-pop shops, survival requires changing with the times. Nagareda sold Jimbo’s to new owners who have rebranded it as JT Express, serving take-out friendly sushi burritos as well as taiyaki and Bubbie’s ice cream mochi. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One of the businesses that Nagareda hopes to preserve, however, is Santo Market, the small Japanese-Hawaiian grocery store kitty-corner to the new housing complex. A giant ocean mural on the exterior befits a business riding the wave of change. Mark Santo leads his three siblings in running the store, which has been in the family since 1946. When local artist Juan Carlos Araujo approached him about having one of the first murals commissioned in Japantown, Santo convinced his nonagenarian parents to approve the work and persuaded Araujo to take inspiration from Hokusai’s classic art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“Many of Japantown’s legacy restaurateurs are in their sixties or seventies. Their children and grandchildren build websites, set up credit card systems and even design T-shirts, but not many of them want to take on the hard work of the food industry.”[/pullquote]To keep island transplants from driving up to San Mateo to buy haupia mix and poi at Takahashi Market, the shop started expanding its selection of Hawaiian goods. The family developed a poke recipe, and Mark’s sisters started making strawberry daifuku on Tuesdays and Saturdays, tucking a whole berry and red bean filling into mochi dough. To fill the void left by the closure of San Jose’s beloved Aki’s Bakery, the market started selling guava cake by the slice at the takeout window. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Closed for in-person shopping since the beginning of the pandemic, Santo Market is now more of a takeout joint than a grocery. There’s usually a crowd in the small parking lot; the market averages 60 pounds of tuna a day, in addition to barbecued tri-tip and teriyaki sandwiches. The daifuku often sells out before noon. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In early October, the market celebrated its 75\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">th\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> birthday. Mark Santo himself turned 60 this year, and many of Japantown’s legacy restaurateurs are also in their sixties or seventies. Their children and grandchildren build websites, set up credit card systems and even design T-shirts, but not many of them want to take on the hard work of the food industry.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905127\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905127\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo.jpg\" alt=\"Two men stand in front of a large, ocean-themed mural on the exterior wall of Santo Market.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The pandemic forced Mark Santo (right) to modernize and diversify his traditional Japanese market. Here, he poses in front of the market with his brother, Scott Santo. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose’s Japanese population has been shrinking for decades, because of aging and exodus to the suburbs. Only one percent of the local residents \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://data.census.gov/cedsci/table?g=8600000US95112&tid=ACSDP5Y2019.DP05\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">identified as Japanese\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in the latest census survey. In many ways, even without the massive new complex, change in San Jose’s Japantown is already well underway. A younger, more diverse crowd is drawn to the neighborhood for art walks and car shows. “Those who are coming to Obon were me and my parents, their friends who’ve been coming for 60 years,” Santo says of the annual Japanese Buddhist festival honoring the spirits of one’s ancestors. “Where these guys are bringing in fresh blood, fresh people, new people.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Walk down Jackson Street today, and you can see the changes all around. A Depression-era gas station owned by Roy Murotsune, whose family bought the property after World War II, has been converted by his daughter and grandchildren into Roy’s Station. At this popular cafe, purple-haired Gen-Zers sip Verve coffee alongside Japanese retirees. Joggers with Labradoodles swerve around senior citizens ambling down the sidewalk. “I get annoyed sometimes when I’m trying to buy groceries at Nijiya and there are millennials and tech bros clogging the aisles, tripping out over the ‘crazy’ Japanese snacks and laughing at the labels,” says music journalist and longtime San Jose resident Todd Inoue, who frequents the neighborhood a few times a month.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Along with the customers, the merchants are also becoming more diverse. Lotus blossom banners are fading, while street-art style murals brighten once blank walls. Empty storefronts fill up with snapbacks and T-shirts, succulents and art supplies, reflecting an urban, multicultural aesthetic. It’s less Nihonmachi and more JTown. In a way, it’s a return to the neighborhood’s pan-Asian roots, with Filipino, Vietnamese and Hawaiian business owners.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904861,arts_13905293,arts_13904835' label='More San Jose Food']In fact, the earliest restaurants in the area were not Japanese, but Chinese. The oldest one was Ken Ying Low, housed in a two-story Victorian era building across from the construction site, which was once the center of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11877801/san-jose-had-5-chinatowns-why-did-they-vanish\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose’s last Chinatown\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. According to historian Curt Fukuda, the banquet room was the site of many Japanese Americans wedding and funeral banquets in the olden days. After housing Filipino, Cuban and Chinese cuisines, the building became home to a new tenant: a pizza shop whose signature pie, the “JTown Street,” is loosely modeled after Japanese okonomiyaki—hoisin sauce and sweet mayo drizzled over shiitake mushrooms and shredded romaine. Inoue, the music writer, enjoys the tekka don at Ginza restaurant, but he’ll also grab a beer at the pizza shop.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Despite its moniker, Japantown has always been a big tent: There are Korean and Mexican restaurants, and even stalwart Gombei sometimes offers chicken adobo, a nod to its longtime Filipino neighbors. Being the overlooked country cousin, the community around Jackson Street has quietly watched and learned from redevelopment in San Francisco and LA in the 1960s and ’70s. And San Jose, a \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11890341/san-jose-to-apologize-for-the-1887-burning-of-the-citys-chinatown\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">city that recently apologized for the burning of an early Chinatown\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, may have the kind of multicultural ethos where Japantown can grow, yet stay true to its roots.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After decades of exodus, some Japanese Americans are interested in returning to this urban village\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. At age 55, Inoue is considering a move from the suburbs to one of the new apartments when he retires. “Japantown is still a living, breathing community and you see that in the people and the business. You see the Lotus preschool kids doing their rounds, the elders at Yu-Ai Kai [senior center] and Fuji Towers,” says Inoue. “There’s a comfort and familiarity in the daily life, but also glints of progressive change.”\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>\u003ci>Grace Hwang Lynch is a San Francisco Bay Area journalist and essayist, with an eye for Asian American culture and food. Her work can be found at PRI, NPR, Tin House and Catapult. She’s at work on a memoir about Taiwanese food and family. Follow her on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/GraceHwangLynch\">@GraceHwangLynch\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905100\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905100\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17.jpg\" alt='A man in a \"Japantown\" shirt holds out a tray of poke from the window of a Japanese market.' width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-17-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">During the pandemic, Mark Santo started serving poke bowls at his 75-year-old Japantown grocery store, Santo Market. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">O\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n Jackson Street in San Jose, the one- and two-story wooden buildings—with their mid-century neon signs and lunch specials in the windows—haven’t changed much since Evelyn Hori first visited the neighborhood 30 years ago. A group of fellow Japanese Americans brought the homesick UC Santa Cruz student to \u003ca href=\"http://gombei.com/\">Gombei\u003c/a> restaurant, where the flavors transported her to her mother’s kitchen in Los Angeles. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The style of Gombei restaurant is just so homey, traditional,” recalls Hori. “It’s the side dishes, like ohitashi—spinach with ground sesame seeds, fresh tofu. They’re not fancy, something you would make a batch of at home. When you have their fish, it’s with the bones and all.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hori was so charmed by that first visit to San Jose’s Japantown that she took a job at the senior center after graduation. And she’s raised her own family in the community, too. Since the end of World War II, Jackson Street has been a home away from home for Japanese Americans—first as refuge from racism and, more recently, as a place to attend cultural events, pick up fresh manju or slurp a bowl of udon. Unlike its counterparts in San Francisco and Los Angeles, San Jose’s Japantown is often overlooked. It’s just three blocks of low-slung buildings, and, like San Jose itself, it’s a place even other Bay Area residents don’t know much about.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Author Gil Asakawa, whose history of Japanese food in America, \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tabemasho!\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, is slated for publication in 2022, calls it “Japanese American Mayberry.” Like the impossibly wholesome 1950s town from \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Andy Griffith Show\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, it’s a safe, friendly neighborhood—with a Japanese twist. Bonsai trees stand in front of tidy bungalows, the main church is Buddhist and the corner grocery stocks miso and natto. \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 area between downtown and Mineta International Airport is also prime real estate in a housing-strapped market. For decades, Japantown has been a place to get a taste of the past, but a wave of ongoing development projects could bring new life into this sleepy burg—or wipe out its character altogether. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905128\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905128\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei.jpg\" alt=\"From inside a restaurant kitchen, a chef in a black uniform holds out a plate of katsu curry.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-Gombei-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shiro Kubota opened Gombei 40 years ago, but he still considers himself one neighborhood’s more “recent” immigrants. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What could be lost is a piece of Asian American history. The neighborhood has attracted immigrants from Asia for over 100 years, as far back as when it was part of a Chinatown that has long since been demolished. Its Japanese identity was cemented during the post-World War II years. After Americans of Japanese descent were released from remote camps, such as Tule Lake or Topaz, at the end of the war, many of them gravitated toward San Jose, where a population of Chinese and Filipinos had maintained homes and businesses. Soon, the blocks around Jackson and Fifth Streets came to life with grocers, dentists and hair salons, as well as Buddhist and Christian houses of worship. In their native tongue, they called it Nihonmachi. For decades, all of the shops in Japantown have been mom-and-pop businesses, some of them handed down through three or four generations. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hovering over Jackson Street’s historic streetscape is the construction of a housing and retail complex that will bring 500 new apartments to the neighborhood. That means an influx of new residents, likely non-Japanese. Will they dine on donburi and join in the Nikkei Matsuri and Obon festivals? Or will they usher in a demand for Starbucks and Chipotle? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>America’s Most Traditional Japantown\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Meanwhile, the comforting flavors at old mainstays like Gombei continue to draw visitors from near and far. “My wife and I go there every time we go to San Francisco. We love driving straight from SFO down to San Jose to have lunch,” Asakawa, the author, explains. “That’s definitely the kind of food I grew up with.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shiro Kubota opened Gombei 40 years ago, dishing up homestyle meals to salarymen from the nearby Sony and Hitachi campuses. Now 70, he’s still behind the counter almost every day alongside a small crew of mostly Latino cooks. Although his staff fries croquettes and grills mackerel, he insists on arriving at the kitchen at 7am to make the curry and soups himself, keeping the flavor consistent, as he’s done nearly every day since 1981. “I have a recipe in here,” he says, chuckling and pointing to his head, “but it’s not written down.” \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>Although Kubota occasionally allows new specials, his goal is to serve meals that remind him of growing up in Japan. Even though he arrived in America in the 1970s, he’s still considered one of the “recent” immigrants here. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Some of Japantown’s restaurants go back much further. They evolved from the lunch counters that served the first wave of immigrants, farmers who began arriving around 1900 from rural southern Japan. The fare still reflects these down home roots. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Originally, with the Exclusion Act, there were mostly just guys here, so there were pool halls and barber shops,” says Gene Yoneda, who with his wife JoAnn owns Minato, the oldest operating Japanese restaurant in San Jose. Minato opened its doors in 1961 and changed ownership a few times before the Yonedas bought it. They still serve some of the original dishes, such as deep brown curry over rice or simmering pots of sukiyaki, but other entrées—such as homestyle butadofu, a stir-fry of pork and bean curd—have fallen off the menu. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905129\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905129\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food.jpg\" alt=\"A spread of homey Japanese dishes; a plate of Japanese brown curry over rice is in the foreground.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-food-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Minato’s curry over rice has been a menu staple since the restaurant first opened in 1961. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the 1980s, Minato opened San Jose’s first sushi bar, which has now been replaced with additional seating. Today, the menu offers a little bit of this and that, including chicken-and-egg oyakodon or pork chop katsudon, along with several varieties of udon. It’s the kind of family-friendly place where Evelyn Hori brought her children to lunch after preschool or scout meetings. Kids receive tickets to trade in for plastic beads or a Disney notebook. Construction workers might sit next to local politicians. If a presidential candidate were to stump in Japantown, Minato would be the place.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The restaurant also sits directly across the street from the site of the new retail and housing complex under construction, whose exterior is now close to finished. “It was dusty, noisy, with tractors going back and forth,” Yoneda says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Will hundreds of new residents mean more patrons for restaurants like Minato? Japantown eateries walk a fine line between too much and not enough. Even if newcomers choose bentos over burrito bowls, too many new customers could flood these small dining rooms, leaving restaurateurs unable to serve their regulars, much less greet them by name. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For the most part, Yoneda tries to be optimistic. “Parking is the only issue I have,” he says. “We welcome everybody. Anybody that wants to come down here. It’s kind of cool.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905130\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905130\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior.jpg\" alt=\"A view of one of the main stretches of Japantown, with a large construction zone to the right.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-minato-exterior-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Minato sits directly across the street from the site of the new housing and retail complex. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In spite of the looming changes, many of the shops in San Jose’s Japantown seem frozen in time. Shuei-Do Manju, a tiny storefront on Jackson Street, sells nearly a thousand pieces of mochi and other traditional sweets every day. Open since 1953, the shop gives off an old-fashioned candy store vibe. Youth sports trophies and a Kristi Yamaguchi cereal box are proudly displayed behind the counter, which features a glass case with round mochi, wafer-like monaka and pastel cubes of chi chi dango arrayed in lacquer trays. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When Tom and Judy Kumamaru bought the shop in 1987, they spent six months learning the art of making manju from the original owners. Unlike packaged rice cakes sold in many Asian supermarket chains, the fillings and the chewy exteriors are all made from scratch each day, without preservatives. Each morning, the couple soaks azuki and lima beans for the fillings, which they wrap into handmade skins of mochiko sweet rice flour. Judy, whose parents were good friends of the founders, tests the fillings to make sure they’re just like she remembers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Over the decades, Tom has tested out various machines in hopes of perhaps modernizing the mochi-making process, but the equipment couldn’t handle Shuei-Do’s recipe for delicate, chewy dough. He says shops like theirs don’t even exist in Japanese cities. “They’re coming up with different types. Some really fancy, too, so fancy that you don’t want to eat them,” he explains. “When you go into the different countryside areas, the shops are kind of like ours.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905126\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905126\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2.jpg\" alt=\"An assortment of manju wrapped in paper sleeves.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-shuei-do2-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The manju at Shuei-Do are made by hand from scratch each day. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When asked if they plan to branch out into the mochi donuts or muffins that are lighting up Instagram, Tom laughs and points to the peanut butter filled manju as their most adventurous variety. He prefers the kinako flavor, dusted with roasted soybean powder.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Less Nihonmachi, More JTown\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s a deep sense of community in Japantown, and perhaps no one is more deeply invested than James Nagareda. Not only does Nagareda oversee the local history museum, he serves on the board of the Japantown Business Association, and runs the Nikkei Traditions gift store and, until recently, an ice cream shop called Jimbo’s. He’s idealistic yet practical. “You have to look at it from both points of view, right?” Nagareda says about the new shopping plaza. “We’d rather have a small independent or family, which is awesome. But again, economics, it’s got to work.” Today, the only corporate presence is the San Diego-based Niijiya market. For many mom-and-pop shops, survival requires changing with the times. Nagareda sold Jimbo’s to new owners who have rebranded it as JT Express, serving take-out friendly sushi burritos as well as taiyaki and Bubbie’s ice cream mochi. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One of the businesses that Nagareda hopes to preserve, however, is Santo Market, the small Japanese-Hawaiian grocery store kitty-corner to the new housing complex. A giant ocean mural on the exterior befits a business riding the wave of change. Mark Santo leads his three siblings in running the store, which has been in the family since 1946. When local artist Juan Carlos Araujo approached him about having one of the first murals commissioned in Japantown, Santo convinced his nonagenarian parents to approve the work and persuaded Araujo to take inspiration from Hokusai’s classic art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“Many of Japantown’s legacy restaurateurs are in their sixties or seventies. Their children and grandchildren build websites, set up credit card systems and even design T-shirts, but not many of them want to take on the hard work of the food industry.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>To keep island transplants from driving up to San Mateo to buy haupia mix and poi at Takahashi Market, the shop started expanding its selection of Hawaiian goods. The family developed a poke recipe, and Mark’s sisters started making strawberry daifuku on Tuesdays and Saturdays, tucking a whole berry and red bean filling into mochi dough. To fill the void left by the closure of San Jose’s beloved Aki’s Bakery, the market started selling guava cake by the slice at the takeout window. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Closed for in-person shopping since the beginning of the pandemic, Santo Market is now more of a takeout joint than a grocery. There’s usually a crowd in the small parking lot; the market averages 60 pounds of tuna a day, in addition to barbecued tri-tip and teriyaki sandwiches. The daifuku often sells out before noon. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In early October, the market celebrated its 75\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">th\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> birthday. Mark Santo himself turned 60 this year, and many of Japantown’s legacy restaurateurs are also in their sixties or seventies. Their children and grandchildren build websites, set up credit card systems and even design T-shirts, but not many of them want to take on the hard work of the food industry.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905127\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905127\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo.jpg\" alt=\"Two men stand in front of a large, ocean-themed mural on the exterior wall of Santo Market.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/San-Jose-Japantown-santo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The pandemic forced Mark Santo (right) to modernize and diversify his traditional Japanese market. Here, he poses in front of the market with his brother, Scott Santo. \u003ccite>(Grace Hwang Lynch)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose’s Japanese population has been shrinking for decades, because of aging and exodus to the suburbs. Only one percent of the local residents \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://data.census.gov/cedsci/table?g=8600000US95112&tid=ACSDP5Y2019.DP05\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">identified as Japanese\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in the latest census survey. In many ways, even without the massive new complex, change in San Jose’s Japantown is already well underway. A younger, more diverse crowd is drawn to the neighborhood for art walks and car shows. “Those who are coming to Obon were me and my parents, their friends who’ve been coming for 60 years,” Santo says of the annual Japanese Buddhist festival honoring the spirits of one’s ancestors. “Where these guys are bringing in fresh blood, fresh people, new people.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Walk down Jackson Street today, and you can see the changes all around. A Depression-era gas station owned by Roy Murotsune, whose family bought the property after World War II, has been converted by his daughter and grandchildren into Roy’s Station. At this popular cafe, purple-haired Gen-Zers sip Verve coffee alongside Japanese retirees. Joggers with Labradoodles swerve around senior citizens ambling down the sidewalk. “I get annoyed sometimes when I’m trying to buy groceries at Nijiya and there are millennials and tech bros clogging the aisles, tripping out over the ‘crazy’ Japanese snacks and laughing at the labels,” says music journalist and longtime San Jose resident Todd Inoue, who frequents the neighborhood a few times a month.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Along with the customers, the merchants are also becoming more diverse. Lotus blossom banners are fading, while street-art style murals brighten once blank walls. Empty storefronts fill up with snapbacks and T-shirts, succulents and art supplies, reflecting an urban, multicultural aesthetic. It’s less Nihonmachi and more JTown. In a way, it’s a return to the neighborhood’s pan-Asian roots, with Filipino, Vietnamese and Hawaiian business owners.\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 fact, the earliest restaurants in the area were not Japanese, but Chinese. The oldest one was Ken Ying Low, housed in a two-story Victorian era building across from the construction site, which was once the center of \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11877801/san-jose-had-5-chinatowns-why-did-they-vanish\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose’s last Chinatown\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. According to historian Curt Fukuda, the banquet room was the site of many Japanese Americans wedding and funeral banquets in the olden days. After housing Filipino, Cuban and Chinese cuisines, the building became home to a new tenant: a pizza shop whose signature pie, the “JTown Street,” is loosely modeled after Japanese okonomiyaki—hoisin sauce and sweet mayo drizzled over shiitake mushrooms and shredded romaine. Inoue, the music writer, enjoys the tekka don at Ginza restaurant, but he’ll also grab a beer at the pizza shop.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Despite its moniker, Japantown has always been a big tent: There are Korean and Mexican restaurants, and even stalwart Gombei sometimes offers chicken adobo, a nod to its longtime Filipino neighbors. Being the overlooked country cousin, the community around Jackson Street has quietly watched and learned from redevelopment in San Francisco and LA in the 1960s and ’70s. And San Jose, a \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11890341/san-jose-to-apologize-for-the-1887-burning-of-the-citys-chinatown\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">city that recently apologized for the burning of an early Chinatown\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, may have the kind of multicultural ethos where Japantown can grow, yet stay true to its roots.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After decades of exodus, some Japanese Americans are interested in returning to this urban village\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. At age 55, Inoue is considering a move from the suburbs to one of the new apartments when he retires. “Japantown is still a living, breathing community and you see that in the people and the business. You see the Lotus preschool kids doing their rounds, the elders at Yu-Ai Kai [senior center] and Fuji Towers,” says Inoue. “There’s a comfort and familiarity in the daily life, but also glints of progressive change.”\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>\u003ci>Grace Hwang Lynch is a San Francisco Bay Area journalist and essayist, with an eye for Asian American culture and food. Her work can be found at PRI, NPR, Tin House and Catapult. She’s at work on a memoir about Taiwanese food and family. Follow her on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/GraceHwangLynch\">@GraceHwangLynch\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "My Abuela’s East San Jose Kitchen Fed Dozens of Undocumented Workers Every Week",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904919\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904919\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An elderly Latina woman grinds ingredients inside a stone molcajete.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">During the ’90s, the author’s abuela, Mardonia Galeana, ran an informal restaurant out of her apartment. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]I[/dropcap] grew up on the corner of Story and Capitol, the heart of Eastside San Jose. Even back then, nearly three decades ago, San Jose had already developed a reputation as a booming hub of technology and innovation. It was already in the early stages of becoming one of the most expensive cities in the country. My family, undocumented, rented out our apartment’s two bedrooms while the three of us crowded into the living room—a common practice among the low-income families in the community. Everyone just did what they could to make rent. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Most of the other residents in our apartment complex had the same immigration status. We’d migrated from places like Oaxaca, Puebla and Guerrero, in the southern part of Mexico. In our neighborhood, there was a common understanding that if you lived here, it was because of your legal status or your limited resources—probably both. It wasn’t a part of the city for people who had other options.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The early ’90s were particularly difficult for undocumented people in California. In 1994, then-governor Pete Wilson \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2019-10-29/proposition-187-california-pete-wilson-essay\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">inundated our airwaves with ads for Proposition 187\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, legislation that prohibited undocumented people from accessing public services such as hospitals or schools. The law was eventually struck down by the courts, but we all heard the talk of how “illegals” should be forced to go back where they came from.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Regardless, with the little we had—and facing a hostile environment—the immigrants in my neighborhood created a community for ourselves. We shared tips on the different ways we were able to get by. We continued to build our lives in this country. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904938\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904938\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Outstretched hands holding three small red chile peppers.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Abuela excelled at cooking dishes from her hometown in Guerrero, Mexico. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was around this time that my abuela took it upon herself to start her own informal business. In our neighborhood, this wasn’t an uncommon thing for people to do. For example, the lady in apartment 28 used to babysit kids. The lady in number 14 sold candies, and the one in number 11 sold bottles of soda. This underground economy was what kept our community afloat. Each dollar made a difference.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Abuela noticed that most of the migrants moving into our apartment building were men. Often, they’d left their families behind to work in the U.S., sending most of the money they made back home to Mexico. What these men needed, Abuela realized, was a cook. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"medium\" align=\"left\"]“For those men, the camaraderie of sitting around Abuela’s table helped make being in this country feel less lonely.”[/pullquote]Gathering her pots and pans, Abuela began selling home-cooked meals, offering them at a reduced price. Before we knew it, her clientele grew. A few nights a week, the men filled up our small living room, drawn in by the telenovela blasting on the TV as they waited their turn. Others crowded around our kitchen table, gobbling up tortilla after tortilla. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The men laughed and bullied each other. Often, they’d also share their hardships—wage theft, humiliation, getting hurt. As a high-maintenance preteen at the time, I didn’t understand what was happening around me. All I thought about being undocumented was how unlucky we were. Now, looking back, I think that for those men, the camaraderie of sitting around Abuela’s table helped make being in this country feel less lonely.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904939\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904939\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman toasts chile peppers in a cast iron pan.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Abuela would roast dozens of chiles to prepare for the meals she sold. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To prepare for these dinners, Abuela would roast dozens of chiles, the fumes often forcing us to step outside of the apartment. She mixed and poured, never using actual measuring cups or tablespoons, just intuition. The huge pots created steam that would consume the entire apartment and cause the walls to sweat. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the time, the whole ordeal just intensified my annoyance with our living situation. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the food was delicious. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Abuela mostly cooked traditional dishes from our home state of Guerrero—picaditas and carne de puerco en chile verde. And because many of her customers were from other parts of Mexico such as Puebla and Oaxaca, Abuela decided to learn how to make traditional meals from those regions as well. She learned how to make mole poblano. She would steam Oaxacan tamales de frijol filled with puréed black beans. Her clients walked in and out of our apartment. Each brought in a story and left with a full stomach. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Now, at 86, Abuela can no longer cook with the same fury. Severe glaucoma has taken the vision from her left eye, but her spirit is still unstoppable. We no longer live in the same apartment complex. But we are still undocumented; we’re still proud residents of the Eastside. And underground kitchens like my Abuela’s remain very common in San Jose’s low-income neighborhoods today. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904937\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904937\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An elderly woman with glasses looks off into the distance.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mardonia Galeana poses for a portrait at her home in San Jose. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These days, when nostalgia hits Abuela with a longing to return home, I know precisely the place where she wants to go. On weekends, Doña Estela transforms her Eastside living room into a makeshift restaurant just like Abuela used to do. She folds out tables, assembles a colorful table layout and welcomes her patrons. Her house is adorned with a Virgen de Guadalupe altar, and she attributes her underground success to her devotion. When you pay her, she takes the money y se persina—she makes the sign of the cross.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904835,arts_13904788' label='More San Jose Food']Doña Estela is known for her tacos sudados, which she steams until the tortillas and the meat tucked inside are perfectly tender. They’re magnificent. While Abuela eats, she sits and sparks conversations with the other customers. They hold a reverence for her: In her old age, Abuela resembles the mothers that these migrants left behind, or their own abuelas they could not bury.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Cuidala,” they implore me. “Look after her.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Abuela talks to these strangers about the places and the people they left behind. Then, bite after bite, they envision their return.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904928\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13904928 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An elderly Latina woman and her grandson post for a portrait outdoors in their tree-lined backyard.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The author (right) and his grandmother, now 86, still live in Eastside San Jose. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\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=\"http://yosimarreyes.com/bio\">Yosimar Reyes\u003c/a> is a nationally acclaimed poet and public speaker. Born in Guerrero, Mexico, and raised in Eastside San Jose, Reyes explores the themes of migration and sexuality in his work.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904919\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904919\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An elderly Latina woman grinds ingredients inside a stone molcajete.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/006_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">During the ’90s, the author’s abuela, Mardonia Galeana, ran an informal restaurant out of her apartment. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \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> grew up on the corner of Story and Capitol, the heart of Eastside San Jose. Even back then, nearly three decades ago, San Jose had already developed a reputation as a booming hub of technology and innovation. It was already in the early stages of becoming one of the most expensive cities in the country. My family, undocumented, rented out our apartment’s two bedrooms while the three of us crowded into the living room—a common practice among the low-income families in the community. Everyone just did what they could to make rent. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Most of the other residents in our apartment complex had the same immigration status. We’d migrated from places like Oaxaca, Puebla and Guerrero, in the southern part of Mexico. In our neighborhood, there was a common understanding that if you lived here, it was because of your legal status or your limited resources—probably both. It wasn’t a part of the city for people who had other options.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The early ’90s were particularly difficult for undocumented people in California. In 1994, then-governor Pete Wilson \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2019-10-29/proposition-187-california-pete-wilson-essay\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">inundated our airwaves with ads for Proposition 187\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, legislation that prohibited undocumented people from accessing public services such as hospitals or schools. The law was eventually struck down by the courts, but we all heard the talk of how “illegals” should be forced to go back where they came from.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Regardless, with the little we had—and facing a hostile environment—the immigrants in my neighborhood created a community for ourselves. We shared tips on the different ways we were able to get by. We continued to build our lives in this country. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904938\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904938\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Outstretched hands holding three small red chile peppers.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/011_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Abuela excelled at cooking dishes from her hometown in Guerrero, Mexico. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was around this time that my abuela took it upon herself to start her own informal business. In our neighborhood, this wasn’t an uncommon thing for people to do. For example, the lady in apartment 28 used to babysit kids. The lady in number 14 sold candies, and the one in number 11 sold bottles of soda. This underground economy was what kept our community afloat. Each dollar made a difference.\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\">Abuela noticed that most of the migrants moving into our apartment building were men. Often, they’d left their families behind to work in the U.S., sending most of the money they made back home to Mexico. What these men needed, Abuela realized, was a cook. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“For those men, the camaraderie of sitting around Abuela’s table helped make being in this country feel less lonely.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Gathering her pots and pans, Abuela began selling home-cooked meals, offering them at a reduced price. Before we knew it, her clientele grew. A few nights a week, the men filled up our small living room, drawn in by the telenovela blasting on the TV as they waited their turn. Others crowded around our kitchen table, gobbling up tortilla after tortilla. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The men laughed and bullied each other. Often, they’d also share their hardships—wage theft, humiliation, getting hurt. As a high-maintenance preteen at the time, I didn’t understand what was happening around me. All I thought about being undocumented was how unlucky we were. Now, looking back, I think that for those men, the camaraderie of sitting around Abuela’s table helped make being in this country feel less lonely.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904939\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904939\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman toasts chile peppers in a cast iron pan.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/002_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Abuela would roast dozens of chiles to prepare for the meals she sold. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To prepare for these dinners, Abuela would roast dozens of chiles, the fumes often forcing us to step outside of the apartment. She mixed and poured, never using actual measuring cups or tablespoons, just intuition. The huge pots created steam that would consume the entire apartment and cause the walls to sweat. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the time, the whole ordeal just intensified my annoyance with our living situation. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But the food was delicious. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Abuela mostly cooked traditional dishes from our home state of Guerrero—picaditas and carne de puerco en chile verde. And because many of her customers were from other parts of Mexico such as Puebla and Oaxaca, Abuela decided to learn how to make traditional meals from those regions as well. She learned how to make mole poblano. She would steam Oaxacan tamales de frijol filled with puréed black beans. Her clients walked in and out of our apartment. Each brought in a story and left with a full stomach. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Now, at 86, Abuela can no longer cook with the same fury. Severe glaucoma has taken the vision from her left eye, but her spirit is still unstoppable. We no longer live in the same apartment complex. But we are still undocumented; we’re still proud residents of the Eastside. And underground kitchens like my Abuela’s remain very common in San Jose’s low-income neighborhoods today. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904937\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904937\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An elderly woman with glasses looks off into the distance.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/022_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mardonia Galeana poses for a portrait at her home in San Jose. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These days, when nostalgia hits Abuela with a longing to return home, I know precisely the place where she wants to go. On weekends, Doña Estela transforms her Eastside living room into a makeshift restaurant just like Abuela used to do. She folds out tables, assembles a colorful table layout and welcomes her patrons. Her house is adorned with a Virgen de Guadalupe altar, and she attributes her underground success to her devotion. When you pay her, she takes the money y se persina—she makes the sign of the cross.\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>Doña Estela is known for her tacos sudados, which she steams until the tortillas and the meat tucked inside are perfectly tender. They’re magnificent. While Abuela eats, she sits and sparks conversations with the other customers. They hold a reverence for her: In her old age, Abuela resembles the mothers that these migrants left behind, or their own abuelas they could not bury.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Cuidala,” they implore me. “Look after her.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Abuela talks to these strangers about the places and the people they left behind. Then, bite after bite, they envision their return.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904928\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13904928 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An elderly Latina woman and her grandson post for a portrait outdoors in their tree-lined backyard.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_SanJose_MardoniaGaleana_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The author (right) and his grandmother, now 86, still live in Eastside San Jose. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\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=\"http://yosimarreyes.com/bio\">Yosimar Reyes\u003c/a> is a nationally acclaimed poet and public speaker. Born in Guerrero, Mexico, and raised in Eastside San Jose, Reyes explores the themes of migration and sexuality in his work.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "San Jose Is the Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City",
"headTitle": "San Jose Is the Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904840\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904840\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An illustration of a spread of various international foods: a bowl of pho, a torta, an Ethiopian veggie combo plate, the cross section of a durian and so forth.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1919\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-1536x1151.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-2048x1535.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-1920x1439.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">\u003cem>(Illustration by Thien Pham)\u003c/em>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen I talk about how I’d rather eat in San Jose than almost anywhere else in the Bay Area, I tend to get a lot of blank stares. In the eye of a certain beholder, the sprawling South Bay city is just a bland tech suburb—the “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://sanjosespotlight.com/jenkins-its-time-to-drop-the-capital-of-silicon-valley-slogan/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Capital of Silicon Valley\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">,” sure. But beyond that, a place of culture? And, more to the point, a destination-worthy dining scene? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But in the circles I run in—which is to say heavily Asian American and immigrant—San Jose has always held a different meaning. It’s where you go, rush hour traffic be damned, if you want to score an actually good bowl of ramen. It’s your early morning weekend pho destination when you don’t want to settle for some spot in Oakland or San Francisco that won’t even be 30 percent as satisfying. It’s where you’ve had the best Ethiopian meal you’d ever eaten in the Bay Area. The best pandan waffle. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose is home to the only Somali restaurant in the entire Bay Area. It has not one but two H-Marts amid a sea of superlative ethnic supermarkets. When an outpost of the elusive \u003ca href=\"https://sf.eater.com/2015/3/16/8225249/din-tai-fung-westfield-valley-fair-san-jose\">Taiwanese xiao long bao chain Din Tai Fung\u003c/a> finally came to Northern California, it almost goes without saying where it opened: a mall in San Jose. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Indeed, if San Jose has any distinguishing characteristic, it’s that it is, far and away, the Bay Area’s greatest immigrant food city. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Somehow, though, this culinary identity gets left out of the broader, tech-heavy narrative of Silicon Valley. And, in a classic case of collective West Bay/East Bay bias, even San Jose’s most beloved taquerias and pho shops are rarely written up by the local food media. If you don’t spend a lot of time in San Jose, you probably haven’t even heard of them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904851\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904851\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Meat and vegetables sizzling on a hot flat-top grill.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the signature dishes at Jubba, in San Jose, is the beef suqaar, a kind of Somali stir-fry. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But folks who grew up in the city say it has been an immigrant food hub for as long as they can remember—even if it doesn’t get recognition for being, for instance, one of the Bay Area’s great Mexican food cities. Cecilia Chavez, an organizer with the San Jose-based nonprofit \u003ca href=\"https://www.siliconvalleydebug.org/\">Silicon Valley De-Bug\u003c/a>, grew up near what she calls the “food strip” in East San Jose—a mile-and-a-half stretch of Story Road where she recently counted 23 individual taco stands. “And that’s only the visible ones,” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">According to Chavez, food hubs like the predominantly Mexican and Vietnamese enclaves of East San Jose came into being, in large part, because those neighborhoods were the only areas in San Jose where working-class immigrants and refugees could afford to live and open businesses. “San Jose is this kind of hidden gem of food, just because of the nature of all of the low-income communities that have been marginalized into these pockets of [the city],” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“If San Jose has any distinguishing characteristic, it’s that it is, far and away, the Bay Area’s greatest immigrant food city.”[/pullquote]And because of the geographic proximity of these neighborhoods, all these immigrant kids wound up going to school together and learning about each other’s foods instead of staying cloistered in their own enclaves. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thiendog/?hl=en\">Thien Pham\u003c/a>, a high school teacher and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13905153/underground-vietnamese-restaurants-social-media-san-jose\">comics artist\u003c/a>, was a kid when he arrived in the city in 1980, as part of the large wave of Vietnamese refugees who made their home in San Jose around that time—attracted, Pham says, by the weather and the prospect of good, dignified jobs in the burgeoning tech and electronics industries. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What he remembers is how enmeshed the different immigrant communities were. In particular, he says, “There was a real nice Mexican and Vietnamese cohabitation in San Jose. A lot of Vietnamese people got into eating Mexican food, and Mexican people got into eating Vietnamese food.” The flavors of the two cuisines were just so compatible—all these bold, spicy, saucy dishes served with rice. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One of Pham’s earliest restaurant memories was of the Vietnamese-Chinese noodle house Tung Kee, which was frequented almost exclusively by Vietnamese folks when it first opened on the ground floor of an apartment building. Now, it’s a successful chain, rebranded as \u003ca href=\"https://www.tknoodle.com/\">TK Noodle\u003c/a>, and Pham says whenever he goes to one of the San Jose locations, the dining room is always full of Mexican Americans: “I think that’s really neat.” Even in the multicultural Bay Area, it’s relatively rare to find that kind of confluence of different communities—but in San Jose, it just feels natural, Pham says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904850\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904850\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman wearing a face mask and a hajib prepares food over a flat-top griddle.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Amina Nur opened Jubba Restaurant as a place where Somali immigrants could show off their culture and cuisine. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Sarah Ali, moving to the San Jose area when she was a kid was like day and night compared to her old life in New York, where, as Ali recalls, the weather was bad and there wasn’t much of a Somali community. San Jose, on the other hand, had a comparatively large Somali population that gathered every Friday at the masjid, or local prayer place, in Santa Clara. “It was nice to see other people who looked like me,” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the time, there wasn’t a Somali restaurant, though. And so, Ali’s mother, Amina Nur, opened Jubba Restaurant, which became a place where Somali Americans could introduce their culture to their friends. In the beginning, Ali says, Somali people were the only ones who ate there. But now? Now the restaurant brings in so many people of different backgrounds and ethnicities. Indeed, what Ali remembers about growing up in San Jose were all the different types of food she was exposed to as a kid: Indian, Italian, Afghan, Turkish, Thai. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I feel like San Jose is the most diverse city in the whole world,” she says. “Honestly.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904870\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904870\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of Somali-style goat suqaar—a kind of stir-fry—on a table.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jubba is the only restaurant in the Bay Area where diners can feast on Somali-style goat suqaar. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]I[/dropcap]f you want a taste of that diversity, all you need to do is bring a hearty appetite. A good food day in San Jose might start with one of the oversized conchas at Mexico Bakery, a little strip mall shop that holds the top spot in the city’s pantheon of great panaderías. Often still warm from the oven, the conchas are only surpassed by the bakery’s tortas, which rank among the finest and most monstrously sized in the entire Bay Area. One of them, the milanesa, contains—just barely!—no fewer than four layers of breaded steak, an entire avocado, a thick wedge of queso fresco and probably a half-dozen other fillings. It is a work of art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">From there, if you haven’t killed your appetite by eating more than half the sandwich, it’s a quick drive over to Pho Papa, which serves what’s probably my favorite pho in the Bay. You know the restaurant is serious about pho because there’s nothing else on the menu—no obligatory rice plates or imperial rolls. Just fresh noodles and the best-tasting, most clarifying broth. What Pho Papa is known for, however, is offering a whole, slow-simmered beef short rib as a preposterously rich accompaniment for your pho—a pho house trend that appears to have started in San Jose and still hasn’t extended very far outside its borders. Indeed, when it comes to what’s new and trendy in the Bay Area’s Vietnamese food scene, San Jose is where to go to stay ahead of the curve. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904852\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904852\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A display case full of colorful pink pastries.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1439\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1020x573.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1536x863.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-2048x1151.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1920x1079.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The colorful conchas and other sweets and pastries at Mexico Bakery are often still warm from the oven. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you have time to kill before your next meal, you could do a lot worse than spend the afternoon exploring one of the two all-Vietnamese malls on the Eastside, Grand Century or Vietnam Town, where you can pick up fresh-pressed sugarcane juice and some pandan waffles to snack on. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventually, if you have a craving for Somali food (or are curious to try it), you might find yourself schlepping across town to yet another strip mall, this one tucked in a residential neighborhood next to a light rail station. There, at Jubba, almost everyone gets an order of the restaurant’s sensationally crispy and well-spiced sambusas before tucking into a big plate of beef or chicken suqaar (a slightly tangy, savory stir-fry studded with baby corn and crunchy water chestnuts), or roasted goat meat over rice. Every meal comes with a little chaser of very sweet, very gingery hot tea to aid your digestion for the trip back home. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All that food, and you haven’t even begun to dig into the city’s wealth of exceptional Japanese cuisine, or its enviable regional Chinese restaurant scene, or its deep roster of drop-dead delicious Ethiopian spots. This is the flip side to San Jose’s identity as the “Capital of Silicon Valley”: Even today, the tech industry continues to bring new immigrant populations into San Jose—and where there are large pockets of immigrants, there’s bound to be good food. So, now the city has great Korean restaurants too. It has excellent Indian and Pakistani restaurants. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Pham, the comics artist, puts it, “Immigrants have always been able to sniff out the restaurants that are amazing no matter where they are.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904854\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904854\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A samosa on a plate with a small container of green hot sauce.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The sambusa at Jubba comes with a tub of deliciously tangy green hot sauce. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[dropcap]G[/dropcap]iven this abundance of riches, why, then, is San Jose so rarely mentioned in the broader discourse about great Bay Area food cities? Part of it might have to do with the city’s geography, which is vast and spread out, and, in many stretches, laid out more like a suburb—strip mall after strip mall after strip mall. Never mind that much of the most delicious food in the U.S. can be found in suburban strip malls. San Jose’s immigrant enclaves just don’t fit the popular image of what an urban ethnic neighborhood ought to look like: There is no Chinatown equivalent.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Then there’s the fact, again, that the tech industry has become such a huge part of the city’s identity. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I think we get overshadowed by Silicon Valley,” says Yosimar Reyes, a San Jose-based poet and activist who grew up in a mostly Mexican apartment complex in East San Jose. “Oftentimes we don’t really focus on what the ethnic makeup is of this city and who the subgroups and populations are that create the culture.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Cities like Oakland and San Francisco have a certain cultural cachet, Reyes explains, due to their vibrant, long-established, diverse arts scenes. Historically, San Jose hasn’t had that kind of foundation—instead, it has “tech”—which spills over into how people think of the food scene: that it must be dull, that it must cater mainly to wealthy suburbanites. But now, Reyes says, that cultural landscape is changing too, with a new generation of visual artists, musicians and poets like himself. “We’re seeing the resurgence of local San Jose artists that are really making things happen and creating that culture for young people to see themselves in the city.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And if the food media, at large, has a blind spot when it comes to the San Jose food scene, it’s at least in part because the only restaurants that send out press releases all seem to be located at Santana Row, San Jose’s splashy, behemothic outdoor mall that opened in the early 2000s. Designed to evoke the fountains and cobblestone streets of Europe, the mall exudes the simulacrum of charm—like a Downtown Disney—with its palm trees and vast swaths of outdoor seating. There’s food and culture here too, but it’s presented in the shiny package of an upscale chain restaurant or a celebrity chef’s fourth or fifth side venture. It’s a “non-place,” as one of my colleagues put it, where you can eat your poke bowl outdoors while facing a Tesla showroom or a Kate Spade boutique. (When the topic of Santana Row came up, every San Jose person I spoke to made the same scoffing sound.)\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\" citation=\"Thien Pham\"]“Immigrants have always been able to sniff out the restaurants that are amazing no matter where they are.”[/pullquote]In some ways, then, what’s more surprising than the fact that all of these immigrant food cultures took root in San Jose is how they’ve continued to thrive, even as the city has grown outlandishly expensive. After all, a place like Santana Row offers one very specific vision of San Jose—and it isn’t necessarily one that has working class immigrants at top of mind.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Here’s where San Jose’s geographic size works in its favor compared to places like Oakland or San Francisco, where the ongoing housing crisis has pushed many immigrants out into the distant suburbs. Chavez, the Silicon Valley De-Bug organizer, explains that the economics are a little bit different in San Jose. Yes, if you look on Zillow, you’ll have a hard time finding a house listed for less than a million dollars. But because there’s more space, the immigrant communities are able to make it work, often living three or four families in what was meant to be a single-family home. Drive through certain neighborhoods in San Jose, and you’ll find that nearly every home has a converted garage or unpermitted unit add-on.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ultimately, Chavez says, the continued existence of these communities sustains all of the immigrant food businesses, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13904861/abuela-mexican-kitchen-undocumented-workers-san-jose\">a large number that operate informally\u003c/a>—just someone’s grandmother or uncle selling tacos or banh mi out of their apartment.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">According to Chavez, there’s an expression for this in Spanish: “Nunca falta un roto para un descosido.” There is a lid for every pot. In other words, Chavez says, “There’s always going to be somebody catering to you. If there’s a big immigrant community in San Jose, which there is, there are going to be people catering to that community.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904856\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904856\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Interior of a Mexican bakery, with a display of cakes visible to the side.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Known for its conchas and tortas, Mexico Bakery sits atop the pantheon of great San Jose panaderias. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Chavez, so much has already changed about San Jose since she was a kid. The parking lot where she learned to drive is now the site of townhouses. Legacy restaurants and other businesses have closed down, and new housing complexes are coming in—none of which, Chavez suspects, are going to be affordable. These are the reasons her organization advocates on behalf of working class immigrants.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“San Jose is not catering to its current population; it is trying to attract a new generation, a different type of community,” Chavez says. “We’re just trying to preserve the current community so that we can continue having some of these treasures.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904861,arts_13904913,arts_13905153' label='More San Jose Food']In fact, several of Chavez’s own family members have had to leave San Jose and move out to the Central Valley, where it’s more affordable. When she visits them out in Madera or Manteca, they tell her that what they miss the most is the taco strip. “Those were the best tripas tacos,” they’ll reminisce. “This place had the hottest salsa.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“A lot of people that have moved out now, that’s what sticks with them,” Chavez says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The truth is that \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">every\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Bay Area food city worth its salt is an immigrant food city at its heart: Richmond, Hayward, Fremont, Millbrae, Daly City, Santa Clara. All my favorites. All mostly overlooked in conversations about great Bay Area dining destinations. Every last one of them a treasure trove of immigrant mom-and-pops—Chinese, Filipino, Korean, Mexican, Salvadoran, Samoan and so much more. San Jose might be the greatest and most varied among these hubs, but it isn’t unique.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The truth is that the past, present and future of what’s best about eating in the Bay Area isn’t fine dining or California cuisine. It’s all of these immigrant food communities. That’s the legacy that needs to be preserved. That’s what makes San Jose such a special place. \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>\u003cem>Luke Tsai is KQED’s food editor.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "There’s no better place in the Bay to sample all of the region’s diverse immigrant cuisines.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904840\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904840\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"An illustration of a spread of various international foods: a bowl of pho, a torta, an Ethiopian veggie combo plate, the cross section of a durian and so forth.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1919\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-1536x1151.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-2048x1535.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/san-jose-illo_thien-pham-1920x1439.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">\u003cem>(Illustration by Thien Pham)\u003c/em>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\">KQED’s \u003c/i>\u003c/em>San Jose: The Bay Area’s Great Immigrant Food City\u003cem>\u003ci data-stringify-type=\"italic\"> is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sanjosefood\">series of stories\u003c/a> exploring San Jose’s wonderfully diverse immigrant food scene. A new installment will post each weekday from Oct. 20–29. \u003c/i>\u003c/em>\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>hen I talk about how I’d rather eat in San Jose than almost anywhere else in the Bay Area, I tend to get a lot of blank stares. In the eye of a certain beholder, the sprawling South Bay city is just a bland tech suburb—the “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://sanjosespotlight.com/jenkins-its-time-to-drop-the-capital-of-silicon-valley-slogan/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Capital of Silicon Valley\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">,” sure. But beyond that, a place of culture? And, more to the point, a destination-worthy dining scene? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But in the circles I run in—which is to say heavily Asian American and immigrant—San Jose has always held a different meaning. It’s where you go, rush hour traffic be damned, if you want to score an actually good bowl of ramen. It’s your early morning weekend pho destination when you don’t want to settle for some spot in Oakland or San Francisco that won’t even be 30 percent as satisfying. It’s where you’ve had the best Ethiopian meal you’d ever eaten in the Bay Area. The best pandan waffle. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose is home to the only Somali restaurant in the entire Bay Area. It has not one but two H-Marts amid a sea of superlative ethnic supermarkets. When an outpost of the elusive \u003ca href=\"https://sf.eater.com/2015/3/16/8225249/din-tai-fung-westfield-valley-fair-san-jose\">Taiwanese xiao long bao chain Din Tai Fung\u003c/a> finally came to Northern California, it almost goes without saying where it opened: a mall in San Jose. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Indeed, if San Jose has any distinguishing characteristic, it’s that it is, far and away, the Bay Area’s greatest immigrant food city. \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\">Somehow, though, this culinary identity gets left out of the broader, tech-heavy narrative of Silicon Valley. And, in a classic case of collective West Bay/East Bay bias, even San Jose’s most beloved taquerias and pho shops are rarely written up by the local food media. If you don’t spend a lot of time in San Jose, you probably haven’t even heard of them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904851\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904851\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Meat and vegetables sizzling on a hot flat-top grill.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the signature dishes at Jubba, in San Jose, is the beef suqaar, a kind of Somali stir-fry. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But folks who grew up in the city say it has been an immigrant food hub for as long as they can remember—even if it doesn’t get recognition for being, for instance, one of the Bay Area’s great Mexican food cities. Cecilia Chavez, an organizer with the San Jose-based nonprofit \u003ca href=\"https://www.siliconvalleydebug.org/\">Silicon Valley De-Bug\u003c/a>, grew up near what she calls the “food strip” in East San Jose—a mile-and-a-half stretch of Story Road where she recently counted 23 individual taco stands. “And that’s only the visible ones,” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">According to Chavez, food hubs like the predominantly Mexican and Vietnamese enclaves of East San Jose came into being, in large part, because those neighborhoods were the only areas in San Jose where working-class immigrants and refugees could afford to live and open businesses. “San Jose is this kind of hidden gem of food, just because of the nature of all of the low-income communities that have been marginalized into these pockets of [the city],” she says.\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>And because of the geographic proximity of these neighborhoods, all these immigrant kids wound up going to school together and learning about each other’s foods instead of staying cloistered in their own enclaves. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thiendog/?hl=en\">Thien Pham\u003c/a>, a high school teacher and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13905153/underground-vietnamese-restaurants-social-media-san-jose\">comics artist\u003c/a>, was a kid when he arrived in the city in 1980, as part of the large wave of Vietnamese refugees who made their home in San Jose around that time—attracted, Pham says, by the weather and the prospect of good, dignified jobs in the burgeoning tech and electronics industries. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What he remembers is how enmeshed the different immigrant communities were. In particular, he says, “There was a real nice Mexican and Vietnamese cohabitation in San Jose. A lot of Vietnamese people got into eating Mexican food, and Mexican people got into eating Vietnamese food.” The flavors of the two cuisines were just so compatible—all these bold, spicy, saucy dishes served with rice. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">One of Pham’s earliest restaurant memories was of the Vietnamese-Chinese noodle house Tung Kee, which was frequented almost exclusively by Vietnamese folks when it first opened on the ground floor of an apartment building. Now, it’s a successful chain, rebranded as \u003ca href=\"https://www.tknoodle.com/\">TK Noodle\u003c/a>, and Pham says whenever he goes to one of the San Jose locations, the dining room is always full of Mexican Americans: “I think that’s really neat.” Even in the multicultural Bay Area, it’s relatively rare to find that kind of confluence of different communities—but in San Jose, it just feels natural, Pham says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904850\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904850\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman wearing a face mask and a hajib prepares food over a flat-top griddle.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/028_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Amina Nur opened Jubba Restaurant as a place where Somali immigrants could show off their culture and cuisine. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Sarah Ali, moving to the San Jose area when she was a kid was like day and night compared to her old life in New York, where, as Ali recalls, the weather was bad and there wasn’t much of a Somali community. San Jose, on the other hand, had a comparatively large Somali population that gathered every Friday at the masjid, or local prayer place, in Santa Clara. “It was nice to see other people who looked like me,” she says.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the time, there wasn’t a Somali restaurant, though. And so, Ali’s mother, Amina Nur, opened Jubba Restaurant, which became a place where Somali Americans could introduce their culture to their friends. In the beginning, Ali says, Somali people were the only ones who ate there. But now? Now the restaurant brings in so many people of different backgrounds and ethnicities. Indeed, what Ali remembers about growing up in San Jose were all the different types of food she was exposed to as a kid: Indian, Italian, Afghan, Turkish, Thai. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I feel like San Jose is the most diverse city in the whole world,” she says. “Honestly.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904870\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904870\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A plate of Somali-style goat suqaar—a kind of stir-fry—on a table.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jubba is the only restaurant in the Bay Area where diners can feast on Somali-style goat suqaar. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\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 want a taste of that diversity, all you need to do is bring a hearty appetite. A good food day in San Jose might start with one of the oversized conchas at Mexico Bakery, a little strip mall shop that holds the top spot in the city’s pantheon of great panaderías. Often still warm from the oven, the conchas are only surpassed by the bakery’s tortas, which rank among the finest and most monstrously sized in the entire Bay Area. One of them, the milanesa, contains—just barely!—no fewer than four layers of breaded steak, an entire avocado, a thick wedge of queso fresco and probably a half-dozen other fillings. It is a work of art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">From there, if you haven’t killed your appetite by eating more than half the sandwich, it’s a quick drive over to Pho Papa, which serves what’s probably my favorite pho in the Bay. You know the restaurant is serious about pho because there’s nothing else on the menu—no obligatory rice plates or imperial rolls. Just fresh noodles and the best-tasting, most clarifying broth. What Pho Papa is known for, however, is offering a whole, slow-simmered beef short rib as a preposterously rich accompaniment for your pho—a pho house trend that appears to have started in San Jose and still hasn’t extended very far outside its borders. Indeed, when it comes to what’s new and trendy in the Bay Area’s Vietnamese food scene, San Jose is where to go to stay ahead of the curve. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904852\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904852\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A display case full of colorful pink pastries.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1439\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1020x573.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1536x863.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-2048x1151.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/003_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1920x1079.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The colorful conchas and other sweets and pastries at Mexico Bakery are often still warm from the oven. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you have time to kill before your next meal, you could do a lot worse than spend the afternoon exploring one of the two all-Vietnamese malls on the Eastside, Grand Century or Vietnam Town, where you can pick up fresh-pressed sugarcane juice and some pandan waffles to snack on. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventually, if you have a craving for Somali food (or are curious to try it), you might find yourself schlepping across town to yet another strip mall, this one tucked in a residential neighborhood next to a light rail station. There, at Jubba, almost everyone gets an order of the restaurant’s sensationally crispy and well-spiced sambusas before tucking into a big plate of beef or chicken suqaar (a slightly tangy, savory stir-fry studded with baby corn and crunchy water chestnuts), or roasted goat meat over rice. Every meal comes with a little chaser of very sweet, very gingery hot tea to aid your digestion for the trip back home. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All that food, and you haven’t even begun to dig into the city’s wealth of exceptional Japanese cuisine, or its enviable regional Chinese restaurant scene, or its deep roster of drop-dead delicious Ethiopian spots. This is the flip side to San Jose’s identity as the “Capital of Silicon Valley”: Even today, the tech industry continues to bring new immigrant populations into San Jose—and where there are large pockets of immigrants, there’s bound to be good food. So, now the city has great Korean restaurants too. It has excellent Indian and Pakistani restaurants. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Pham, the comics artist, puts it, “Immigrants have always been able to sniff out the restaurants that are amazing no matter where they are.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904854\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904854\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A samosa on a plate with a small container of green hot sauce.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_JubbaSomaliRestaurant_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The sambusa at Jubba comes with a tub of deliciously tangy green hot sauce. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">G\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>iven this abundance of riches, why, then, is San Jose so rarely mentioned in the broader discourse about great Bay Area food cities? Part of it might have to do with the city’s geography, which is vast and spread out, and, in many stretches, laid out more like a suburb—strip mall after strip mall after strip mall. Never mind that much of the most delicious food in the U.S. can be found in suburban strip malls. San Jose’s immigrant enclaves just don’t fit the popular image of what an urban ethnic neighborhood ought to look like: There is no Chinatown equivalent.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Then there’s the fact, again, that the tech industry has become such a huge part of the city’s identity. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I think we get overshadowed by Silicon Valley,” says Yosimar Reyes, a San Jose-based poet and activist who grew up in a mostly Mexican apartment complex in East San Jose. “Oftentimes we don’t really focus on what the ethnic makeup is of this city and who the subgroups and populations are that create the culture.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Cities like Oakland and San Francisco have a certain cultural cachet, Reyes explains, due to their vibrant, long-established, diverse arts scenes. Historically, San Jose hasn’t had that kind of foundation—instead, it has “tech”—which spills over into how people think of the food scene: that it must be dull, that it must cater mainly to wealthy suburbanites. But now, Reyes says, that cultural landscape is changing too, with a new generation of visual artists, musicians and poets like himself. “We’re seeing the resurgence of local San Jose artists that are really making things happen and creating that culture for young people to see themselves in the city.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And if the food media, at large, has a blind spot when it comes to the San Jose food scene, it’s at least in part because the only restaurants that send out press releases all seem to be located at Santana Row, San Jose’s splashy, behemothic outdoor mall that opened in the early 2000s. Designed to evoke the fountains and cobblestone streets of Europe, the mall exudes the simulacrum of charm—like a Downtown Disney—with its palm trees and vast swaths of outdoor seating. There’s food and culture here too, but it’s presented in the shiny package of an upscale chain restaurant or a celebrity chef’s fourth or fifth side venture. It’s a “non-place,” as one of my colleagues put it, where you can eat your poke bowl outdoors while facing a Tesla showroom or a Kate Spade boutique. (When the topic of Santana Row came up, every San Jose person I spoke to made the same scoffing sound.)\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 some ways, then, what’s more surprising than the fact that all of these immigrant food cultures took root in San Jose is how they’ve continued to thrive, even as the city has grown outlandishly expensive. After all, a place like Santana Row offers one very specific vision of San Jose—and it isn’t necessarily one that has working class immigrants at top of mind.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Here’s where San Jose’s geographic size works in its favor compared to places like Oakland or San Francisco, where the ongoing housing crisis has pushed many immigrants out into the distant suburbs. Chavez, the Silicon Valley De-Bug organizer, explains that the economics are a little bit different in San Jose. Yes, if you look on Zillow, you’ll have a hard time finding a house listed for less than a million dollars. But because there’s more space, the immigrant communities are able to make it work, often living three or four families in what was meant to be a single-family home. Drive through certain neighborhoods in San Jose, and you’ll find that nearly every home has a converted garage or unpermitted unit add-on.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ultimately, Chavez says, the continued existence of these communities sustains all of the immigrant food businesses, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13904861/abuela-mexican-kitchen-undocumented-workers-san-jose\">a large number that operate informally\u003c/a>—just someone’s grandmother or uncle selling tacos or banh mi out of their apartment.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">According to Chavez, there’s an expression for this in Spanish: “Nunca falta un roto para un descosido.” There is a lid for every pot. In other words, Chavez says, “There’s always going to be somebody catering to you. If there’s a big immigrant community in San Jose, which there is, there are going to be people catering to that community.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904856\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904856\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Interior of a Mexican bakery, with a display of cakes visible to the side.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_SanJose_MexicoBakery_10072021-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Known for its conchas and tortas, Mexico Bakery sits atop the pantheon of great San Jose panaderias. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For Chavez, so much has already changed about San Jose since she was a kid. The parking lot where she learned to drive is now the site of townhouses. Legacy restaurants and other businesses have closed down, and new housing complexes are coming in—none of which, Chavez suspects, are going to be affordable. These are the reasons her organization advocates on behalf of working class immigrants.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“San Jose is not catering to its current population; it is trying to attract a new generation, a different type of community,” Chavez says. “We’re just trying to preserve the current community so that we can continue having some of these treasures.” \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 fact, several of Chavez’s own family members have had to leave San Jose and move out to the Central Valley, where it’s more affordable. When she visits them out in Madera or Manteca, they tell her that what they miss the most is the taco strip. “Those were the best tripas tacos,” they’ll reminisce. “This place had the hottest salsa.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“A lot of people that have moved out now, that’s what sticks with them,” Chavez says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The truth is that \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">every\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Bay Area food city worth its salt is an immigrant food city at its heart: Richmond, Hayward, Fremont, Millbrae, Daly City, Santa Clara. All my favorites. All mostly overlooked in conversations about great Bay Area dining destinations. Every last one of them a treasure trove of immigrant mom-and-pops—Chinese, Filipino, Korean, Mexican, Salvadoran, Samoan and so much more. San Jose might be the greatest and most varied among these hubs, but it isn’t unique.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The truth is that the past, present and future of what’s best about eating in the Bay Area isn’t fine dining or California cuisine. It’s all of these immigrant food communities. That’s the legacy that needs to be preserved. That’s what makes San Jose such a special place. \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>\u003cem>Luke Tsai is KQED’s food editor.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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},
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"id": "city-arts",
"title": "City Arts & Lectures",
"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
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"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
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"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
"id": "closealltabs",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"order": 1
},
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"id": "code-switch-life-kit",
"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
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"subscribe": {
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
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"id": "fresh-air",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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},
"hidden-brain": {
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"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-i-built-this-with-guy-raz/id1150510297?mt=2",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"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. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"order": 15
},
"link": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"spotify": "https://open.spotify.com/show/2p3Fifq96nw9BPcmFdIq0o?si=39209f7b25774f38",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"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.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
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"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
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"apple": "http://mastersofscale.app.link/",
"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"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>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"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?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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},
"on-the-media": {
"id": "on-the-media",
"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm-3pm, MON 12am-1am",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/onTheMedia.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.wnycstudios.org/shows/otm",
"meta": {
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"source": "wnyc"
},
"link": "/radio/program/on-the-media",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/on-the-media/id73330715?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/On-the-Media-p69/",
"rss": "http://feeds.wnyc.org/onthemedia"
}
},
"pbs-newshour": {
"id": "pbs-newshour",
"title": "PBS NewsHour",
"info": "Analysis, background reports and updates from the PBS NewsHour putting today's news in context.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3pm-4pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/PBS-News-Hour-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.pbs.org/newshour/",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/pbs-newshour",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/pbs-newshour-full-show/id394432287?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/PBS-NewsHour---Full-Show-p425698/",
"rss": "https://www.pbs.org/newshour/feeds/rss/podcasts/show"
}
},
"perspectives": {
"id": "perspectives",
"title": "Perspectives",
"tagline": "KQED's series of daily listener commentaries since 1991",
"info": "KQED's series of daily listener commentaries since 1991.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Perspectives_Tile_Final.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/perspectives/",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 14
},
"link": "/perspectives",
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