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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": "“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.”",
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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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"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": "Boba, Chè and ABGs: A San Jose Local's Guide to Vietnamese Drinks",
"headTitle": "Boba, Chè and ABGs: A San Jose Local’s Guide to Vietnamese Drinks | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904916\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904916\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Two Vietnamese milk tea drinks, a pastry and a spiky green durian fruit spread out on a countertop.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dzui’s, in San Jose, is one of the few Bay Area shops that specializes in durian drinks. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\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]E[/dropcap]very article written about Vietnamese food in America reads like the beginning of an Asian American studies paper. And that’s fair: Food can’t be truly understood without getting into history and politics. The United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War created a pathway for the first large wave of Vietnamese immigration into the states. Hundreds of thousands of refugees wound up landing in cities such as New Orleans, Houston and San Jose, the last of which is home to the Bay Area’s biggest concentration of Vietnamese Americans. In fact, San Jose has the largest Vietnamese population of any city in the country—over 100,000, according to the 2010 census. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It should come as no surprise, then, that the city is also home to the best Vietnamese food that Northern California has to offer. Even Vietnamese people from San Francisco, Stockton and Sacramento often make the long journey for a taste. Savvy out-of-town readers have already seen the listicles featuring San Jose’s best phở\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">or\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">bánh mì. But what’s spoken of less frequently is the city’s sprawling, vibrant Vietnamese drinks scene—an ever-evolving landscape of colorful, icy sweet soups layered with mung beans and pandan jelly, fresh-pressed sugarcane juice and distinctly Vietnamese takes on boba and coffee. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While some drinks are traditional, others are new innovations popularized by Vietnamese American youth. In many ways, the entire chè and boba scene speaks not only to what Vietnamese culture in San Jose is, but also where it’s going.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After all, if wine can be Napa’s thing, why can’t Vietnamese beverages be San Jose’s?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Milk Tea and Boba\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These days, boba’s omnipresence is a distinctive characteristic of the Bay Area. Cruising through San Jose, you get the impression that there are more boba shops than Starbucks. San Jose is the so-called \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://i-d.vice.com/en_uk/article/g5p44x/it-was-a-cultural-reset-a-short-history-of-the-abg-aesthetic\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Asian Baby Girl \u003c/span>\u003c/a>(ABG) \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">capital of the Bay, after all, and big, colorful boba drinks are the accessory of choice for this particular subculture, alongside acrylic nails and lash extensions. While Taiwanese boba culture tends to dominate the discussion, in San Jose you’ll find a whole universe of Vietnamese takes on the cult drink. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904914\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904914\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful boba drinks on a table lit with purplish-pink light.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Pekoe is known for its colorful boba drinks, as well as its clubby, neon-lit atmosphere. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These boba shops take the Taiwanese boba canon—your classic milk teas with tapioca pearls—and build on that foundation by adding Vietnamese ingredients. \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://7leavescafe.com/drink\">\u003cb>7 Leaves Cafe\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is a good example of this approach. The local chain’s\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">first Northern California location is in the sleepy suburban neighborhood of Berryessa, the less widely recognized Vietnamese ethnoburb within San Jose. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Though the cafe serves the standard milk tea flavors of black, jasmine, and taro that you expect at any other boba shop, its standout items draw on distinctly Vietnamese influences. There’s mung bean milk tea, “herbal tea” (pandan, chrysanthemum and raw cane sugar) and, the student favorite, Vietnamese coffee. Fortunately, the hour-long waits from 7 Leaves’ debut have tapered off as the chain settled into the city, with three locations that act as popular hubs for midday caffeine boosts and hours-long study sessions.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“San Jose is the so-called Asian Baby Girl capital of the Bay, after all, and big, colorful boba drinks are the accessory of choice for this particular subculture.”[/pullquote]To immerse yourself in San Jose’s Vietnamese youth culture (or one aspect of it, anyway), head over to \u003c/span>\u003cb>\u003ca href=\"https://pekoeteabar.com/\">Pekoe Tea Bar\u003c/a>. \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With its white leather couches, vibey dimmed lighting and neon LED strips, Pekoe embodies last decade’s Asian American raver revival and San Jose \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/29/style/cheugy.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">cheugy\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. During its heyday in the mid-2010s, you couldn’t make it to the register without swarms of teenagers and 20-somethings huddling around modded cars and vape circles. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905037\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905037\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Young Asian Americans stand in line to order boba inside a shop with ornate light fixtures.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Vietnamese boba scene at shops like Pekoe is driven by Asian American teens and 20somethings. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The menu captures the aforementioned subculture’s casual geekery and tendency toward questionably appropriative hip-hop references, with drink names such as “Mario and Lui-lychee” and “I’m in Luv with the Coco.” Pekoe offers a cocktail style menu, pairing teas, flavorings and toppings that are meant to complement one another. “Pretty in Pink” features a strawberry-infused jasmine milk tea with heart-shaped strawberry jelly and boba, resulting in an adorable pink drink that, believe it or not, tastes like vape juice—in a good way. For an earthier drink, “Yung Mung-y” combines jasmine tea with “natural mung bean” and coconut pudding. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If your curiosity won’t let you decide between two menu options, Pekoe offers split cups. The drinks run sweeter than most, so ask for less sweetness than your usual order. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Chè\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Chè is a category that covers an endless variety of desserts that can be hot or cold, savory or sweet, solid or soupy, chewy or smooth, fresh or cooked. It’s a maximalist dessert with no limitations. One popular iteration is chè ba màu, recognized for its striking tri-color layers of red bean, mung bean and pandan jelly topped with coconut milk and shaved ice. Another is chè thái, a canned-fruit cocktail—of jackfruit, lychee, grass jelly, water chestnut and coconut flesh—that’s reminiscent of ambrosia.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Bay Area’s most recognizable chè shop, \u003c/span>\u003cb>\u003ca href=\"https://www.drinkbambu.com/\">BAMBU Dessert & Drinks\u003c/a>, \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">originated in San Jose, first opening in Berryessa in 2008. Since then, the chain has expanded to 15 stores serving Vietnamese enclaves as far away as Sacramento and Stockton, but the San Jose mothership is still worth a visit for an efficient and reliable pitstop while eating your way through the Eastside scene. The menu offers all the greatest hits of the icy variety of chè, though the shop also serves a host of flavored milk teas, fruit teas and coffees for those who prefer less texture. Drink your way through the shop’s preset chè options, or pick your favorite ingredients to create your own combination. When in doubt, the classic chè ba màu (#10 on the menu) is a dependable option.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Soy-Based Drinks\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In Vietnam, freshly made soy milk is often served alongside street food and deli entrees. While American soy milk does its best to neutralize itself, waiting to be paired with coffee or utilized in baking, Asian soy milk is a delightful treat all on its own. It’s meant to taste like soy.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905047\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905047\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A woman holds a soy pudding drink dotted with boba, pandan and shaved ice.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyful’s icy soy pudding drinks are a delightful hybrid of boba, soy and chè. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To enjoy Vietnamese soy milk in its purest form, head to \u003c/span>\u003cb>Hung Vuong Tofu\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13905293/vietnamese-tofu-capital-san-jose\">soy- and tofu-focused deli\u003c/a> tucked in an unpretentious strip mall in Berryessa. Snake around the floating isle of imported snacks and prepared food trays to land at the shop’s fridge, with its nostalgic red, yellow and blue stripes. Inside, you’ll find bottles and jugs of freshly pressed soy milk available in four options: unsweetened, sweetened, pandan and matcha. Older patrons gravitate toward the unsweetened version, but the matcha flavor sells out quickly due to the younger crowd. If you’ve only had mass-produced soy milk from the supermarket, be prepared for a completely different sensation: a refreshing, subtly sweet silken tofu taste with a full mouthfeel. They don’t use preservatives here, so finish your drink within one to two days of opening.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For those seeking a more contemporary take on the genre, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/soyfuldesserts/?hl=en\">\u003cb>Soyful Desserts\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is the ultimate lovechild of boba, chè and soy. Though the shop’s core options are Hong Kong-style milk teas (and at least one of its founders \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/soyfuldesserts/about/?ref=page_internal\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">hails from Hong Kong\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">), Soyful is best known for its soy pudding drinks. The tender, slurpable ginger syrup–dowsed tofu is layered with your toppings of choice. I recommend the pandan jelly, basil seeds, and of course boba. To really lean into the shop’s chè\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">side, opt for red beans as well. The soy pudding drinks are all accompanied by crushed ice—the kind that’s fun to stab with your straw and easy to drink.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Durian Drinks\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose is also one of the only places in America where even lesser known Vietnamese drinks are able to cultivate a devoted following. One such drink can be found at \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/Dzuis-Cakes-Desserts-771574152953969/\">\u003cb>Dzui’s Cakes and Desserts\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. In 2017, Dzui Thai decided to open his namesake storefront in Eastside San Jose, building on the legacy of his family’s successful bakery which has operated in Vietnam for nearly 40 years. The shop specializes in pillowy durian crepe cakes and bánh mì muối ớt (grilled bread with spicy seasoning), but it’s also known for offering hard-to-find beverages like corn milk, mung bean milk and, especially, a variety of durian drinks—all made with super-fresh ingredients.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905049\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905049\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A line of customers stands in front of the display case waiting to order inside of Dzui's dessert shop.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At Dzui’s, customers can get a durian crepe cakes to go with their durian milk tea. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dzui’s signature “á đù”rian (a pun on Vietnamese for “motherfucker”) milk tea originally featured fresh, high-quality durian chunks. Thai noticed that customers were either thrilled or repulsed by the contentious fruit in its purest form. It is durian, after all. To those less familiar, it’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">allegedly\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> offensive and reeks of onions (or worse). To its championing lovers, it’s an aromatic blend of perfume and—OK fine—garlic. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Determined to adapt his signature drink to be friendlier to his new stateside market, Thai landed on a housemade durian pudding. The resulting product invites durian amateurs to familiarize themselves with the fruit’s complicated custardy notes. The pudding sits atop a salted cheese foam with fragrant jasmine tea, resulting in an alchemic blend of savory and sweet. Durian lovers can rest assured that fresh durian chunks are available for a worthwhile extra $1.50.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[pullquote size=\"large\" align=\"right\"]“Customers were either thrilled or repulsed by the contentious fruit in its purest form. It is durian, after all.”[/pullquote]“I wanted to stand out,” Thai says of his durian desserts and drinks. “There’s a lot of Vietnamese business around here. Why not try it? You can’t find it anywhere else.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Sugarcane Juice\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Californians have a reputation for being particularly health conscious, so it’s surprising that Vietnamese juices and smoothies haven’t taken the state by storm yet. One of the more popular options is fresh sugarcane juice, and the definitive sugarcane juicery in town is\u003c/span> \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/nkfreshjuice/?hl=en\">\u003cb>Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905050\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905050\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu’s bright, tropical storefront is located inside the Grand Century mall food court. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Located in the food court of the Grand Century Shopping mall—\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eater.com/a/mofad-city-guides/san-jose-vietnamese-restaurants\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">one of two almost exclusively Vietnamese malls in San Jose\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu is all about transparency and simplicity. Literally. Customers get to watch their order made from scratch right in front of them, explains Ron Kwok, the son of the company’s founder. Whole sugarcane sticks are run through an industrial press, with a filter that catches the inedible fibers, yielding a pure, refreshing cup of juice. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Each menu option is an exhaustive list of the ingredients that go into that drink. In other words, the sugarcane juice only contains sugarcane, unless you decide to add fresh or preserved fruit (which you should!). Fresh-pressed sugarcane with a squeeze of kumquat is the most popular option, with bright citrus notes balancing out the sugarcane’s natural sweetness.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905051\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905051\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Two cups of iced sugarcane juice on a mall food court tabletop.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The fresh-pressed sugarcane drinks at Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu don’t have any added sugar or water. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Coffee\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s no talking about Vietnamese beverages without mentioning coffee. In the U.S., cà phê sữa đá, or Vietnamese iced coffee, sits in the hall of fame next to phở and bánh mì\u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In San Jose, you don’t have to drive very far from wherever you are to find that bold and delicious bitter cup of robusta sweetened with condensed milk. Most boba shops in town even offer it alongside their milk and fruit tea options. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Until recently, though, cà phê sữa đá was usually tucked at the end of bánh mì shop and restaurant menus rather than featured as a standalone product in its own right. “Vietnamese coffee shops” usually referred to late-night haunts for men to drink cà phê, chain-smoke, watch sports, play cards, buy lottery tickets and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ocregister.com/2009/05/21/sexy-cafes-are-little-saigons-twist-on-hooters-2/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">generously tip bikini-clad servers\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Now, there’s a younger generation of Vietnamese Americans eager to expand upon the existing cà phê\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">scene and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://imbibemagazine.com/ca-phe-culture-a-vietnamese-coffee-movement-is-brewing-across-america/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">close the gap on more recent trends in third wave coffee\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905052\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905052\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A barista in a face mask prepares an espresso drink.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Academic Coffee is known for its pandan lattes, which are inspired by a popular Vietnamese snack. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When husband-and-wife duo Frank and Kathy Nguyen opened \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.academiccoffee.com/\">\u003cb>Academic Coffee\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in 2017, they began with a straightforward, no-frills espresso focused menu—nothing especially Vietnamese about it. About a year into operating, though, Frank began experimenting with a housemade pandan syrup. The result was the shop’s iconic pandan lattes and cold brews. Inspired by the classic childhood snack, bánh kẹp\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(pandan waffle), the pandan drink’s flavor lands between a vanilla and coconut latte. Don’t expect your coffee to be green, as the cafe opts to skip out on dyes.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While Academic Coffee provides an option for Vietnamese-inspired espresso drinks, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kasamacaphe.com/\">\u003cstrong>Kasama Ca Phe\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> focuses on the classic cà phê itself. Childhood friends Erik Quiocho and Kevin Ho Nguyen developed their love for cà phê sữa đá when they’d have it as a casual after-school treat while grabbing phở. As the third wave coffee movement hit the Bay Area, the duo saw an opportunity to educate coffee enthusiasts on Vietnamese beans, labor and brewing methods. Thus came \u003c/span>Kasama Ca Phe\u003cb>, \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a pop-up concept that has halted during the pandemic and shifted to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/kasamacaphe/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">growler pick-ups only\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13904861,arts_13904835,arts_13905293' label='More San Jose Food']“We didn’t want to just go off the radar,” explains Quiocho, “There was a lot we wanted to do and a story we wanted to tell. We decided the best way to do it was curbside pickup.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The pair also increased their focus on online engagement. At the start of the shelter-in-place ordinance of 2020, they hosted an online workshop teaching participants how to brew a “proper” cup of cà phê trứng, or egg coffee. The Northern Vietnamese hot coffee drink is slowly becoming more widely available in the U.S.—though it’s still relatively hard to find in the Bay Area, especially outside of San Jose. To make cà phê trứng, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://nguyencoffeesupply.com/blogs/news/vietnamese-coffee-phin-filter-stainless-steel\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">phin-brewed coffee\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is topped with a custard-like foam made from whipped egg yolks and condensed milk. The drink embodies the pop-up’s methodical approach to coffee, as well as its founders’ commitment to introducing customers to new-to-them Vietnamese coffee offerings. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And unlike more old school Vietnamese coffee spots, Kasama Ca Phe is vegan-friendly too, offering cà phê sữa dừa đá, or coconut coffee, which utilizes Thai coconut condensed milk. All drinks use Nguyen Coffee Supply beans,\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://nguyencoffeesupply.com/pages/about-us\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a Brooklyn-based roaster best known for their single-origin, direct-trade Vietnamese coffee\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905053\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905053\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A hand reaching out to a cup of coffee decorated with elegant latte art.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Coffee shops like Academic Coffee—whose latte is pictured here—bridge the gap between third wave trends and Vietnamese coffee culture. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s a quickly growing diasporic coffee movement of young Vietnamese Americans who are eager to reclaim Vietnam’s robusta bean, often deemed inferior to arabica beans in terms of flavor and quality, and push back against Eurocentric coffee standards. Kasama Ca Phe proudly represents San Jose in this new wave. And Quiocho and Nguyen aren’t done yet: They have their sights set out on creating their own organic condensed milk, and plan to open their own storefront in San Jose in the near future.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“San Jose’s always on this come-up moment. A lot of other folks in the South Bay feel it too. Times are changing,” Quiocho says. “As San Jose continues to grow, we want to help champion the coffee scene out here. Do it for the hometown.”\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\">\u003cem>Jacquelyn Tran is a San Jose–raised, Berkeley-based researcher and writer. She does not identify as an ABG but did write her college thesis on the subculture. Follow her on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/jjjjacq\">@jjjjacq\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904916\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904916\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Two Vietnamese milk tea drinks, a pastry and a spiky green durian fruit spread out on a countertop.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/001_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dzui’s, in San Jose, is one of the few Bay Area shops that specializes in durian drinks. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\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\">E\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>very article written about Vietnamese food in America reads like the beginning of an Asian American studies paper. And that’s fair: Food can’t be truly understood without getting into history and politics. The United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War created a pathway for the first large wave of Vietnamese immigration into the states. Hundreds of thousands of refugees wound up landing in cities such as New Orleans, Houston and San Jose, the last of which is home to the Bay Area’s biggest concentration of Vietnamese Americans. In fact, San Jose has the largest Vietnamese population of any city in the country—over 100,000, according to the 2010 census. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It should come as no surprise, then, that the city is also home to the best Vietnamese food that Northern California has to offer. Even Vietnamese people from San Francisco, Stockton and Sacramento often make the long journey for a taste. Savvy out-of-town readers have already seen the listicles featuring San Jose’s best phở\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">or\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">bánh mì. But what’s spoken of less frequently is the city’s sprawling, vibrant Vietnamese drinks scene—an ever-evolving landscape of colorful, icy sweet soups layered with mung beans and pandan jelly, fresh-pressed sugarcane juice and distinctly Vietnamese takes on boba and coffee. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While some drinks are traditional, others are new innovations popularized by Vietnamese American youth. In many ways, the entire chè and boba scene speaks not only to what Vietnamese culture in San Jose is, but also where it’s going.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">After all, if wine can be Napa’s thing, why can’t Vietnamese beverages be San Jose’s?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Milk Tea and Boba\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These days, boba’s omnipresence is a distinctive characteristic of the Bay Area. Cruising through San Jose, you get the impression that there are more boba shops than Starbucks. San Jose is the so-called \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://i-d.vice.com/en_uk/article/g5p44x/it-was-a-cultural-reset-a-short-history-of-the-abg-aesthetic\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Asian Baby Girl \u003c/span>\u003c/a>(ABG) \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">capital of the Bay, after all, and big, colorful boba drinks are the accessory of choice for this particular subculture, alongside acrylic nails and lash extensions. While Taiwanese boba culture tends to dominate the discussion, in San Jose you’ll find a whole universe of Vietnamese takes on the cult drink. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13904914\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13904914\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful boba drinks on a table lit with purplish-pink light.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/017_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Pekoe is known for its colorful boba drinks, as well as its clubby, neon-lit atmosphere. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">These boba shops take the Taiwanese boba canon—your classic milk teas with tapioca pearls—and build on that foundation by adding Vietnamese ingredients. \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://7leavescafe.com/drink\">\u003cb>7 Leaves Cafe\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is a good example of this approach. The local chain’s\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">first Northern California location is in the sleepy suburban neighborhood of Berryessa, the less widely recognized Vietnamese ethnoburb within 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\">Though the cafe serves the standard milk tea flavors of black, jasmine, and taro that you expect at any other boba shop, its standout items draw on distinctly Vietnamese influences. There’s mung bean milk tea, “herbal tea” (pandan, chrysanthemum and raw cane sugar) and, the student favorite, Vietnamese coffee. Fortunately, the hour-long waits from 7 Leaves’ debut have tapered off as the chain settled into the city, with three locations that act as popular hubs for midday caffeine boosts and hours-long study sessions.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "“San Jose is the so-called Asian Baby Girl capital of the Bay, after all, and big, colorful boba drinks are the accessory of choice for this particular subculture.”",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>To immerse yourself in San Jose’s Vietnamese youth culture (or one aspect of it, anyway), head over to \u003c/span>\u003cb>\u003ca href=\"https://pekoeteabar.com/\">Pekoe Tea Bar\u003c/a>. \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With its white leather couches, vibey dimmed lighting and neon LED strips, Pekoe embodies last decade’s Asian American raver revival and San Jose \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/29/style/cheugy.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">cheugy\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. During its heyday in the mid-2010s, you couldn’t make it to the register without swarms of teenagers and 20-somethings huddling around modded cars and vape circles. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905037\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905037\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Young Asian Americans stand in line to order boba inside a shop with ornate light fixtures.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/020_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Vietnamese boba scene at shops like Pekoe is driven by Asian American teens and 20somethings. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The menu captures the aforementioned subculture’s casual geekery and tendency toward questionably appropriative hip-hop references, with drink names such as “Mario and Lui-lychee” and “I’m in Luv with the Coco.” Pekoe offers a cocktail style menu, pairing teas, flavorings and toppings that are meant to complement one another. “Pretty in Pink” features a strawberry-infused jasmine milk tea with heart-shaped strawberry jelly and boba, resulting in an adorable pink drink that, believe it or not, tastes like vape juice—in a good way. For an earthier drink, “Yung Mung-y” combines jasmine tea with “natural mung bean” and coconut pudding. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If your curiosity won’t let you decide between two menu options, Pekoe offers split cups. The drinks run sweeter than most, so ask for less sweetness than your usual order. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Chè\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Chè is a category that covers an endless variety of desserts that can be hot or cold, savory or sweet, solid or soupy, chewy or smooth, fresh or cooked. It’s a maximalist dessert with no limitations. One popular iteration is chè ba màu, recognized for its striking tri-color layers of red bean, mung bean and pandan jelly topped with coconut milk and shaved ice. Another is chè thái, a canned-fruit cocktail—of jackfruit, lychee, grass jelly, water chestnut and coconut flesh—that’s reminiscent of ambrosia.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Bay Area’s most recognizable chè shop, \u003c/span>\u003cb>\u003ca href=\"https://www.drinkbambu.com/\">BAMBU Dessert & Drinks\u003c/a>, \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">originated in San Jose, first opening in Berryessa in 2008. Since then, the chain has expanded to 15 stores serving Vietnamese enclaves as far away as Sacramento and Stockton, but the San Jose mothership is still worth a visit for an efficient and reliable pitstop while eating your way through the Eastside scene. The menu offers all the greatest hits of the icy variety of chè, though the shop also serves a host of flavored milk teas, fruit teas and coffees for those who prefer less texture. Drink your way through the shop’s preset chè options, or pick your favorite ingredients to create your own combination. When in doubt, the classic chè ba màu (#10 on the menu) is a dependable option.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Soy-Based Drinks\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In Vietnam, freshly made soy milk is often served alongside street food and deli entrees. While American soy milk does its best to neutralize itself, waiting to be paired with coffee or utilized in baking, Asian soy milk is a delightful treat all on its own. It’s meant to taste like soy.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905047\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905047\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A woman holds a soy pudding drink dotted with boba, pandan and shaved ice.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/016_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyful’s icy soy pudding drinks are a delightful hybrid of boba, soy and chè. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">To enjoy Vietnamese soy milk in its purest form, head to \u003c/span>\u003cb>Hung Vuong Tofu\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13905293/vietnamese-tofu-capital-san-jose\">soy- and tofu-focused deli\u003c/a> tucked in an unpretentious strip mall in Berryessa. Snake around the floating isle of imported snacks and prepared food trays to land at the shop’s fridge, with its nostalgic red, yellow and blue stripes. Inside, you’ll find bottles and jugs of freshly pressed soy milk available in four options: unsweetened, sweetened, pandan and matcha. Older patrons gravitate toward the unsweetened version, but the matcha flavor sells out quickly due to the younger crowd. If you’ve only had mass-produced soy milk from the supermarket, be prepared for a completely different sensation: a refreshing, subtly sweet silken tofu taste with a full mouthfeel. They don’t use preservatives here, so finish your drink within one to two days of opening.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For those seeking a more contemporary take on the genre, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/soyfuldesserts/?hl=en\">\u003cb>Soyful Desserts\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is the ultimate lovechild of boba, chè and soy. Though the shop’s core options are Hong Kong-style milk teas (and at least one of its founders \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/soyfuldesserts/about/?ref=page_internal\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">hails from Hong Kong\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">), Soyful is best known for its soy pudding drinks. The tender, slurpable ginger syrup–dowsed tofu is layered with your toppings of choice. I recommend the pandan jelly, basil seeds, and of course boba. To really lean into the shop’s chè\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">side, opt for red beans as well. The soy pudding drinks are all accompanied by crushed ice—the kind that’s fun to stab with your straw and easy to drink.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Durian Drinks\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Jose is also one of the only places in America where even lesser known Vietnamese drinks are able to cultivate a devoted following. One such drink can be found at \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/Dzuis-Cakes-Desserts-771574152953969/\">\u003cb>Dzui’s Cakes and Desserts\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. In 2017, Dzui Thai decided to open his namesake storefront in Eastside San Jose, building on the legacy of his family’s successful bakery which has operated in Vietnam for nearly 40 years. The shop specializes in pillowy durian crepe cakes and bánh mì muối ớt (grilled bread with spicy seasoning), but it’s also known for offering hard-to-find beverages like corn milk, mung bean milk and, especially, a variety of durian drinks—all made with super-fresh ingredients.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905049\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905049\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A line of customers stands in front of the display case waiting to order inside of Dzui's dessert shop.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/005_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At Dzui’s, customers can get a durian crepe cakes to go with their durian milk tea. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dzui’s signature “á đù”rian (a pun on Vietnamese for “motherfucker”) milk tea originally featured fresh, high-quality durian chunks. Thai noticed that customers were either thrilled or repulsed by the contentious fruit in its purest form. It is durian, after all. To those less familiar, it’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">allegedly\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> offensive and reeks of onions (or worse). To its championing lovers, it’s an aromatic blend of perfume and—OK fine—garlic. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Determined to adapt his signature drink to be friendlier to his new stateside market, Thai landed on a housemade durian pudding. The resulting product invites durian amateurs to familiarize themselves with the fruit’s complicated custardy notes. The pudding sits atop a salted cheese foam with fragrant jasmine tea, resulting in an alchemic blend of savory and sweet. Durian lovers can rest assured that fresh durian chunks are available for a worthwhile extra $1.50.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“I wanted to stand out,” Thai says of his durian desserts and drinks. “There’s a lot of Vietnamese business around here. Why not try it? You can’t find it anywhere else.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Sugarcane Juice\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Californians have a reputation for being particularly health conscious, so it’s surprising that Vietnamese juices and smoothies haven’t taken the state by storm yet. One of the more popular options is fresh sugarcane juice, and the definitive sugarcane juicery in town is\u003c/span> \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/nkfreshjuice/?hl=en\">\u003cb>Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905050\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905050\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/007_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu’s bright, tropical storefront is located inside the Grand Century mall food court. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Located in the food court of the Grand Century Shopping mall—\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.eater.com/a/mofad-city-guides/san-jose-vietnamese-restaurants\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">one of two almost exclusively Vietnamese malls in San Jose\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu is all about transparency and simplicity. Literally. Customers get to watch their order made from scratch right in front of them, explains Ron Kwok, the son of the company’s founder. Whole sugarcane sticks are run through an industrial press, with a filter that catches the inedible fibers, yielding a pure, refreshing cup of juice. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Each menu option is an exhaustive list of the ingredients that go into that drink. In other words, the sugarcane juice only contains sugarcane, unless you decide to add fresh or preserved fruit (which you should!). Fresh-pressed sugarcane with a squeeze of kumquat is the most popular option, with bright citrus notes balancing out the sugarcane’s natural sweetness.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905051\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905051\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"Two cups of iced sugarcane juice on a mall food court tabletop.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/010_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The fresh-pressed sugarcane drinks at Nuoc Mia Ninh Kieu don’t have any added sugar or water. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cb>Coffee\u003c/b>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s no talking about Vietnamese beverages without mentioning coffee. In the U.S., cà phê sữa đá, or Vietnamese iced coffee, sits in the hall of fame next to phở and bánh mì\u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In San Jose, you don’t have to drive very far from wherever you are to find that bold and delicious bitter cup of robusta sweetened with condensed milk. Most boba shops in town even offer it alongside their milk and fruit tea options. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Until recently, though, cà phê sữa đá was usually tucked at the end of bánh mì shop and restaurant menus rather than featured as a standalone product in its own right. “Vietnamese coffee shops” usually referred to late-night haunts for men to drink cà phê, chain-smoke, watch sports, play cards, buy lottery tickets and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ocregister.com/2009/05/21/sexy-cafes-are-little-saigons-twist-on-hooters-2/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">generously tip bikini-clad servers\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Now, there’s a younger generation of Vietnamese Americans eager to expand upon the existing cà phê\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">scene and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://imbibemagazine.com/ca-phe-culture-a-vietnamese-coffee-movement-is-brewing-across-america/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">close the gap on more recent trends in third wave coffee\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905052\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905052\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A barista in a face mask prepares an espresso drink.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/023_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Academic Coffee is known for its pandan lattes, which are inspired by a popular Vietnamese snack. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When husband-and-wife duo Frank and Kathy Nguyen opened \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.academiccoffee.com/\">\u003cb>Academic Coffee\u003c/b>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in 2017, they began with a straightforward, no-frills espresso focused menu—nothing especially Vietnamese about it. About a year into operating, though, Frank began experimenting with a housemade pandan syrup. The result was the shop’s iconic pandan lattes and cold brews. Inspired by the classic childhood snack, bánh kẹp\u003c/span> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(pandan waffle), the pandan drink’s flavor lands between a vanilla and coconut latte. Don’t expect your coffee to be green, as the cafe opts to skip out on dyes.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While Academic Coffee provides an option for Vietnamese-inspired espresso drinks, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kasamacaphe.com/\">\u003cstrong>Kasama Ca Phe\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> focuses on the classic cà phê itself. Childhood friends Erik Quiocho and Kevin Ho Nguyen developed their love for cà phê sữa đá when they’d have it as a casual after-school treat while grabbing phở. As the third wave coffee movement hit the Bay Area, the duo saw an opportunity to educate coffee enthusiasts on Vietnamese beans, labor and brewing methods. Thus came \u003c/span>Kasama Ca Phe\u003cb>, \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a pop-up concept that has halted during the pandemic and shifted to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/kasamacaphe/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">growler pick-ups only\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>“We didn’t want to just go off the radar,” explains Quiocho, “There was a lot we wanted to do and a story we wanted to tell. We decided the best way to do it was curbside pickup.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The pair also increased their focus on online engagement. At the start of the shelter-in-place ordinance of 2020, they hosted an online workshop teaching participants how to brew a “proper” cup of cà phê trứng, or egg coffee. The Northern Vietnamese hot coffee drink is slowly becoming more widely available in the U.S.—though it’s still relatively hard to find in the Bay Area, especially outside of San Jose. To make cà phê trứng, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://nguyencoffeesupply.com/blogs/news/vietnamese-coffee-phin-filter-stainless-steel\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">phin-brewed coffee\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> is topped with a custard-like foam made from whipped egg yolks and condensed milk. The drink embodies the pop-up’s methodical approach to coffee, as well as its founders’ commitment to introducing customers to new-to-them Vietnamese coffee offerings. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And unlike more old school Vietnamese coffee spots, Kasama Ca Phe is vegan-friendly too, offering cà phê sữa dừa đá, or coconut coffee, which utilizes Thai coconut condensed milk. All drinks use Nguyen Coffee Supply beans,\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://nguyencoffeesupply.com/pages/about-us\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a Brooklyn-based roaster best known for their single-origin, direct-trade Vietnamese coffee\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13905053\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13905053\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg\" alt=\"A hand reaching out to a cup of coffee decorated with elegant latte art.\" width=\"2500\" height=\"1667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-2048x1366.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/10/025_KQED100321_VietnameseSJDrinks_AndriaLo-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Coffee shops like Academic Coffee—whose latte is pictured here—bridge the gap between third wave trends and Vietnamese coffee culture. \u003ccite>(Andria Lo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s a quickly growing diasporic coffee movement of young Vietnamese Americans who are eager to reclaim Vietnam’s robusta bean, often deemed inferior to arabica beans in terms of flavor and quality, and push back against Eurocentric coffee standards. Kasama Ca Phe proudly represents San Jose in this new wave. And Quiocho and Nguyen aren’t done yet: They have their sights set out on creating their own organic condensed milk, and plan to open their own storefront in San Jose in the near future.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“San Jose’s always on this come-up moment. A lot of other folks in the South Bay feel it too. Times are changing,” Quiocho says. “As San Jose continues to grow, we want to help champion the coffee scene out here. Do it for the hometown.”\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\">\u003cem>Jacquelyn Tran is a San Jose–raised, Berkeley-based researcher and writer. She does not identify as an ABG but did write her college thesis on the subculture. Follow her on Twitter \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/jjjjacq\">@jjjjacq\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "abuela-mexican-kitchen-undocumented-workers-san-jose",
"title": "My Abuela’s East San Jose Kitchen Fed Dozens of Undocumented Workers Every Week",
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"headTitle": "My Abuela’s East San Jose Kitchen Fed Dozens of Undocumented Workers Every Week | KQED",
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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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"excerpt": "Informal restaurants like hers offer immigrants a support system—and a taste of home.",
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"title": "My Abuela’s East San Jose Kitchen Fed Dozens of Undocumented Workers Every Week | KQED",
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"headline": "My Abuela’s East San Jose Kitchen Fed Dozens of Undocumented Workers Every Week",
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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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"order": 9
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"jerrybrown": {
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"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. ",
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"order": 18
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"title": "Latino USA",
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"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
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},
"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",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
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"source": "American Public Media"
},
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"masters-of-scale": {
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"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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"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
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"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
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"info": "Created by The Center for Investigative Reporting and PRX, Reveal is public radios first one-hour weekly radio show and podcast dedicated to investigative reporting. Credible, fact based and without a partisan agenda, Reveal combines the power and artistry of driveway moment storytelling with data-rich reporting on critically important issues. The result is stories that inform and inspire, arming our listeners with information to right injustices, hold the powerful accountable and improve lives.Reveal is hosted by Al Letson and showcases the award-winning work of CIR and newsrooms large and small across the nation. In a radio and podcast market crowded with choices, Reveal focuses on important and often surprising stories that illuminate the world for our listeners.",
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"soldout": {
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