California Foodways is a series by independent producer Lisa Morehouse. She’s traveling county by county reporting on people and places at the intersection of food, culture, history and economy. Follow the series on Facebook and Twitter @cafoodways. Funded in part by Cal Humanities.
Chef Chu’s, the Family-Owned Chinese Restaurant that Grew Up With Silicon Valley
Richmond's 'Minister of Food' Serves the Bay Area Southern BBQ, California Style
The West Coast’s First Naval Base Is Now A Whiskey Distillery
While Oakland Sleeps, a 100-Year-Old Produce Market Bustles With Life
Home on the Grange: In Anderson Valley, Hippies, Old-Timers Return to Farming Roots
In San Mateo County, This Market Is a Community Destination for Food, Faith and Ramadan Staples
The California Railroad's Surprising Impact on Food and Civil Rights
The Railroad's Surprising Impact on Food and Civil Rights in California
Serving Up French Bistro and North African Comfort Food in a Tiny Eastern Sierra Town
How Music Inspires the Cheeses at This Petaluma Dairy
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Throughout all of the change in the last 55 years, Chef Chu’s has adapted and held on, and remained true to its identity as a family business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Earlier this year, I met my cousin Billy and his family here — his wife Kimberly, teenagers Will and Guinevere and toddler Imogen. They’re regulars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even early on a weeknight, the lobby at Chef Chu’s was bustling. One whole wall is a glass window, looking into the kitchen where 82-year-old Chef Lawrence Chu and his cooks work. 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Chef Chu’s is a family run business, owned by Lawrence Chu, which has been operating since 1970 and is known for not only the food, but also for hosting celebrities and tech innovators. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As we waited for our table we checked out a long wall of celebrity photos including Justin Bieber, Ariana Grande, Cynthia Erivo, Margaret Thatcher and Mikhail Gorbachev.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chef Chu’s opened the year I was born, and while I went there as a kid, I hadn’t eaten there in decades. For a white girl raised in the suburbs in the ‘70s and ‘80s, this was one of the few Chinese restaurants around. If I didn’t learn to eat with chopsticks at Chef Chu’s, I certainly practiced there, and I have a vague memory of my late grandma teaching me to spin a lazy Susan in the dining room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That just made it more special when Will, who has heard a lot of my stories in the car with his parents, suggested I do a story on Chef Chu’s. I asked him to co-report it with me, and many of the best questions in our interviews were his.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neither of us had met \u003cem>the\u003c/em> Chef Chu before, in spite of eating there countless times. We met him in a private dining room where he made us feel comfortable by pouring some tea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout our time with Lawrence Chu, it was a little hard to see the differences between the man, the job, the restaurant and the brand. He’s been at this a long time.\u003cbr>\n[aside postID=news_12065744 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-45-BL-KQED.jpg']He was just 26 years old when he opened Chef Chu’s. His wife — girlfriend at the time — was only 20.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I told her ‘I have a dream. I want to open a fast food Chinese joint in every corner of America. That sounds so terrific.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She disagreed. She said, he recalled, that if he found one good location, and opened one restaurant, she would join him. He said he’s followed her advice ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But why open a restaurant?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I liked to eat. I liked to talk. I liked cooking things. Making things a little different. And I liked to be the boss. I liked running things,” he said, which was evident in the large kitchen. The scene was fast-paced but very controlled, with 17 cooks prepping food, each at a different station: chopping vegetables, working the fryer, making soup. The cooks assigned to stir fry with huge woks had tidy prep stations at waist height, filled with ingredients from fresh ginger to chili paste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just before the waiters carried the dishes — Mongolian beef, Kung Pau tofu, chicken salad — into the dining room, Chef Chu gave them a once-over. On one plate, he adjusted a chili pepper so the plate looked exactly how he wanted it to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chef Chu stepped away from the kitchen to do something he’s known for: taking a turn around the dining room, stopping to talk with customers. He asked each how their meals were, what they were eating and thanked them for coming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One set of customers even told me that they were here on the day Chef Chu’s opened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Except for the location, the restaurant didn’t look anything like Chef Chu’s does today. Chu said he started with just twelve items.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067805\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067805\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Larry Chu, son of owner Lawrence Chu, sets a table at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tam Vu/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His oldest son, Larry, and the restaurant’s general manager, was born in 1973, a few years after the restaurant opened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All these customers come in and say, ‘Oh yeah, you were sitting in a baby bassinet, underneath the air conditioner, which was dripping, while your dad was stir-frying and your mom was doing everything in the front: cashier, waitress, take-out,’” he remembered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were in a small space at the intersection of El Camino Real and San Antonio Road in Los Altos, in a strip mall shared with a hairdresser, a sewing machine and vacuum repair shop and accounting offices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a small Chinese takeout place with one door and a countertop, like at a diner, and you could sit at the counter, maybe five stools,” Larry recalled. “You could look right into the kitchen where they were stir-frying. ”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, everything looked like it was going great, the elder Chu said. But after six months, business was down. When they asked customers, they heard that they wanted more choices, and a dining room where their kids could throw rice and be messy. Chef Chu’s had to expand. When the sewing repair shop’s lease was up, they opened a dining room there, and kept growing until they bought the whole building complex.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They also expanded the menu. To appeal to a wider customer base, Chef Chu started making food from four different regions of China.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067766\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/Side-by-side-Downpage-5-e1766084498689.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067766\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/Side-by-side-Downpage-5-e1766084498689.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"666\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The original Chef Chu’s, next door to the current location at the intersection of El Camino Real and San Antonio Road in Los Altos. Right: A family portrait of the Chus. Chu said his mother wanted the family to be the “Asian Kennedys.” \u003ccite>(Jon M. Chu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And the family also grew — to five children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We pretty much lived here,” said Larry. “If we wanted to see my dad, we had to come to Chef Chu’s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The restaurant grew in parallel with the community around it. Larry remembers this area — which is totally developed now — looking really different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This area here in Los Altos was known for their apricot orchards. So, a lot of the houses of my friends that I grew up with — they had apricot trees growing in their backyards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I remembered this, too, growing up in Cupertino, but 16-year-old Will hasn’t ever seen an orchard in Santa Clara County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1970s, the term “Silicon Valley” wasn’t popular — yet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had a number of friends whose parents had companies that were building these chips that were going into these computers,” Larry said.[aside postID=news_12058556 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-28-KQED.jpg']He saw computers change from monstrosities that filled whole rooms, to desktops.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Chef Chu saw all of that develop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many Silicon Valley pioneers became Chef Chu’s regulars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Mr. Tramiel was the founder of Atari, Chuck Geshke who founded Adobe, Gordon Moore, Paul Allen, Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs — when he was just a kid — all these people from Silicon Valley ate at Chef Chu’s,” Larry remembered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though they were in different businesses, his dad shared a certain approach with some of these customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Silicon Valley people are very quick to adapt to change,” Larry said. “They’re not scared of trying new things. And that’s just part of the community that is around you.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After college, Larry moved to Hong Kong and worked in sports marketing for years. And the youngest of the kids, Jon Chu, tried his luck as a Hollywood director.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, Jon M. Chu — the director of\u003cem> Crazy Rich Asians\u003c/em>, \u003cem>In the Heights\u003c/em> and the \u003cem>Wicked\u003c/em> movies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we reached out to him, Jon was on a world-wide press tour promoting \u003cem>Wicked: For Good\u003c/em>, but he sent us some voice memos from Brazil in response to our questions about growing up in Silicon Valley in the ‘80s and ‘90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067135\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067135\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An assortment of dishes at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Everywhere I turned, people were thinking of new ways of how to change the world,” Jon told us. “What tomorrow looked like was on everybody’s mind. The engineer was revered. This was before they were on the cover of magazines or drove fancy cars. It was all about work and discovery and invention and innovation there,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, like his brother Larry already told us, many of those people converged at the restaurant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sharing stories, sharing space, sharing ideas was such a central part to Chef Chu’s itself. Now going into a fairly selfish business, the entertainment business, I think that that sense of ‘What does tomorrow look like?’ still stays in me in the stories that I tell.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His family’s dedication and hard work has also stayed with him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I saw my dad and my mom work their butts off in the kitchen, out in the front. I saw many sides to it. There was the side that no one saw, which is the grind, the deboning the chicken, getting the deliveries in the back, my grandma doing the books with her abacus,” Jon remembered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And he saw his parents act as the ultimate hosts: “Being the ambassadors to people who may or may not have ever met a Chinese family, whoever have had or not had Chinese food, introducing them to new flavors.”[aside postID=news_12047368 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-13-BL_qed.jpg']There are a lot of similarities between running a restaurant and making a movie, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone knows the red carpet and when the movie’s out, but they don’t see how hard it is to begin. They don’t know how hard it is in the messy middle. They don’t know the pressures before anyone ever sees it sort of nicely colored and presented.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though he can’t visit as often as he likes, Jon said that Chef Chu’s will always be home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s been the place that I return to to get grounded. It’s a place I return to get fed physically but also emotionally.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Especially with his five kids in tow. His movie posters are on the walls, but he really likes having customers catch him up on all their family stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a connection point [between] what I’m doing out in Los Angeles or out in the world. The thread pulls all the way back home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there’s a world in which this story could have gone really differently, with Chef Chu’s closing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 2000s when Jon was trying to get a foothold in Hollywood and Larry was in Hong Kong, their dad was starting to feel the strain of running the restaurant for more than 30 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067138\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chef Chu’s is located in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I was burned out at the time,” said Lawrence Chu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He had business collaborations, and cookbooks, but the pressure had built up over the years. Plus, his beloved wife, Ruth, had breast cancer. He knew he couldn’t run the restaurant alone forever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He spoke with Larry about his future plans, a conversation Larry remembers well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I could never imagine Los Altos without a Chef Chu’s there. What if when I have kids, I won’t have a Chef Chu’s to bring my kids to and eat? That’s when I decided: “Yes, Dad, I’ll come back and join the family business.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s how it was meant to be, Jon said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were all very proud to have Larry come back. It felt like the legacy was continuing,” the director said. “There were a lot of hopes and dreams pinned on him. Coming back was like the return of the king, or the return of the prince, is a better way to say it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For his father, when Larry joined the restaurant, he gave him a shot in the arm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He let me feel that this is \u003cem>a life —\u003c/em> the restaurant business — instead of work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067812\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067812\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lawrence Chu (right) greets David Huff (left) at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When he gets tired, he said, Larry reminds him of one of Chef Chu’s own mantras that’s carried him all these years: “Treat every day like opening day,” with the same energy and drive the family felt back in 1970.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As much as Silicon Valley and Chef Chu’s have grown in parallel, Larry explained that he and his dad decided to take a deliberate path away from today’s tech climate of scaling up. They have one location, and no franchises.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you walk into a restaurant where the chef comes out and talks to you, you can feel that this restaurant’s got a little soul to it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because their customers keep coming back, Larry said, “that makes us feel like what we’re doing is worthwhile. We didn’t have to scale. Maybe enough is enough. Maybe you could be happy with what you have.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As our interviews wrapped up, and Will and I were about to leave, he had one more question for Larry: What’s the future of Chef Chu’s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the question Larry asked himself 20 years ago, and now, he has a very sure answer: “You don’t have to worry about that. When my kids have their kids, there will be a Chef Chu’s here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>For more than ten years, I’ve been traveling all over the state, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/author/lmorehouse\">reporting stories\u003c/a> about food and farming from every county in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/california\">the state\u003c/a>. Now, for the 58th and very last story in the series, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways,\u003c/a> I went back to where I grew up — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/santa-clara-county\">Santa Clara County\u003c/a>, to a special-occasion restaurant from my childhood: Chef Chu’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the restaurant opened in 1970, it was a small family business, and the area around it was a relatively sleepy suburb. Now, it’s at the heart of Silicon Valley — but they don’t deliver, and there’s no online ordering.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Chef Chu’s is an institution. It’s been visited by luminaries in entertainment, politics and business. Throughout all of the change in the last 55 years, Chef Chu’s has adapted and held on, and remained true to its identity as a family business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Earlier this year, I met my cousin Billy and his family here — his wife Kimberly, teenagers Will and Guinevere and toddler Imogen. They’re regulars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even early on a weeknight, the lobby at Chef Chu’s was bustling. One whole wall is a glass window, looking into the kitchen where 82-year-old Chef Lawrence Chu and his cooks work. At the bar, a staff member took phone orders, and waiters in crisp white shirts and bow ties moved efficiently from room to room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067137\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00667_TV-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067137\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00667_TV-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00667_TV-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00667_TV-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00667_TV-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Customers dine at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. Chef Chu’s is a family run business, owned by Lawrence Chu, which has been operating since 1970 and is known for not only the food, but also for hosting celebrities and tech innovators. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As we waited for our table we checked out a long wall of celebrity photos including Justin Bieber, Ariana Grande, Cynthia Erivo, Margaret Thatcher and Mikhail Gorbachev.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chef Chu’s opened the year I was born, and while I went there as a kid, I hadn’t eaten there in decades. For a white girl raised in the suburbs in the ‘70s and ‘80s, this was one of the few Chinese restaurants around. If I didn’t learn to eat with chopsticks at Chef Chu’s, I certainly practiced there, and I have a vague memory of my late grandma teaching me to spin a lazy Susan in the dining room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That just made it more special when Will, who has heard a lot of my stories in the car with his parents, suggested I do a story on Chef Chu’s. I asked him to co-report it with me, and many of the best questions in our interviews were his.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neither of us had met \u003cem>the\u003c/em> Chef Chu before, in spite of eating there countless times. We met him in a private dining room where he made us feel comfortable by pouring some tea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout our time with Lawrence Chu, it was a little hard to see the differences between the man, the job, the restaurant and the brand. He’s been at this a long time.\u003cbr>\n\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>He was just 26 years old when he opened Chef Chu’s. His wife — girlfriend at the time — was only 20.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I told her ‘I have a dream. I want to open a fast food Chinese joint in every corner of America. That sounds so terrific.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She disagreed. She said, he recalled, that if he found one good location, and opened one restaurant, she would join him. He said he’s followed her advice ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But why open a restaurant?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I liked to eat. I liked to talk. I liked cooking things. Making things a little different. And I liked to be the boss. I liked running things,” he said, which was evident in the large kitchen. The scene was fast-paced but very controlled, with 17 cooks prepping food, each at a different station: chopping vegetables, working the fryer, making soup. The cooks assigned to stir fry with huge woks had tidy prep stations at waist height, filled with ingredients from fresh ginger to chili paste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just before the waiters carried the dishes — Mongolian beef, Kung Pau tofu, chicken salad — into the dining room, Chef Chu gave them a once-over. On one plate, he adjusted a chili pepper so the plate looked exactly how he wanted it to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chef Chu stepped away from the kitchen to do something he’s known for: taking a turn around the dining room, stopping to talk with customers. He asked each how their meals were, what they were eating and thanked them for coming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One set of customers even told me that they were here on the day Chef Chu’s opened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Except for the location, the restaurant didn’t look anything like Chef Chu’s does today. Chu said he started with just twelve items.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067805\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067805\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00588_TV_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Larry Chu, son of owner Lawrence Chu, sets a table at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tam Vu/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His oldest son, Larry, and the restaurant’s general manager, was born in 1973, a few years after the restaurant opened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All these customers come in and say, ‘Oh yeah, you were sitting in a baby bassinet, underneath the air conditioner, which was dripping, while your dad was stir-frying and your mom was doing everything in the front: cashier, waitress, take-out,’” he remembered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were in a small space at the intersection of El Camino Real and San Antonio Road in Los Altos, in a strip mall shared with a hairdresser, a sewing machine and vacuum repair shop and accounting offices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a small Chinese takeout place with one door and a countertop, like at a diner, and you could sit at the counter, maybe five stools,” Larry recalled. “You could look right into the kitchen where they were stir-frying. ”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, everything looked like it was going great, the elder Chu said. But after six months, business was down. When they asked customers, they heard that they wanted more choices, and a dining room where their kids could throw rice and be messy. Chef Chu’s had to expand. When the sewing repair shop’s lease was up, they opened a dining room there, and kept growing until they bought the whole building complex.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They also expanded the menu. To appeal to a wider customer base, Chef Chu started making food from four different regions of China.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067766\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/Side-by-side-Downpage-5-e1766084498689.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067766\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/Side-by-side-Downpage-5-e1766084498689.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"666\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The original Chef Chu’s, next door to the current location at the intersection of El Camino Real and San Antonio Road in Los Altos. Right: A family portrait of the Chus. Chu said his mother wanted the family to be the “Asian Kennedys.” \u003ccite>(Jon M. Chu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And the family also grew — to five children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We pretty much lived here,” said Larry. “If we wanted to see my dad, we had to come to Chef Chu’s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The restaurant grew in parallel with the community around it. Larry remembers this area — which is totally developed now — looking really different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This area here in Los Altos was known for their apricot orchards. So, a lot of the houses of my friends that I grew up with — they had apricot trees growing in their backyards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I remembered this, too, growing up in Cupertino, but 16-year-old Will hasn’t ever seen an orchard in Santa Clara County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1970s, the term “Silicon Valley” wasn’t popular — yet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had a number of friends whose parents had companies that were building these chips that were going into these computers,” Larry said.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>He saw computers change from monstrosities that filled whole rooms, to desktops.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Chef Chu saw all of that develop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many Silicon Valley pioneers became Chef Chu’s regulars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Mr. Tramiel was the founder of Atari, Chuck Geshke who founded Adobe, Gordon Moore, Paul Allen, Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs — when he was just a kid — all these people from Silicon Valley ate at Chef Chu’s,” Larry remembered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though they were in different businesses, his dad shared a certain approach with some of these customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Silicon Valley people are very quick to adapt to change,” Larry said. “They’re not scared of trying new things. And that’s just part of the community that is around you.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After college, Larry moved to Hong Kong and worked in sports marketing for years. And the youngest of the kids, Jon Chu, tried his luck as a Hollywood director.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, Jon M. Chu — the director of\u003cem> Crazy Rich Asians\u003c/em>, \u003cem>In the Heights\u003c/em> and the \u003cem>Wicked\u003c/em> movies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we reached out to him, Jon was on a world-wide press tour promoting \u003cem>Wicked: For Good\u003c/em>, but he sent us some voice memos from Brazil in response to our questions about growing up in Silicon Valley in the ‘80s and ‘90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067135\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067135\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00508_TV-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An assortment of dishes at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Everywhere I turned, people were thinking of new ways of how to change the world,” Jon told us. “What tomorrow looked like was on everybody’s mind. The engineer was revered. This was before they were on the cover of magazines or drove fancy cars. It was all about work and discovery and invention and innovation there,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, like his brother Larry already told us, many of those people converged at the restaurant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sharing stories, sharing space, sharing ideas was such a central part to Chef Chu’s itself. Now going into a fairly selfish business, the entertainment business, I think that that sense of ‘What does tomorrow look like?’ still stays in me in the stories that I tell.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His family’s dedication and hard work has also stayed with him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I saw my dad and my mom work their butts off in the kitchen, out in the front. I saw many sides to it. There was the side that no one saw, which is the grind, the deboning the chicken, getting the deliveries in the back, my grandma doing the books with her abacus,” Jon remembered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And he saw his parents act as the ultimate hosts: “Being the ambassadors to people who may or may not have ever met a Chinese family, whoever have had or not had Chinese food, introducing them to new flavors.”\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>There are a lot of similarities between running a restaurant and making a movie, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone knows the red carpet and when the movie’s out, but they don’t see how hard it is to begin. They don’t know how hard it is in the messy middle. They don’t know the pressures before anyone ever sees it sort of nicely colored and presented.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though he can’t visit as often as he likes, Jon said that Chef Chu’s will always be home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s been the place that I return to to get grounded. It’s a place I return to get fed physically but also emotionally.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Especially with his five kids in tow. His movie posters are on the walls, but he really likes having customers catch him up on all their family stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a connection point [between] what I’m doing out in Los Angeles or out in the world. The thread pulls all the way back home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there’s a world in which this story could have gone really differently, with Chef Chu’s closing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 2000s when Jon was trying to get a foothold in Hollywood and Larry was in Hong Kong, their dad was starting to feel the strain of running the restaurant for more than 30 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067138\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-CHEFCHU00689_TV-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chef Chu’s is located in Los Altos on December 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I was burned out at the time,” said Lawrence Chu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He had business collaborations, and cookbooks, but the pressure had built up over the years. Plus, his beloved wife, Ruth, had breast cancer. He knew he couldn’t run the restaurant alone forever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He spoke with Larry about his future plans, a conversation Larry remembers well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I could never imagine Los Altos without a Chef Chu’s there. What if when I have kids, I won’t have a Chef Chu’s to bring my kids to and eat? That’s when I decided: “Yes, Dad, I’ll come back and join the family business.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s how it was meant to be, Jon said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were all very proud to have Larry come back. It felt like the legacy was continuing,” the director said. “There were a lot of hopes and dreams pinned on him. Coming back was like the return of the king, or the return of the prince, is a better way to say it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For his father, when Larry joined the restaurant, he gave him a shot in the arm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He let me feel that this is \u003cem>a life —\u003c/em> the restaurant business — instead of work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12067812\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12067812\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/12/251211-chefchu00496_TV_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lawrence Chu (right) greets David Huff (left) at Chef Chu’s in Los Altos on December 11, 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When he gets tired, he said, Larry reminds him of one of Chef Chu’s own mantras that’s carried him all these years: “Treat every day like opening day,” with the same energy and drive the family felt back in 1970.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As much as Silicon Valley and Chef Chu’s have grown in parallel, Larry explained that he and his dad decided to take a deliberate path away from today’s tech climate of scaling up. They have one location, and no franchises.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you walk into a restaurant where the chef comes out and talks to you, you can feel that this restaurant’s got a little soul to it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because their customers keep coming back, Larry said, “that makes us feel like what we’re doing is worthwhile. We didn’t have to scale. Maybe enough is enough. Maybe you could be happy with what you have.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As our interviews wrapped up, and Will and I were about to leave, he had one more question for Larry: What’s the future of Chef Chu’s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the question Larry asked himself 20 years ago, and now, he has a very sure answer: “You don’t have to worry about that. When my kids have their kids, there will be a Chef Chu’s here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "richmonds-minister-of-food-serves-the-bay-area-southern-bbq-california-style",
"title": "Richmond's 'Minister of Food' Serves the Bay Area Southern BBQ, California Style",
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"headTitle": "Richmond’s ‘Minister of Food’ Serves the Bay Area Southern BBQ, California Style | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a corner in Richmond, California, there’s a business that has celebrated the city’s Black history and Southern roots for 30 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The building is bright white with a hand-painted, red sign: “CJ’s BBQ and Fish.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside, on a recent Monday morning, the small, efficient crew was busy prepping for the week. It was clear they’ve had years on the job, and with each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mike Reddick, who’s worked at CJ’s for about five years, sharpened knives. Larry Turner trimmed, rinsed and seasoned slabs of ribs, the way he’s done for more than 15 years. Nick Gamble took inventory of the freezers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watching and managing it all was Gamble’s uncle, Charles Evans — CJ himself — who’s nearly 80.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065457\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065457\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nick Gamble barbeques ribs at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025, serving barbecue, seafood and Southern-style comfort food. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They try to keep me out of here, but they can’t,” Evans said, with a twinkle in his eye. “They can’t do what I do. I show them all how to do everything: cook, clean, repair, fix. I mean, that’s the running of the restaurant. It ain’t just one thing. You’ve got to do it all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CJ’s has a brick cooker inside, but Evans prefers to cook outdoors in portable pits, in a lot surrounded by a chain link fence. He pointed to an enormous one he calls “Big Black,” which he uses for busy summer days or off-site catering jobs for clients like Chevron and the University of California. He can feed up to 800 people and safely cook four different meats — ribs, chicken, links and beef — all at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cooking outside and filling the air with a meaty aroma is great marketing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You’d be surprised how many people stop when they get that smell,” he said. “They smell it, you give them a taste. Bam, you got ’em.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside, above the few tables and small counter, a TV plays soap operas all day long. Evans loves his stories, which is fitting of the staff’s dynamic, Reddick noted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re like a soap opera. We’re one big soap opera family. We’re all his children,” he said, laughing.[aside postID=news_12058556 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-28-KQED.jpg']Shaking his head, Evans said, “Yeah, they’re all mine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The restaurant could be a soap opera, or maybe a church. While everyone worked, Gamble quietly sang hymns to himself. Evans referred to Reddick as “Rev” — for Reverend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Rev knows he keeps us in order,” Evans said. “He gives us the word. He has to quote the Bible on us a couple times a day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They joke around a lot here, Evans said, “but I don’t play with God.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All my friends are preachers. I know every minister in town comes through here. But they call me the Minister of Food. They give ’em the word, and I give ’em the bread.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although he shares the word, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve got a lot of young nephews, cousins, friends, people. I preach to them,” Evans said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That includes the guys hanging out on the street corner. Evans pointed out of the window, across the street: “They come out there and drink a little bit and do whatever they do, and then they’re gone. They don’t bother us.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They actually look out for CJ’s, he said. The shop doesn’t get tagged, customers aren’t bothered. The one time he was burgled, the guys on the corner identified the perpetrators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Reddick prepped a plate of oxtails for a regular customer, Princess Crockett, Evans told him to add a little more food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065454\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065454\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mike Reddick takes an order from a customer at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“She comes around in her little walker,” Evans said. “I try to take care of my seniors.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like everything he got in there,” said Crockett, but she likes oxtails the best. Crockett has lived in Richmond since 1945, when, as a 5-year-old, she and her family arrived on a Greyhound bus from St. Louis, Missouri. She lives in senior housing around the corner and comes to CJ’s at least once a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Okay, Princess, here you go, baby,” Evans said, handing Crockett her order.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back at the pit, Turner checked on the links and put down some ribs. He adjusted the height of the metal grid where the meat cooks so it’s just the right distance from the charcoal, and he watched carefully, making sure the charcoal didn’t flame up and burn the meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We cook by heat, not by fire,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s tiring work, raising the pit all day, but Turner said it’s worth it for the smiles he sees on the faces of customers enjoying the food. “It gives me a rush. And I love it,” he continued.[aside postID=news_12047368 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-13-BL_qed.jpg']Cooking meat with smoke on a fire is something done all over the world, but in the U.S., there are lots of nuances, broad regional differences.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“North Carolina, Georgia — they got that vinegary taste. Memphis has a taste of its own. You know, with the sauces and the rubs. Mid-Texas, they have theirs in between,” Evans said. “So, I came up with California -Southern barbecue because we’re from Arkansas.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Evans family hails from Lewisville, population 1,280, between Hope and Texarkana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My grandpa bought some land in Arkansas. We still have 200 acres,” he said. “He used to grow sugar cane, make sugar cane syrup. And he grew cucumbers,” for making pickles. Evans and his family went back every summer to help with the crops.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The family moved to Richmond to work in the shipyards for World War II, Evans explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 1940s, Henry J. Kaiser developed four ship-building facilities in the city, where nearly 750 ships were built. The population of Richmond nearly quadrupled as women, African Americans and out-of-state workers were recruited for the war effort. Evans’s father worked as a welder. His aunt had a job here, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She was a Rosie the Riveter,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evans was a “wartime baby,” one of 11 kids of Joseph and Flora Evans. His mom just died last year at the age of 105.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065453\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065453\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charles “CJ” Evans stands in the doorway at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Everybody in Richmond knew her. Everybody talks so highly of her. They had her funeral at the auditorium around here and packed it,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When her kids were growing up, Flora Evans made sure they knew the basics. “She taught us to cook, sew and clean,” he said. Evans learned Southern soul food recipes from her. His dad was the barbecue guy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He used to cook it in the backyard. He had made a pit out of an old washing machine, took the side out, took his torch, cut a hole in it. Let it smoke. He took an old refrigerator, gutted it, and put him some racks in there. They were inventive back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evans never planned on starting a restaurant. He drove for the East Bay’s public bus system.“I was driving a bus for AC Transit, routes 72P, 72M, from here to Oakland, 105 stops going and 105 stops coming back. Then I drove the school bus in the afternoon, picking up school kids.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When a back injury ended that career, he turned to the food he’d been taught to make his whole life. He took cooking classes at Contra Costa College and a meat-cutting course in Southern California before opening a (now closed) place in Fairfield and then this spot in Richmond 30 years ago.[aside postID=news_12042713 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-01-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg']He said he started off small, with only two or three slabs of ribs a day. Today, he works with up to 400 slabs a week between his two locations in Richmond and Vallejo. He added fish and Southern soul food favorites. And he’s super hands-on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m not just [a] sit-down boss, I’m a working boss,” he said, prepping what he calls the “chop chop” for CJ’s macaroni salad, which he makes 10 gallons of on an average Monday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We call it chop chop — that’s the onion, bell pepper, celery. Chop chop! ‘Cause we’ve gotta chop it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evans played with the seasonings until he was satisfied with the flavors.\u003cem> “\u003c/em>I know that’s right. I know nothing’s wrong with that,” he said, sampling the batch in front of him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This obsessiveness may be the key to the longevity of this shop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of people actually try to change their recipes or take shortcuts,” Evans said, “but people are funny. They can tell when you change anything. They can tell when I didn’t make something.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reddick nodded his head in agreement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s important to Evans to be consistent, to be a reliable spot in Richmond, a city that’s had a lot of good times and a lot of hard times.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Back in the day of the wartime, everybody was bustling out here,” he said. “Shipyards, everything during the war. Everybody had a job. I’ve seen Richmond grow and go downhill and come back uphill.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065452\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065452\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Evans, Reddick and Nate Miles work in the kitchen at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And he said, he’s seen the racial makeup of Richmond change a lot, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once predominantly Black, many of Richmond’s families moved to places like Stockton, Antioch and Sacramento. Now, Richmond — and Evans’ family — is really diverse. Half of his customers are Latino, and his menu is printed in both English and Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he also wants CJ’s to be a place the Black community with ties to Richmond can return to connect with their roots, even folks who’ve moved away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m the first place in town that they hit. ‘Charles, where’s so-and-so? Where’s Miss So-and-so? Where’s the kids at?’ I try to keep up with everybody. If I don’t know, somebody in here knows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After all, Evans has a reputation in Richmond as the Minister of Food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All my roots are here. \u003cem>Everybody\u003c/em> in here knows me,” he said. “Where else I’m gonna go and get the recognition?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "For 30 years, Charles Evans has served the community Southern-style home cooking that pays homage to the city’s roots.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a corner in Richmond, California, there’s a business that has celebrated the city’s Black history and Southern roots for 30 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The building is bright white with a hand-painted, red sign: “CJ’s BBQ and Fish.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside, on a recent Monday morning, the small, efficient crew was busy prepping for the week. It was clear they’ve had years on the job, and with each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mike Reddick, who’s worked at CJ’s for about five years, sharpened knives. Larry Turner trimmed, rinsed and seasoned slabs of ribs, the way he’s done for more than 15 years. Nick Gamble took inventory of the freezers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watching and managing it all was Gamble’s uncle, Charles Evans — CJ himself — who’s nearly 80.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065457\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065457\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-37-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nick Gamble barbeques ribs at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025, serving barbecue, seafood and Southern-style comfort food. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They try to keep me out of here, but they can’t,” Evans said, with a twinkle in his eye. “They can’t do what I do. I show them all how to do everything: cook, clean, repair, fix. I mean, that’s the running of the restaurant. It ain’t just one thing. You’ve got to do it all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CJ’s has a brick cooker inside, but Evans prefers to cook outdoors in portable pits, in a lot surrounded by a chain link fence. He pointed to an enormous one he calls “Big Black,” which he uses for busy summer days or off-site catering jobs for clients like Chevron and the University of California. He can feed up to 800 people and safely cook four different meats — ribs, chicken, links and beef — all at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cooking outside and filling the air with a meaty aroma is great marketing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You’d be surprised how many people stop when they get that smell,” he said. “They smell it, you give them a taste. Bam, you got ’em.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside, above the few tables and small counter, a TV plays soap operas all day long. Evans loves his stories, which is fitting of the staff’s dynamic, Reddick noted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re like a soap opera. We’re one big soap opera family. We’re all his children,” he said, laughing.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Shaking his head, Evans said, “Yeah, they’re all mine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The restaurant could be a soap opera, or maybe a church. While everyone worked, Gamble quietly sang hymns to himself. Evans referred to Reddick as “Rev” — for Reverend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Rev knows he keeps us in order,” Evans said. “He gives us the word. He has to quote the Bible on us a couple times a day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They joke around a lot here, Evans said, “but I don’t play with God.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All my friends are preachers. I know every minister in town comes through here. But they call me the Minister of Food. They give ’em the word, and I give ’em the bread.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although he shares the word, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve got a lot of young nephews, cousins, friends, people. I preach to them,” Evans said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That includes the guys hanging out on the street corner. Evans pointed out of the window, across the street: “They come out there and drink a little bit and do whatever they do, and then they’re gone. They don’t bother us.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They actually look out for CJ’s, he said. The shop doesn’t get tagged, customers aren’t bothered. The one time he was burgled, the guys on the corner identified the perpetrators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Reddick prepped a plate of oxtails for a regular customer, Princess Crockett, Evans told him to add a little more food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065454\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065454\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-22-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mike Reddick takes an order from a customer at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“She comes around in her little walker,” Evans said. “I try to take care of my seniors.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like everything he got in there,” said Crockett, but she likes oxtails the best. Crockett has lived in Richmond since 1945, when, as a 5-year-old, she and her family arrived on a Greyhound bus from St. Louis, Missouri. She lives in senior housing around the corner and comes to CJ’s at least once a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Okay, Princess, here you go, baby,” Evans said, handing Crockett her order.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back at the pit, Turner checked on the links and put down some ribs. He adjusted the height of the metal grid where the meat cooks so it’s just the right distance from the charcoal, and he watched carefully, making sure the charcoal didn’t flame up and burn the meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We cook by heat, not by fire,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s tiring work, raising the pit all day, but Turner said it’s worth it for the smiles he sees on the faces of customers enjoying the food. “It gives me a rush. And I love it,” he continued.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Cooking meat with smoke on a fire is something done all over the world, but in the U.S., there are lots of nuances, broad regional differences.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“North Carolina, Georgia — they got that vinegary taste. Memphis has a taste of its own. You know, with the sauces and the rubs. Mid-Texas, they have theirs in between,” Evans said. “So, I came up with California -Southern barbecue because we’re from Arkansas.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Evans family hails from Lewisville, population 1,280, between Hope and Texarkana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My grandpa bought some land in Arkansas. We still have 200 acres,” he said. “He used to grow sugar cane, make sugar cane syrup. And he grew cucumbers,” for making pickles. Evans and his family went back every summer to help with the crops.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The family moved to Richmond to work in the shipyards for World War II, Evans explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 1940s, Henry J. Kaiser developed four ship-building facilities in the city, where nearly 750 ships were built. The population of Richmond nearly quadrupled as women, African Americans and out-of-state workers were recruited for the war effort. Evans’s father worked as a welder. His aunt had a job here, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She was a Rosie the Riveter,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evans was a “wartime baby,” one of 11 kids of Joseph and Flora Evans. His mom just died last year at the age of 105.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065453\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065453\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-21-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charles “CJ” Evans stands in the doorway at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Everybody in Richmond knew her. Everybody talks so highly of her. They had her funeral at the auditorium around here and packed it,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When her kids were growing up, Flora Evans made sure they knew the basics. “She taught us to cook, sew and clean,” he said. Evans learned Southern soul food recipes from her. His dad was the barbecue guy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He used to cook it in the backyard. He had made a pit out of an old washing machine, took the side out, took his torch, cut a hole in it. Let it smoke. He took an old refrigerator, gutted it, and put him some racks in there. They were inventive back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evans never planned on starting a restaurant. He drove for the East Bay’s public bus system.“I was driving a bus for AC Transit, routes 72P, 72M, from here to Oakland, 105 stops going and 105 stops coming back. Then I drove the school bus in the afternoon, picking up school kids.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When a back injury ended that career, he turned to the food he’d been taught to make his whole life. He took cooking classes at Contra Costa College and a meat-cutting course in Southern California before opening a (now closed) place in Fairfield and then this spot in Richmond 30 years ago.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>He said he started off small, with only two or three slabs of ribs a day. Today, he works with up to 400 slabs a week between his two locations in Richmond and Vallejo. He added fish and Southern soul food favorites. And he’s super hands-on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m not just [a] sit-down boss, I’m a working boss,” he said, prepping what he calls the “chop chop” for CJ’s macaroni salad, which he makes 10 gallons of on an average Monday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We call it chop chop — that’s the onion, bell pepper, celery. Chop chop! ‘Cause we’ve gotta chop it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evans played with the seasonings until he was satisfied with the flavors.\u003cem> “\u003c/em>I know that’s right. I know nothing’s wrong with that,” he said, sampling the batch in front of him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This obsessiveness may be the key to the longevity of this shop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of people actually try to change their recipes or take shortcuts,” Evans said, “but people are funny. They can tell when you change anything. They can tell when I didn’t make something.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reddick nodded his head in agreement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s important to Evans to be consistent, to be a reliable spot in Richmond, a city that’s had a lot of good times and a lot of hard times.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Back in the day of the wartime, everybody was bustling out here,” he said. “Shipyards, everything during the war. Everybody had a job. I’ve seen Richmond grow and go downhill and come back uphill.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12065452\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12065452\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/11/251119-CJSBBQANDFISH-17-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Evans, Reddick and Nate Miles work in the kitchen at CJ’s BBQ and Fish in Richmond on Nov. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And he said, he’s seen the racial makeup of Richmond change a lot, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once predominantly Black, many of Richmond’s families moved to places like Stockton, Antioch and Sacramento. Now, Richmond — and Evans’ family — is really diverse. Half of his customers are Latino, and his menu is printed in both English and Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he also wants CJ’s to be a place the Black community with ties to Richmond can return to connect with their roots, even folks who’ve moved away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m the first place in town that they hit. ‘Charles, where’s so-and-so? Where’s Miss So-and-so? Where’s the kids at?’ I try to keep up with everybody. If I don’t know, somebody in here knows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After all, Evans has a reputation in Richmond as the Minister of Food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All my roots are here. \u003cem>Everybody\u003c/em> in here knows me,” he said. “Where else I’m gonna go and get the recognition?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "the-west-coasts-first-naval-base-is-now-a-whiskey-distillery",
"title": "The West Coast’s First Naval Base Is Now A Whiskey Distillery",
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"headTitle": "The West Coast’s First Naval Base Is Now A Whiskey Distillery | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you stand on the edge of Vallejo’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12023708/surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long\">Mare Island, on the mouth of the Napa River, \u003c/a>and look out over the water, you can’t help but feel tiny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To the right are imposing cranes and dry docks that look like the world’s biggest bathtubs. Two huge metal frames called gantries loom overhead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Behind you is a beautiful and weird collection of structures: warehouses, grand Victorians and a number of empty brick buildings that look like they have stories to tell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since the beginning of this year, some of those buildings have been home to \u003ca href=\"https://redwoodempirewhiskey.com/\">Redwood Empire Whiskey\u003c/a> — the drink company’s new headquarters for distilling and entertaining.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kunjan Joshi, Redwood Empire’s general manager, said that everyone who visits asks the same thing: “What was this place? What significance does it have?\u003cstrong>”\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The short answer: it was the first Naval base on the West Coast, opened in 1854.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058771\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058771\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kunjan Joshi, manager of the Redwood Empire hospitality building, poses for a photo on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And during World War II, Mare Island was one of the\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101864153/forum-on-the-road-the-past-present-and-future-of-mare-island-naval-base\"> busiest Naval facilities\u003c/a> in the world. They built nearly 400 ships and repaired 1200 more. After the war, they built 17 nuclear submarines here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now we’re here selling whiskey on the same spot,” Joshi said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>California bourbon today\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The trees in Sonoma County inspire the distillery’s name, where the company began making whiskey 10 years ago. When it outgrew that facility, Redwood Empire bought out the Savage & Cook distillery on Mare Island in Vallejo and moved in at the beginning of the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Joshi joined the team soon after. Born and raised in Kathmandu, Nepal, he came to Castro Valley as a teenager, then moved to the East Coast to play in a metal band — he still has a pierced lip and a skull ring.[aside postID=news_12042713 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-01-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg']Back East, he got a job at a distillery in Nantucket. “And ever since then, I’ve only been working in the beer, wine and whiskey world. I only drink on the job,” he said, laughing. “I don’t drink at home at all. I only drink at the job.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the distillery’s events space, Joshi pointed out the brick walls, original from the 1800s, and a concrete vault in the middle of the building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was told this used to be where they kept a lot of old spy files during the Cold War,” Joshi added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next stop on the tour is the distillery, where Jeff Duckhorn, Redwood’s Master Distiller, explains how bourbon and scotch fit into the greater whiskey family. “Both bourbon and scotch are types of whiskey.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Technically, it can only be called bourbon if it’s made from more than 51% corn and produced in the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We would be a very small producer in Kentucky. Here in the state of California, we’re one of the largest.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Californians have made whiskey since the Gold Rush, but craft bourbon has taken off in the last couple decades — with as many as 150 distilleries in the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So what is California bourbon today?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think that’s kind of the beauty of it for us is that we get to help define that,” Duckhorn said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058774\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058774\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Redwood Empire Master Blender Lauren Patz, and Master Distiller Jeff Duckhorn, right, pose for a photo in the Redwood Empire barrel room, on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>To make the grain mixture for their bourbon, Redwood Empire sources corn, rye, wheat and other grains from the Sacramento Valley, delivered by trucks weekly and sorted into three huge silos. They mill 10,000 pounds of it a day, according to Master Blender Lauren Patz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s almost like pastry flour when it comes out of there,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That “flour” is then deposited into what’s called a mashtun — which Duckhorn described as “a very sexy, large stainless tank. It looks kind of like an R2-D2.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They then add water and enzymes, heat it up and cool it down to “create the perfect environment for the yeast to do what they need to do.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mixture gets fermented, distilled and then pumped into barrels, where it will age a minimum of five years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Mare Island’s slow and steady renaissance\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Redwood Empire is now part of what developers are marketing as Mare Island’s “Wet Mile” — along with a coffee shop, wine bar and brewery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Local historian Mel Orpilla had several relatives who used to work in these buildings. He shakes his head when he imagines what they would make of these new businesses.[aside postID=news_12047368 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-13-BL_qed.jpg']“You know, those old Filipino men, they were hard drinkers,” Orpilla said. “My dad and his brothers, they loved their whiskey. They loved their beer. But I don’t think it would have ever been part of their reality that Mare Island would turn into the Wet Mile.”\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Migrants came from around the country and world to work on Mare Island. Vallejo is still one of the most \u003ca href=\"https://www.timesheraldonline.com/2019/02/12/vallejo-is-diverse-but-segregated-new-study-finds/\">diverse\u003c/a> places in the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Diversity comes from the employees that were hired to work on Mare Island,” Orpiilla said. “So during the Great Depression, there was an exodus of people from the Deep South, mainly African Americans who came to work on Mare Island.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There were Dust Bowl migrants from Oklahoma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, “Filipinos were recruited, also, to work in Mare Island,” Orpilla said, including his dad and uncles, who were barely adults when they moved here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And I always wonder how difficult it must have been for them to leave their family and their friends. In the Philippines, they were farmers and fishermen, and it was a hard life, and I’m sure that they thought they could do better here in America,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1932, Orpilla’s relatives were all working on Mare Island. As unskilled laborers, they’d be assigned to a shop in the shipyard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Shop 32 had a lot of Filipinos in it,” Orpilla said. They unloaded box cars, swept the shops, took orders. Whatever needed to be done, they would do it. And my father did that until the day he retired in 1972.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023594\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1026px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023594\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1026\" height=\"816\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago.jpg 1026w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago-800x636.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago-1020x811.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago-160x127.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1026px) 100vw, 1026px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The USS Chicago being prepared for launching on Mare Island, April 8, 1930. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058769\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058769\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mel Orpilla poses for a photo on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. His father and two uncles began working in the Navy shipyard in 1932. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“But no matter what job you had at Mare Island, even if it was an unskilled laborer, it was a living wage. And these men [could] buy houses and raise families with that salary. They were civilian employees on Mare Island.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Navy made the weather around here,” said Kent Fortner, the board president of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.mihpf.org/\">Mare Island Historic Park Foundation\u003c/a>. “If you can imagine, up to 50,000 people worked on Mare Island and the town of Vallejo was only 70,000. So it was the economic engine. It was the governmental engine. It was everything around Vallejo.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And then suddenly that was all taken away,” Fortner said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, the Navy base \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101864153/forum-on-the-road-the-past-present-and-future-of-mare-island-naval-base\">closed\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Of course, the economy in Vallejo suffered because people were moving out. Businesses that relied on the people that worked at Mare Island had to close shop. Vallejo started changing dramatically,” Mel Orpilla said[aside postID=news_12029568 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00963-KQED-1020x680.jpg']Since the Navy left, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12023708/surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long\">Mare Island has grappled with environmental contamination\u003c/a>. Clean up and renovation have taken decades longer, and been much more expensive, than originally anticipated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Orpilla believes in Mare Island’s slow and steady renaissance. Along with the Wet Mile, there are other businesses on the island: a university for health sciences, soundstages for films and manufacturers of modular apartments and boats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I sometimes wish I could go to sleep and wake up 20 years in the future,” Orpilla said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For now, he knows what it’s like to celebrate Mare Island with the whole Vallejo community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Growing up, he said, when a ship launched, his family and neighbors would gather across the Mare Island Strait, “watching it from that side as it slipped into the water after the governor’s wife or whatever dignitary cracked the champagne bottle to christen it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And I think what made it special is everyone in Vallejo has somebody that worked in Mare Island, and everybody was proud to be part of that effort. Even though they may not have directly worked on the submarine or the ship, it was still a pride that it came from Mare Island and our dads work there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now it’s sort of coming back through entrepreneurship, through efforts to retain history, to package history,” Kent Fortner said, “and just a whole new group of artisans that are coming to inhabit these amazing buildings that we’re standing around.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058767\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058767\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1294\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED-1536x994.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Fortner, president of the Mare Island Historic Park Foundation, poses for a photo on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Fortner should know. In 2017, he and a partner in the \u003ca href=\"https://www.mareislandbrewingco.com/story\">Mare Island Brewing Company\u003c/a> began crafting beers in renovated, historic coal sheds on the island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During Redwood Empire’s September launch party, the distillery’s patio, where ships were once built, was packed. Joshi took orders and served up signature cocktails.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We stopped [accepting] RSVPs at 1,500. And we were thinking even if half of them show up, that’s still 6-700 people. But I feel like everyone showed up,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Attendees came from as far as Modesto and Cotati, but many were Vallejo locals like Cheryl Smith and Thomas Robinson. Smith enjoyed a citrusy bourbon cocktail called a Paper Plane and Robinson ordered a whiskey flight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m just getting ready to dive in,” Robinson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Robinson said that, as a local, he’s enjoyed the benefits of Mare Island’s transformation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I was a kid back in the ‘90s and ‘80s, there was a guard at the front there,” Robinson recalled. “You couldn’t just drive on the island like that because this [was] a very strategic part of the U.S. Navy. “So now we’re able to come in and enjoy all the older buildings, the water, you can see all of the ferries from each side, and it’s beautiful.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "In Redwood Empire Whiskey’s new Mare Island space, you can sip California bourbon where the Navy once built ships and submarines.",
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"title": "The West Coast’s First Naval Base Is Now A Whiskey Distillery | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you stand on the edge of Vallejo’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12023708/surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long\">Mare Island, on the mouth of the Napa River, \u003c/a>and look out over the water, you can’t help but feel tiny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To the right are imposing cranes and dry docks that look like the world’s biggest bathtubs. Two huge metal frames called gantries loom overhead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Behind you is a beautiful and weird collection of structures: warehouses, grand Victorians and a number of empty brick buildings that look like they have stories to tell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since the beginning of this year, some of those buildings have been home to \u003ca href=\"https://redwoodempirewhiskey.com/\">Redwood Empire Whiskey\u003c/a> — the drink company’s new headquarters for distilling and entertaining.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kunjan Joshi, Redwood Empire’s general manager, said that everyone who visits asks the same thing: “What was this place? What significance does it have?\u003cstrong>”\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The short answer: it was the first Naval base on the West Coast, opened in 1854.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058771\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058771\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-16-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kunjan Joshi, manager of the Redwood Empire hospitality building, poses for a photo on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And during World War II, Mare Island was one of the\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101864153/forum-on-the-road-the-past-present-and-future-of-mare-island-naval-base\"> busiest Naval facilities\u003c/a> in the world. They built nearly 400 ships and repaired 1200 more. After the war, they built 17 nuclear submarines here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now we’re here selling whiskey on the same spot,” Joshi said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>California bourbon today\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The trees in Sonoma County inspire the distillery’s name, where the company began making whiskey 10 years ago. When it outgrew that facility, Redwood Empire bought out the Savage & Cook distillery on Mare Island in Vallejo and moved in at the beginning of the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Joshi joined the team soon after. Born and raised in Kathmandu, Nepal, he came to Castro Valley as a teenager, then moved to the East Coast to play in a metal band — he still has a pierced lip and a skull ring.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Back East, he got a job at a distillery in Nantucket. “And ever since then, I’ve only been working in the beer, wine and whiskey world. I only drink on the job,” he said, laughing. “I don’t drink at home at all. I only drink at the job.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the distillery’s events space, Joshi pointed out the brick walls, original from the 1800s, and a concrete vault in the middle of the building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was told this used to be where they kept a lot of old spy files during the Cold War,” Joshi added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next stop on the tour is the distillery, where Jeff Duckhorn, Redwood’s Master Distiller, explains how bourbon and scotch fit into the greater whiskey family. “Both bourbon and scotch are types of whiskey.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Technically, it can only be called bourbon if it’s made from more than 51% corn and produced in the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We would be a very small producer in Kentucky. Here in the state of California, we’re one of the largest.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Californians have made whiskey since the Gold Rush, but craft bourbon has taken off in the last couple decades — with as many as 150 distilleries in the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So what is California bourbon today?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think that’s kind of the beauty of it for us is that we get to help define that,” Duckhorn said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058774\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058774\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-21-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Redwood Empire Master Blender Lauren Patz, and Master Distiller Jeff Duckhorn, right, pose for a photo in the Redwood Empire barrel room, on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>To make the grain mixture for their bourbon, Redwood Empire sources corn, rye, wheat and other grains from the Sacramento Valley, delivered by trucks weekly and sorted into three huge silos. They mill 10,000 pounds of it a day, according to Master Blender Lauren Patz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s almost like pastry flour when it comes out of there,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That “flour” is then deposited into what’s called a mashtun — which Duckhorn described as “a very sexy, large stainless tank. It looks kind of like an R2-D2.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They then add water and enzymes, heat it up and cool it down to “create the perfect environment for the yeast to do what they need to do.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mixture gets fermented, distilled and then pumped into barrels, where it will age a minimum of five years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Mare Island’s slow and steady renaissance\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Redwood Empire is now part of what developers are marketing as Mare Island’s “Wet Mile” — along with a coffee shop, wine bar and brewery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Local historian Mel Orpilla had several relatives who used to work in these buildings. He shakes his head when he imagines what they would make of these new businesses.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“You know, those old Filipino men, they were hard drinkers,” Orpilla said. “My dad and his brothers, they loved their whiskey. They loved their beer. But I don’t think it would have ever been part of their reality that Mare Island would turn into the Wet Mile.”\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Migrants came from around the country and world to work on Mare Island. Vallejo is still one of the most \u003ca href=\"https://www.timesheraldonline.com/2019/02/12/vallejo-is-diverse-but-segregated-new-study-finds/\">diverse\u003c/a> places in the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Diversity comes from the employees that were hired to work on Mare Island,” Orpiilla said. “So during the Great Depression, there was an exodus of people from the Deep South, mainly African Americans who came to work on Mare Island.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There were Dust Bowl migrants from Oklahoma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, “Filipinos were recruited, also, to work in Mare Island,” Orpilla said, including his dad and uncles, who were barely adults when they moved here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And I always wonder how difficult it must have been for them to leave their family and their friends. In the Philippines, they were farmers and fishermen, and it was a hard life, and I’m sure that they thought they could do better here in America,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1932, Orpilla’s relatives were all working on Mare Island. As unskilled laborers, they’d be assigned to a shop in the shipyard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Shop 32 had a lot of Filipinos in it,” Orpilla said. They unloaded box cars, swept the shops, took orders. Whatever needed to be done, they would do it. And my father did that until the day he retired in 1972.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023594\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1026px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023594\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1026\" height=\"816\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago.jpg 1026w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago-800x636.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago-1020x811.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Chicago-160x127.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1026px) 100vw, 1026px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The USS Chicago being prepared for launching on Mare Island, April 8, 1930. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058769\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058769\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-6-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mel Orpilla poses for a photo on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. His father and two uncles began working in the Navy shipyard in 1932. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“But no matter what job you had at Mare Island, even if it was an unskilled laborer, it was a living wage. And these men [could] buy houses and raise families with that salary. They were civilian employees on Mare Island.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Navy made the weather around here,” said Kent Fortner, the board president of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.mihpf.org/\">Mare Island Historic Park Foundation\u003c/a>. “If you can imagine, up to 50,000 people worked on Mare Island and the town of Vallejo was only 70,000. So it was the economic engine. It was the governmental engine. It was everything around Vallejo.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And then suddenly that was all taken away,” Fortner said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, the Navy base \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101864153/forum-on-the-road-the-past-present-and-future-of-mare-island-naval-base\">closed\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Of course, the economy in Vallejo suffered because people were moving out. Businesses that relied on the people that worked at Mare Island had to close shop. Vallejo started changing dramatically,” Mel Orpilla said\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Since the Navy left, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12023708/surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long\">Mare Island has grappled with environmental contamination\u003c/a>. Clean up and renovation have taken decades longer, and been much more expensive, than originally anticipated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Orpilla believes in Mare Island’s slow and steady renaissance. Along with the Wet Mile, there are other businesses on the island: a university for health sciences, soundstages for films and manufacturers of modular apartments and boats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I sometimes wish I could go to sleep and wake up 20 years in the future,” Orpilla said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For now, he knows what it’s like to celebrate Mare Island with the whole Vallejo community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Growing up, he said, when a ship launched, his family and neighbors would gather across the Mare Island Strait, “watching it from that side as it slipped into the water after the governor’s wife or whatever dignitary cracked the champagne bottle to christen it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And I think what made it special is everyone in Vallejo has somebody that worked in Mare Island, and everybody was proud to be part of that effort. Even though they may not have directly worked on the submarine or the ship, it was still a pride that it came from Mare Island and our dads work there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now it’s sort of coming back through entrepreneurship, through efforts to retain history, to package history,” Kent Fortner said, “and just a whole new group of artisans that are coming to inhabit these amazing buildings that we’re standing around.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12058767\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12058767\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1294\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/10/20251002_REDWOODEMPIRE_GC-3-KQED-1536x994.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Fortner, president of the Mare Island Historic Park Foundation, poses for a photo on Mare Island in Vallejo on Oct. 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Fortner should know. In 2017, he and a partner in the \u003ca href=\"https://www.mareislandbrewingco.com/story\">Mare Island Brewing Company\u003c/a> began crafting beers in renovated, historic coal sheds on the island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During Redwood Empire’s September launch party, the distillery’s patio, where ships were once built, was packed. Joshi took orders and served up signature cocktails.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We stopped [accepting] RSVPs at 1,500. And we were thinking even if half of them show up, that’s still 6-700 people. But I feel like everyone showed up,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Attendees came from as far as Modesto and Cotati, but many were Vallejo locals like Cheryl Smith and Thomas Robinson. Smith enjoyed a citrusy bourbon cocktail called a Paper Plane and Robinson ordered a whiskey flight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m just getting ready to dive in,” Robinson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Robinson said that, as a local, he’s enjoyed the benefits of Mare Island’s transformation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I was a kid back in the ‘90s and ‘80s, there was a guard at the front there,” Robinson recalled. “You couldn’t just drive on the island like that because this [was] a very strategic part of the U.S. Navy. “So now we’re able to come in and enjoy all the older buildings, the water, you can see all of the ferries from each side, and it’s beautiful.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "while-oakland-sleeps-a-100-year-old-produce-market-bustles-with-life",
"title": "While Oakland Sleeps, a 100-Year-Old Produce Market Bustles With Life",
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"headTitle": "While Oakland Sleeps, a 100-Year-Old Produce Market Bustles With Life | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When most of California is asleep, a few square blocks on the edge of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/oakland\">Oakland’s \u003c/a>Jack London Square come alive with people, produce and machinery. It’s the Oakland Produce Market, and it’s been supplying grocers and restaurants for more than 100 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The streets fill up with pallets, stacked with cases of fruits and vegetables. Boxes of tomatoes, mangoes and grapes take up most of the sidewalks. Workers weave between semi trucks, drive forklifts, use hand trucks, take orders and pack delivery vans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At 3 a.m. every Wednesday, Doug Mayeda starts looking through boxes at Farmers Produce — one of the dozens of separate businesses here called produce houses. He’s picky, choosing what he knows will sell at Village Market, where he’s the produce manager.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One morning in March, he turned his eye on bell peppers — examining their stems, assessing their quality and finding ones just the right size for his clientele. He spied a pallet with peppers stacked eight boxes high, and grabbed one from the top.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then he inspected a box of pineapples with a nice color. “As far as retail goes,” he said, “they’re going to buy from the color.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047244\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047244\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Mayeda, the produce manager at Village Market, walks through the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Mayeda and Farmers Produce owner Sammy Freccero had an easy banter that comes with sharing decades in the produce business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Freccero said he’s been doing this work since 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My dad used to drag me to work in the summers. I never had summer vacation and I hated it,” he said. “I said I would never do this, but it was the best thing he did for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So Frecerro did the same for his son.[aside postID=news_12042713 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-01-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg']“I’ve been bringing him down here since he was six years old,” he said. “One of my customers made a little hand truck for him, and I have pictures of him pushing the hand truck around. If I’d say ‘Go grab me a box of this,’ he knew what to grab.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His son’s in college now. Frecerro wants him to have choices, to consider a life that’s not on this nighttime schedule, but this business is here for him if he wants it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For decades, his father specialized in supplying corner markets, Frecerro said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The mom and pop stores — they used to buy a lot, but then all these big chains came and took over and took all that business away,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Frecerro was able to adapt. He said that now, in addition to grocers like Mayeda, they sell to businesses that supply restaurants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You go to a restaurant in Walnut Creek or anywhere in the area, we more than likely touched something at that restaurant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047245\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047245\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sammy Freccero holds photos of workers at Farmers Produce from the 1970s at the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>You don’t have to run a restaurant or work for a grocery store to shop here, as long as you buy in bulk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At 3:45 a.m., Mayeda walked through the market. He sniffed some mangoes and scoffed when he inspected a label on green seedless grapes from Peru — with a packing date over three months old. “You gotta be kidding me. Did they print that right?” he said, laughing, before moving on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 4:30 a.m., Mayeda reached Fujii Melons. He met R.J. Napolis, the company’s co-owner, decades ago. They both learned a lot about the produce business from Fujii Melons founder, Ronald Fujii.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mayeda could call in his orders, but he always comes in person, looking for something not on his list, something special that customers might want.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maybe this Cara Cara orange Napolis just got in? Mayeda pulls a knife out of his pocket and cuts open the pinkish-red flesh.[aside postID=news_12029568 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00963-KQED-1020x680.jpg']“Most of the flavor is on the bottom side, so that’s where you want to try it. The blossom end, not the stem side. Same thing with melons, too.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He ate the fruit before declaring: “Sweet, juicy … no flavor. Looks really good though.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These Cara Caras weren’t quite up to Mayeda’s standards that day, but every week, he has a long list of produce to buy from Fujii Melons, like papayas, berries and clamshell containers filled with herbs. Everything gets wrapped up on a pallet to be delivered to Mayeda back at Village Market by 5:30 in the morning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s this connection, Napolis said, between people and food that makes him love running a produce house.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can’t tell somebody over the phone, ‘Try this, try that.’ It’s something that they have to see, and smell, to appreciate what it is,” he added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he described his passion for this business, declaring he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, a beatific smile crossed his face.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you try to buy the best produce, and then when you see somebody looking for it and you give them that taste and they open up like, ‘My God, what was that?’ That’s what I love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047243\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047243\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Mayeda (right), the produce manager at Village Market, puts in an order with R.J. Napolis at Fujii Melons in the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Plus, the folks who work here, at these hours? They’re a different breed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re nightwalkers,” Napolis joked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nightwalkers, each with a specific job. Each day, before midnight, semi-trucks arrive from the Central Valley or Southern California ports carrying produce from around the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And at night, “we have what’s called lumpers,” Napolis said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the term for the forklift drivers who get paid by truckers to unload pallets of produce. Then, workers at the produce houses take over.[aside postID=news_12029560 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_39595_p-1020x679.jpg']“Forklifts are running up and down the streets constantly,” Napolis continued. “We have pallet jacks for products going up and on the street. People with hand trucks up and down the street. So it’s like an inner world, with people just moving, and it’s 6:00 in the morning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It all looked like barely controlled chaos, but with more time, the choreography of the movement revealed itself, as did the skill and experience that goes into the work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A little after 5 a.m., down the street at Golden State Fresh Produce, Ali Awnallah pointed out that the graceful movement of forklift drivers carrying pallets belies the reality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You’ve got to be careful. These forklifts are like Army tanks,” Awnallah cautioned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Awnallah does quality control, but he’s a natural salesman Technically, all of these produce houses compete with each other, but you wouldn’t know it from how he interacted with his neighbors. If he’s out of a certain product, like chayote squash, Cervantes Produce will sell it to him practically at cost.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We help each other out like that,” Awnallah said. “Cervantes Produce has been in the market for many, many years. Number one in the market también.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047242\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047242\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Mayeda, the produce manager at Village Market, inspects lychee to purchase for the store at the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His neighbor chimes in: “Mucho trabajo, poco dinero.” Many years of a lot of work, for not a lot of money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around 7:00 a.m., Alfonso Gonzalez stacked boxes of tomatillos and tomatoes into his van. Where was he going?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You’re not going to believe it,” Gonzalez said. “All the way to Sonoma, California, two hours from here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s owned La Morenita Market #3 there for 30 years, and has been shopping for produce here nearly as long.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I get it very cheap, and I’m going to sell it very cheap,” he said.[aside postID=news_12015282 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-03-1020x680.jpg']By 7:30 a.m., sales at a lot of the produce houses were winding down.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other cities, similar markets were demolished years ago. For decades, there’ve been articles predicting this place’s imminent demise, but it’s still here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1917, the market moved to this location near the port and a railroad line, Gary Knecht said. He’s a retired city planner and historic preservation planner for the city of Oakland who has lived a few blocks away from the market for nearly 50 years, and used to lead historic tours of the neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A handful of produce vendors hired an Oakland architect to design these buildings, Knecht said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a very simple and utilitarian look,” he said, looking at the squat buildings, with awnings extending over the sidewalks, like oversized hat brims. “They’re just plain, simple buildings that I really love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047247\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047247\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Knecht, a retired city planner and historic preservation advocate, walks through the Oakland Produce Market on July 3, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The original doors were screens, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The produce that got delivered here would be indoors, with fresh air blowing in and out. Refrigeration is one of the biggest changes in the market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Changes have also happened in the neighborhood. Over coffee, chicken and waffles at the Oakland Grill — a restaurant that’s been in the market since the 1970s — Knecht described the transformation of the waterfront, where many East Bay residents drink, dine or take the ferry to San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was almost exclusively industrial up until the ’50s or ’60s,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lots of warehouses. Some converted to office buildings, and then, Knecht said, around 1990, zoning laws changed and a few condos came in. That really got some vendors and preservationists worried about the future of the market.[aside postID=news_12005160 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-44-KQED-1020x680.jpg']He said, over the years, the city and developers have tried — unsuccessfully — to interest the vendors in moving the market to a different location. And, he added, plans to develop the Jack London District further have never quite taken off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If that changes, the produce market does have some protections under Oakland’s zoning laws, Knecht explained. Designated “an area of primary importance” for its architecture, any major alterations or proposed demolition would trigger lots of reviews and garner a lot of attention.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I applaud the alarm. I even occasionally share the alarm,” Knecht said, referring to concerns over the market’s future. “But every day I walk through the market, and when it’s bustling like it is today, I feel okay.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://californiafoodways.com/\">\u003ci>California Foodways, \u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>about food, agriculture and the people that make both possible in each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "In the wee hours of the morning, produce vendors, salespeople and lumpers are hard at work at the 108-year-old market on the edge of Oakland’s Jack London Square, a cherished tradition in a changing city.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When most of California is asleep, a few square blocks on the edge of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/oakland\">Oakland’s \u003c/a>Jack London Square come alive with people, produce and machinery. It’s the Oakland Produce Market, and it’s been supplying grocers and restaurants for more than 100 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The streets fill up with pallets, stacked with cases of fruits and vegetables. Boxes of tomatoes, mangoes and grapes take up most of the sidewalks. Workers weave between semi trucks, drive forklifts, use hand trucks, take orders and pack delivery vans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At 3 a.m. every Wednesday, Doug Mayeda starts looking through boxes at Farmers Produce — one of the dozens of separate businesses here called produce houses. He’s picky, choosing what he knows will sell at Village Market, where he’s the produce manager.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One morning in March, he turned his eye on bell peppers — examining their stems, assessing their quality and finding ones just the right size for his clientele. He spied a pallet with peppers stacked eight boxes high, and grabbed one from the top.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then he inspected a box of pineapples with a nice color. “As far as retail goes,” he said, “they’re going to buy from the color.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047244\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047244\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-50-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Mayeda, the produce manager at Village Market, walks through the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Mayeda and Farmers Produce owner Sammy Freccero had an easy banter that comes with sharing decades in the produce business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Freccero said he’s been doing this work since 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My dad used to drag me to work in the summers. I never had summer vacation and I hated it,” he said. “I said I would never do this, but it was the best thing he did for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So Frecerro did the same for his son.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“I’ve been bringing him down here since he was six years old,” he said. “One of my customers made a little hand truck for him, and I have pictures of him pushing the hand truck around. If I’d say ‘Go grab me a box of this,’ he knew what to grab.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His son’s in college now. Frecerro wants him to have choices, to consider a life that’s not on this nighttime schedule, but this business is here for him if he wants it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For decades, his father specialized in supplying corner markets, Frecerro said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The mom and pop stores — they used to buy a lot, but then all these big chains came and took over and took all that business away,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Frecerro was able to adapt. He said that now, in addition to grocers like Mayeda, they sell to businesses that supply restaurants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You go to a restaurant in Walnut Creek or anywhere in the area, we more than likely touched something at that restaurant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047245\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047245\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-53-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sammy Freccero holds photos of workers at Farmers Produce from the 1970s at the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>You don’t have to run a restaurant or work for a grocery store to shop here, as long as you buy in bulk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At 3:45 a.m., Mayeda walked through the market. He sniffed some mangoes and scoffed when he inspected a label on green seedless grapes from Peru — with a packing date over three months old. “You gotta be kidding me. Did they print that right?” he said, laughing, before moving on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 4:30 a.m., Mayeda reached Fujii Melons. He met R.J. Napolis, the company’s co-owner, decades ago. They both learned a lot about the produce business from Fujii Melons founder, Ronald Fujii.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mayeda could call in his orders, but he always comes in person, looking for something not on his list, something special that customers might want.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maybe this Cara Cara orange Napolis just got in? Mayeda pulls a knife out of his pocket and cuts open the pinkish-red flesh.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Most of the flavor is on the bottom side, so that’s where you want to try it. The blossom end, not the stem side. Same thing with melons, too.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He ate the fruit before declaring: “Sweet, juicy … no flavor. Looks really good though.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These Cara Caras weren’t quite up to Mayeda’s standards that day, but every week, he has a long list of produce to buy from Fujii Melons, like papayas, berries and clamshell containers filled with herbs. Everything gets wrapped up on a pallet to be delivered to Mayeda back at Village Market by 5:30 in the morning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s this connection, Napolis said, between people and food that makes him love running a produce house.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can’t tell somebody over the phone, ‘Try this, try that.’ It’s something that they have to see, and smell, to appreciate what it is,” he added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he described his passion for this business, declaring he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, a beatific smile crossed his face.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you try to buy the best produce, and then when you see somebody looking for it and you give them that taste and they open up like, ‘My God, what was that?’ That’s what I love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047243\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047243\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-43-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Mayeda (right), the produce manager at Village Market, puts in an order with R.J. Napolis at Fujii Melons in the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Plus, the folks who work here, at these hours? They’re a different breed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re nightwalkers,” Napolis joked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nightwalkers, each with a specific job. Each day, before midnight, semi-trucks arrive from the Central Valley or Southern California ports carrying produce from around the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And at night, “we have what’s called lumpers,” Napolis said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the term for the forklift drivers who get paid by truckers to unload pallets of produce. Then, workers at the produce houses take over.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Forklifts are running up and down the streets constantly,” Napolis continued. “We have pallet jacks for products going up and on the street. People with hand trucks up and down the street. So it’s like an inner world, with people just moving, and it’s 6:00 in the morning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It all looked like barely controlled chaos, but with more time, the choreography of the movement revealed itself, as did the skill and experience that goes into the work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A little after 5 a.m., down the street at Golden State Fresh Produce, Ali Awnallah pointed out that the graceful movement of forklift drivers carrying pallets belies the reality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You’ve got to be careful. These forklifts are like Army tanks,” Awnallah cautioned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Awnallah does quality control, but he’s a natural salesman Technically, all of these produce houses compete with each other, but you wouldn’t know it from how he interacted with his neighbors. If he’s out of a certain product, like chayote squash, Cervantes Produce will sell it to him practically at cost.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We help each other out like that,” Awnallah said. “Cervantes Produce has been in the market for many, many years. Number one in the market también.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047242\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047242\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250702-OaklandProduceMarket-18-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Mayeda, the produce manager at Village Market, inspects lychee to purchase for the store at the Oakland Produce Market in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland in the early morning hours of July 2, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His neighbor chimes in: “Mucho trabajo, poco dinero.” Many years of a lot of work, for not a lot of money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around 7:00 a.m., Alfonso Gonzalez stacked boxes of tomatillos and tomatoes into his van. Where was he going?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You’re not going to believe it,” Gonzalez said. “All the way to Sonoma, California, two hours from here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s owned La Morenita Market #3 there for 30 years, and has been shopping for produce here nearly as long.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I get it very cheap, and I’m going to sell it very cheap,” he said.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>By 7:30 a.m., sales at a lot of the produce houses were winding down.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other cities, similar markets were demolished years ago. For decades, there’ve been articles predicting this place’s imminent demise, but it’s still here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1917, the market moved to this location near the port and a railroad line, Gary Knecht said. He’s a retired city planner and historic preservation planner for the city of Oakland who has lived a few blocks away from the market for nearly 50 years, and used to lead historic tours of the neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A handful of produce vendors hired an Oakland architect to design these buildings, Knecht said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a very simple and utilitarian look,” he said, looking at the squat buildings, with awnings extending over the sidewalks, like oversized hat brims. “They’re just plain, simple buildings that I really love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12047247\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12047247\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250703-OaklandProduceMarket-06-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Knecht, a retired city planner and historic preservation advocate, walks through the Oakland Produce Market on July 3, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The original doors were screens, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The produce that got delivered here would be indoors, with fresh air blowing in and out. Refrigeration is one of the biggest changes in the market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Changes have also happened in the neighborhood. Over coffee, chicken and waffles at the Oakland Grill — a restaurant that’s been in the market since the 1970s — Knecht described the transformation of the waterfront, where many East Bay residents drink, dine or take the ferry to San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was almost exclusively industrial up until the ’50s or ’60s,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lots of warehouses. Some converted to office buildings, and then, Knecht said, around 1990, zoning laws changed and a few condos came in. That really got some vendors and preservationists worried about the future of the market.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>He said, over the years, the city and developers have tried — unsuccessfully — to interest the vendors in moving the market to a different location. And, he added, plans to develop the Jack London District further have never quite taken off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If that changes, the produce market does have some protections under Oakland’s zoning laws, Knecht explained. Designated “an area of primary importance” for its architecture, any major alterations or proposed demolition would trigger lots of reviews and garner a lot of attention.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I applaud the alarm. I even occasionally share the alarm,” Knecht said, referring to concerns over the market’s future. “But every day I walk through the market, and when it’s bustling like it is today, I feel okay.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://californiafoodways.com/\">\u003ci>California Foodways, \u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>about food, agriculture and the people that make both possible in each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Home on the Grange: In Anderson Valley, Hippies, Old-Timers Return to Farming Roots",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every month, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareabites/tag/anderson-valley\">Anderson Valley \u003c/a>Grange holds a pancake breakfast at their Grange hall in the town of Philo. A team of volunteers prepares pancakes, eggs and bacon for the 100 or so community members who show up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the kitchen during January’s breakfast, a man known as Captain Rainbow called out “Danger, danger!” as he pulled sizzling bacon out of the oven.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a trio of local musicians played, Erich Jonas mixed a hyper-local pancake batter. It includes flour from the Mendocino Grain Project, which he called “absolutely perfect for this local feast,” and just about half a can of the best beer from the Anderson Valley Brewing Company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And so here we go. We’re going to add this magic ingredient, just enough to wet the batter down so it’s not sticky,” he said, while whisking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grange halls like this one have been around for more than 150 years — the Grange began as a fraternal organization for farmers. Even though farming — and Grange membership — are down to a fraction of what they were decades ago, many rural towns still rely on Grange halls as community centers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whether it’s doing a holiday dinner or … hosting a local food bank, it’s a place where people can do what’s most natural to us, which is focus on our cooperative dynamics and community,” Jonas said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030055\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030055\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign for the Anderson Valley Brewing Company on a fermentation tank in Boonville, California, on March 1, 2025. The sign includes the words Bahl Mornin, meaning Good Morning in the Boontling language. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the Anderson Valley, many people credit this place for bringing together groups of people that were once really divided.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Order of the Patrons of Husbandry, better known as the Grange, was founded in 1867 as a social and educational organization for farmers. It gained membership as Grangers banded together to fight the high prices that grain elevators and \u003ca href=\"https://www.britannica.com/event/Granger-movement\">railroads\u003c/a> were charging to store and transport their crops. Their non-partisan political advocacy began with \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12029560/the-california-railroads-surprising-impact-on-food-and-civil-rights\">issues like regulating the railroads\u003c/a> and making sure mail was delivered to rural areas for free.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Captain Rainbow explained, “The farmers essentially created the Grange as like a co-op, and they had some power in numbers like a union.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Anderson Valley is an agricultural community. Dozens of vineyards line Highway 128, and they grow a lot of cannabis in this region, too. But wine and cannabis didn’t dominate the Valley when Captain Rainbow arrived here in the early 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I first came here, the economy of the valley was sheep farming, and apples, and logging, pretty much.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_12029568 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00963-KQED-1020x680.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He said he wore a loincloth, lived up in the woods with some other back-to-the-landers, and didn’t come into town too much.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In those days, if you were a hippie, you weren’t particularly welcome here,” he said. “The nickname of the bar was ‘the Bucket of Blood,’ and it was pretty renowned for being a pretty rugged spot. I didn’t go in the bar for about 10 years because it was chainsaw haircut time if you did.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rainbow still has the long hair — now gray, pulled back in a neat ponytail.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, the only affordable place in town to hold an event was at the old Grange hall, built in 1939.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It had a really nice old fir dance floor, and a big barrel stove with a bunch of firewood to warm the place up, and a little tiny goofy stage,” Rainbow said. “That’s where we’d have our rock and roll parties and do our little plays and our clown shows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030052\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030052\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Captain Rainbow stands in the doorway of the Anderson Valley Grange during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rainbow said the Grange membership back then was made up of old-timers who were a little reluctant to rent out the hall to hippies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But they didn’t have any money either,” so they grudgingly relented. “And you know what?” Rainbow said, “We loved that building, too, so we did take care of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But one morning in 1985, Rainbow heard some terrible news: the Grange hall burned down. News spread fast, and people from across the valley went to see the damage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There was nothing left,” Rainbow said. “I mean, it was just a pile of gray and black charred stuff. It was gone.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Anderson Valley’s Grangers planned to rebuild the hall, the hippies begged them to include a stage and a wooden floor for dancing. They even made a bargain with the Grangers, one they never thought they’d have to keep: if the insurance money ran out, they would help the Grangers rebuild the hall. The insurance money didn’t last, and so, working one day a week, it took this incongruous group of volunteers six years to build the new Grange hall.[aside postID=news_12029560 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_39595_p-1020x679.jpg']“This was, to me, the nut of a coming together of different groups of people who needed each other,” Captain Rainbow said. “They needed us to do the work for free, and we needed them to provide this space and this place and the possibility that we could have a dance hall again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even if a hippie had a bad encounter with an old timer at the Bucket of Blood saloon the night before, Rainbow said, “The next day, hungover, both of you would be hanging sheetrock together, and you’d find out that, hey, you’re all right.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead of drinking or talking politics, they were building something together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I gained a lot of friends in the valley that way. I’m not sure this holds for everyone else in the valley, but for me, that was the time things opened up, because we were engaged in a common purpose. Rather than looking at our differences, we were looking at our samenesses,” Rainbow said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the Anderson Valley Grangers saw their peers getting older, they looked around at the younger volunteers who were showing up with skills and interest, and they saw something else: potential Grange members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Captain Rainbow remembered, “One day, one of those guys came up to me and said, ‘Hey, you know, you want to join the grange?’ And my eyes got big, and I went, ‘Really?’ And they asked other people who had been volunteering, as well, to become members. We couldn’t believe it. We went, ‘What? You’re kidding. You really … you want us? You want us?’ And they did.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030053\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030053\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Captain Rainbow talks with a friend during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Both sides had to compromise a bit. When they became members, the hippies had to go through some rituals, learn the secret handshake, and the password. This new contingent wasn’t going to go all in for the traditions of a fraternal organization, but Captain Rainbow and others learned the origins of many of these rituals and began to understand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The secret handshake and all that stuff came about because they would go to Washington D.C. and lobby for farmers’ rights,” Rainbow said, “and they had to know who was a Granger.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon enough, Captain Rainbow found himself appointed Grange Master, and he’s been involved ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, people know the Anderson Valley Grange Hall for its annual variety show and as a place to hold meetings, dances and quinceañeras, but it still has agricultural connections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The reality of this was on full display in early March. The parking lot was packed before the official start of the event at the hall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Local food groups rented out the Grange hall for a day of education and seed and scion exchanges.[aside postID=news_12015282 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-03-1020x680.jpg']Amid grafting workshops, people walked in carrying containers full of seeds and grocery bags with cuttings from trees — young shoots, called scions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On one side of the Grange hall, tables were covered with scion wood. Barbara Goodell, one of the event’s organizers, pointed out many of the varieties she saw:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Nuts, grapes, figs on this table. There’s apples, peaches, persimmons, plums, all kinds of things. Anything that you can graft, it’s here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grafting lets growers join two different plants together into one — like a hearty rootstock with a scion of a really delicious apple variety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not rocket science, necessarily,” Goodell said. “It’s putting two sticks together in the right way.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other side of the hall was all about seeds, including seed libraries for each of Mendocino County’s library branches.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kat Wu and Sab Mai came up from San Jose. They chatted with Jini Reynolds, a Grange advocate and leader, about how to save seeds from their small home garden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030048\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030048\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Community members gather for the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The important thing about saving seeds is to mark down what kind of climate you grew it in, the things that made you successful, like the soils or did you have a raised bed, so that other people in your community can then understand how they can grow,” Reynolds said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She encouraged Wu and Mai to look for resources in their own region, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m with the Grange, and we’re a national organization. So you have Granges down in your area, too. Maybe put together some kind of seed exchange so that you can all share information,” she told them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reynolds is a member of another Grange in Mendocino County, about an hour away from the Anderson Valley hall. There are seven community Granges in Mendocino County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Reynolds moved to a one-acre farm in Mendocino County 50 years ago, she’d attend parties and PTA meetings at the local grange hall, but had no idea what “Grange” meant. As she learned more about the organization, she got more committed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Starting about 15 years ago, there was a lot of tension within California Granges. Rifts widened over values, leadership and property. Many groups in California broke away from the national Grange.[aside postID=news_11999452 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/DiversGearUp-1020x680.jpg']During this time, Reynolds said, she studied Grange history and bylaws. She decided to help the organization grow and change it from within.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m now kind of like a cheerleader for the Grange,” Reynolds said. “Because I see that — even clear across the nation, not just California —all of us are looking at, ‘How do we live sustainably? How do we keep our community centers? Where do we get the support?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now, she’s president of what’s called the “Pomona” — the regional Grange serving Mendocino and Lake Counties, and she’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.castategrange.org/field-representatives\">helping state granges\u003c/a> rebuild their membership. She’s also on the diversity team of the national Grange.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early days, the Grange helped farmers organize and fight railroad moguls. The needs for today’s rural communities are different. Many Granges are modernizing their halls to be emergency shelters. Reynolds pointed out that members can get discounts on propane and can attend practical workshops.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Come on down and learn how to do CPR. Come on down and learn how to handle that ham radio. Come on down and learn this skill on how to put new gravel in your driveway,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mendocino County Grangers even started a retirement facility that houses 170 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030050\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030050\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Stuart (left) talks with Victoria Joy about seeds during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In rural California, one concern comes up again and again: fire. One that stays with Reynolds is 2017’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.mendocinocounty.gov/Home/Components/News/News/6829/#:~:text=The%20fire%20began%20on%20October,the%20lives%20of%20nine%20individuals.\">Redwood Complex\u003c/a> fire. The disaster killed nine people. It destroyed 350 homes and 36,000 acres, and required thousands of people to evacuate. When roads opened back up, Reynolds said she was the one with the key to the Redwood Valley Grange, which was still standing. She let PG&E in to get the propane turned back on, she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I told my husband, ‘I can’t close the door to the Grange,’” she said, with emotion creeping into her voice. “All of my neighbors were going back to see if they had a house or not, or whether their farms were there anymore, whether they had anything left at all, and they were driving right past the Grange.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reynolds said that she, her husband, and other volunteers made brownies and coffee, and put out a sandwich board, saying, “Come on in.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And all of a sudden, people were bringing food down there,” she said. “Red Cross was outside, FEMA was in the room and they started answering people’s questions.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Families were able to reconnect and find each other after the fire.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This is all because of a Grange hall. If we didn’t have the Grange hall, none of this would have happened.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nationally, the Grange was at its peak in the 1950s, with over 850,000 members. That dropped a lot over the decades, as farmland was paved over for suburbs, and membership in civic organizations declined.[aside postID=news_11948223 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2023/05/mas-in-blooms-sized-1020x574.jpg'] But the last few years have seen membership grow incrementally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California has 120 Granges, and in the last year alone, seven Granges opened — some brand new, some brought back to life or reorganized, since the state-wide rift. Reynolds said, revitalizing the Grange is her calling. She’s working to reestablish Granges in Fort Bragg and Upper Lake — communities in Mendocino and Lake Counties — in the coming months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said she knows that the Grange needs to be truly inclusive to keep growing and represent all the people living in rural areas. As someone with Paiute ancestry, that’s dear to her heart. She pointed out that the National organization has changed language, like “Grange Master,” to “President.” A number of Granges — including in California — have a majority Latino population. And California’s state Grange is translating all documents into Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s going to be a while, but we’re working on that. And as far as the indigenous people,” she said, getting emotional, “we’re working on that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thinking about the future of the Anderson Valley Grange, Captain Rainbow gets a little nostalgic. “When my generation came in and became part of the Grange, the old-timers, they needed us. And now, I’m a geezer now!” He called his peer group new old-timers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030051\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030051\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jerzy Skupny (right) teaches a grafting workshop during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Though the Anderson Valley Grange Hall fills up for dances, pancake breakfasts and seed exchanges, the chapter hovers between 40 and 50 members, and many of them are from Rainbow’s generation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We need some fresh blood,” Rainbow said. Although, he said, “there’s still some folks who are coming and want to do small-time agricultural farming,” he worries there won’t be enough, or that they won’t have the same spirit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But who knows, things evolve. They change. And who am I to claim that I know what’s going to happen or what’s right,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Why I came here was a sense of place,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hopefully, he said, the Grange can remain “a focal point for this sense of place,” and continue to be a space that brings people together in the Anderson Valley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story was produced with support from the \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://thefern.org/\">\u003cem>Food and Environment Reporting Network\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. It’s part of Lisa’s series \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://californiafoodways.com/\">\u003cem>California Foodways\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "In Mendocino County, a community bands together over farming, food and wildfire resilience at a historic Grange hall.",
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"title": "Home on the Grange: In Anderson Valley, Hippies, Old-Timers Return to Farming Roots | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every month, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareabites/tag/anderson-valley\">Anderson Valley \u003c/a>Grange holds a pancake breakfast at their Grange hall in the town of Philo. A team of volunteers prepares pancakes, eggs and bacon for the 100 or so community members who show up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the kitchen during January’s breakfast, a man known as Captain Rainbow called out “Danger, danger!” as he pulled sizzling bacon out of the oven.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a trio of local musicians played, Erich Jonas mixed a hyper-local pancake batter. It includes flour from the Mendocino Grain Project, which he called “absolutely perfect for this local feast,” and just about half a can of the best beer from the Anderson Valley Brewing Company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And so here we go. We’re going to add this magic ingredient, just enough to wet the batter down so it’s not sticky,” he said, while whisking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grange halls like this one have been around for more than 150 years — the Grange began as a fraternal organization for farmers. Even though farming — and Grange membership — are down to a fraction of what they were decades ago, many rural towns still rely on Grange halls as community centers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whether it’s doing a holiday dinner or … hosting a local food bank, it’s a place where people can do what’s most natural to us, which is focus on our cooperative dynamics and community,” Jonas said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030055\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030055\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-47-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign for the Anderson Valley Brewing Company on a fermentation tank in Boonville, California, on March 1, 2025. The sign includes the words Bahl Mornin, meaning Good Morning in the Boontling language. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the Anderson Valley, many people credit this place for bringing together groups of people that were once really divided.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Order of the Patrons of Husbandry, better known as the Grange, was founded in 1867 as a social and educational organization for farmers. It gained membership as Grangers banded together to fight the high prices that grain elevators and \u003ca href=\"https://www.britannica.com/event/Granger-movement\">railroads\u003c/a> were charging to store and transport their crops. Their non-partisan political advocacy began with \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12029560/the-california-railroads-surprising-impact-on-food-and-civil-rights\">issues like regulating the railroads\u003c/a> and making sure mail was delivered to rural areas for free.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Captain Rainbow explained, “The farmers essentially created the Grange as like a co-op, and they had some power in numbers like a union.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Anderson Valley is an agricultural community. Dozens of vineyards line Highway 128, and they grow a lot of cannabis in this region, too. But wine and cannabis didn’t dominate the Valley when Captain Rainbow arrived here in the early 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I first came here, the economy of the valley was sheep farming, and apples, and logging, pretty much.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He said he wore a loincloth, lived up in the woods with some other back-to-the-landers, and didn’t come into town too much.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In those days, if you were a hippie, you weren’t particularly welcome here,” he said. “The nickname of the bar was ‘the Bucket of Blood,’ and it was pretty renowned for being a pretty rugged spot. I didn’t go in the bar for about 10 years because it was chainsaw haircut time if you did.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rainbow still has the long hair — now gray, pulled back in a neat ponytail.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, the only affordable place in town to hold an event was at the old Grange hall, built in 1939.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It had a really nice old fir dance floor, and a big barrel stove with a bunch of firewood to warm the place up, and a little tiny goofy stage,” Rainbow said. “That’s where we’d have our rock and roll parties and do our little plays and our clown shows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030052\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030052\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-38-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Captain Rainbow stands in the doorway of the Anderson Valley Grange during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rainbow said the Grange membership back then was made up of old-timers who were a little reluctant to rent out the hall to hippies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But they didn’t have any money either,” so they grudgingly relented. “And you know what?” Rainbow said, “We loved that building, too, so we did take care of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But one morning in 1985, Rainbow heard some terrible news: the Grange hall burned down. News spread fast, and people from across the valley went to see the damage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There was nothing left,” Rainbow said. “I mean, it was just a pile of gray and black charred stuff. It was gone.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Anderson Valley’s Grangers planned to rebuild the hall, the hippies begged them to include a stage and a wooden floor for dancing. They even made a bargain with the Grangers, one they never thought they’d have to keep: if the insurance money ran out, they would help the Grangers rebuild the hall. The insurance money didn’t last, and so, working one day a week, it took this incongruous group of volunteers six years to build the new Grange hall.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“This was, to me, the nut of a coming together of different groups of people who needed each other,” Captain Rainbow said. “They needed us to do the work for free, and we needed them to provide this space and this place and the possibility that we could have a dance hall again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even if a hippie had a bad encounter with an old timer at the Bucket of Blood saloon the night before, Rainbow said, “The next day, hungover, both of you would be hanging sheetrock together, and you’d find out that, hey, you’re all right.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead of drinking or talking politics, they were building something together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I gained a lot of friends in the valley that way. I’m not sure this holds for everyone else in the valley, but for me, that was the time things opened up, because we were engaged in a common purpose. Rather than looking at our differences, we were looking at our samenesses,” Rainbow said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the Anderson Valley Grangers saw their peers getting older, they looked around at the younger volunteers who were showing up with skills and interest, and they saw something else: potential Grange members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Captain Rainbow remembered, “One day, one of those guys came up to me and said, ‘Hey, you know, you want to join the grange?’ And my eyes got big, and I went, ‘Really?’ And they asked other people who had been volunteering, as well, to become members. We couldn’t believe it. We went, ‘What? You’re kidding. You really … you want us? You want us?’ And they did.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030053\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030053\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-41-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Captain Rainbow talks with a friend during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Both sides had to compromise a bit. When they became members, the hippies had to go through some rituals, learn the secret handshake, and the password. This new contingent wasn’t going to go all in for the traditions of a fraternal organization, but Captain Rainbow and others learned the origins of many of these rituals and began to understand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The secret handshake and all that stuff came about because they would go to Washington D.C. and lobby for farmers’ rights,” Rainbow said, “and they had to know who was a Granger.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon enough, Captain Rainbow found himself appointed Grange Master, and he’s been involved ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, people know the Anderson Valley Grange Hall for its annual variety show and as a place to hold meetings, dances and quinceañeras, but it still has agricultural connections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The reality of this was on full display in early March. The parking lot was packed before the official start of the event at the hall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Local food groups rented out the Grange hall for a day of education and seed and scion exchanges.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Amid grafting workshops, people walked in carrying containers full of seeds and grocery bags with cuttings from trees — young shoots, called scions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On one side of the Grange hall, tables were covered with scion wood. Barbara Goodell, one of the event’s organizers, pointed out many of the varieties she saw:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Nuts, grapes, figs on this table. There’s apples, peaches, persimmons, plums, all kinds of things. Anything that you can graft, it’s here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grafting lets growers join two different plants together into one — like a hearty rootstock with a scion of a really delicious apple variety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not rocket science, necessarily,” Goodell said. “It’s putting two sticks together in the right way.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other side of the hall was all about seeds, including seed libraries for each of Mendocino County’s library branches.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kat Wu and Sab Mai came up from San Jose. They chatted with Jini Reynolds, a Grange advocate and leader, about how to save seeds from their small home garden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030048\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030048\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-22-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Community members gather for the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The important thing about saving seeds is to mark down what kind of climate you grew it in, the things that made you successful, like the soils or did you have a raised bed, so that other people in your community can then understand how they can grow,” Reynolds said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She encouraged Wu and Mai to look for resources in their own region, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m with the Grange, and we’re a national organization. So you have Granges down in your area, too. Maybe put together some kind of seed exchange so that you can all share information,” she told them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reynolds is a member of another Grange in Mendocino County, about an hour away from the Anderson Valley hall. There are seven community Granges in Mendocino County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Reynolds moved to a one-acre farm in Mendocino County 50 years ago, she’d attend parties and PTA meetings at the local grange hall, but had no idea what “Grange” meant. As she learned more about the organization, she got more committed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Starting about 15 years ago, there was a lot of tension within California Granges. Rifts widened over values, leadership and property. Many groups in California broke away from the national Grange.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>During this time, Reynolds said, she studied Grange history and bylaws. She decided to help the organization grow and change it from within.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m now kind of like a cheerleader for the Grange,” Reynolds said. “Because I see that — even clear across the nation, not just California —all of us are looking at, ‘How do we live sustainably? How do we keep our community centers? Where do we get the support?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now, she’s president of what’s called the “Pomona” — the regional Grange serving Mendocino and Lake Counties, and she’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.castategrange.org/field-representatives\">helping state granges\u003c/a> rebuild their membership. She’s also on the diversity team of the national Grange.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early days, the Grange helped farmers organize and fight railroad moguls. The needs for today’s rural communities are different. Many Granges are modernizing their halls to be emergency shelters. Reynolds pointed out that members can get discounts on propane and can attend practical workshops.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Come on down and learn how to do CPR. Come on down and learn how to handle that ham radio. Come on down and learn this skill on how to put new gravel in your driveway,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mendocino County Grangers even started a retirement facility that houses 170 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030050\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030050\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-29-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Stuart (left) talks with Victoria Joy about seeds during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In rural California, one concern comes up again and again: fire. One that stays with Reynolds is 2017’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.mendocinocounty.gov/Home/Components/News/News/6829/#:~:text=The%20fire%20began%20on%20October,the%20lives%20of%20nine%20individuals.\">Redwood Complex\u003c/a> fire. The disaster killed nine people. It destroyed 350 homes and 36,000 acres, and required thousands of people to evacuate. When roads opened back up, Reynolds said she was the one with the key to the Redwood Valley Grange, which was still standing. She let PG&E in to get the propane turned back on, she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I told my husband, ‘I can’t close the door to the Grange,’” she said, with emotion creeping into her voice. “All of my neighbors were going back to see if they had a house or not, or whether their farms were there anymore, whether they had anything left at all, and they were driving right past the Grange.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reynolds said that she, her husband, and other volunteers made brownies and coffee, and put out a sandwich board, saying, “Come on in.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And all of a sudden, people were bringing food down there,” she said. “Red Cross was outside, FEMA was in the room and they started answering people’s questions.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Families were able to reconnect and find each other after the fire.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This is all because of a Grange hall. If we didn’t have the Grange hall, none of this would have happened.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nationally, the Grange was at its peak in the 1950s, with over 850,000 members. That dropped a lot over the decades, as farmland was paved over for suburbs, and membership in civic organizations declined.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp> But the last few years have seen membership grow incrementally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California has 120 Granges, and in the last year alone, seven Granges opened — some brand new, some brought back to life or reorganized, since the state-wide rift. Reynolds said, revitalizing the Grange is her calling. She’s working to reestablish Granges in Fort Bragg and Upper Lake — communities in Mendocino and Lake Counties — in the coming months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said she knows that the Grange needs to be truly inclusive to keep growing and represent all the people living in rural areas. As someone with Paiute ancestry, that’s dear to her heart. She pointed out that the National organization has changed language, like “Grange Master,” to “President.” A number of Granges — including in California — have a majority Latino population. And California’s state Grange is translating all documents into Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s going to be a while, but we’re working on that. And as far as the indigenous people,” she said, getting emotional, “we’re working on that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thinking about the future of the Anderson Valley Grange, Captain Rainbow gets a little nostalgic. “When my generation came in and became part of the Grange, the old-timers, they needed us. And now, I’m a geezer now!” He called his peer group new old-timers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030051\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030051\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250301-ANDERSONVALLEYGRANGE-35-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jerzy Skupny (right) teaches a grafting workshop during the Winter Abundance Gathering, a seed and scion exchange, at the Anderson Valley Grange in Philo, California, on March 1, 2025. Established in the late 1930s, the Grange has long been a community hub, hosting local events, farmers’ markets, and gatherings that honor the region’s agricultural heritage. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Though the Anderson Valley Grange Hall fills up for dances, pancake breakfasts and seed exchanges, the chapter hovers between 40 and 50 members, and many of them are from Rainbow’s generation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We need some fresh blood,” Rainbow said. Although, he said, “there’s still some folks who are coming and want to do small-time agricultural farming,” he worries there won’t be enough, or that they won’t have the same spirit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But who knows, things evolve. They change. And who am I to claim that I know what’s going to happen or what’s right,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Why I came here was a sense of place,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hopefully, he said, the Grange can remain “a focal point for this sense of place,” and continue to be a space that brings people together in the Anderson Valley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story was produced with support from the \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://thefern.org/\">\u003cem>Food and Environment Reporting Network\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. It’s part of Lisa’s series \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://californiafoodways.com/\">\u003cem>California Foodways\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "in-san-mateo-county-this-market-is-a-community-destination-for-food-faith-and-ramadan-staples",
"title": "In San Mateo County, This Market Is a Community Destination for Food, Faith and Ramadan Staples",
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"headTitle": "In San Mateo County, This Market Is a Community Destination for Food, Faith and Ramadan Staples | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This weekend, Muslims \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/california\">around California\u003c/a> will celebrate Eid al-fitr to mark the end of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/ramadan\">holy month of Ramadan\u003c/a>. For the past month, observers have fasted from dawn to dusk. And though fasting is a big part of Ramadan, so is food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All month long, all across the state, markets have been central to Ramadan. Not only do they supply the ingredients for the holiday, they also connect people from all ethnicities who follow Islam.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One such place is \u003ca href=\"https://www.besanmarket.com/\">Besan’s International\u003c/a> Market in San Bruno, right under the flight path of San Francisco International Airport. It’s essentially three businesses in one: a Halal butcher in the back, a kitchen for take-out and catering and a market that carries Arab, Middle Eastern and South Asian goods, from staples to snacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Owner Thaher Shehadeh said the days around the beginning of Ramadan are some of his busiest of the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030656\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030656\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shop owner Thaher Shehadeh, left, checks over the stock of groceries. Shehadeh bought the business a decade ago. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I have to be ready for it and prepare for it for months before it starts,” he said, in between fielding calls from customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The market is stuffed with goods, but it’s as tidy as a library. Because it’s Ramadan, it has even more merchandise than during the rest of the year — especially dates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Boxes of dates from all over the world are stacked waist-high in every available space because it’s traditional to break the Ramadan fast with dates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We have dates from Palestine,” Shehadeh said. “They’re hard to find. Also from California, of course, one of the best dates we have.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_12032039 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240410-BilalMahmood-041-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh supplies other ingredients for Ramadan specialties from Asia to Africa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In Ramadan, people use a lot of puff pastry and \u003cem>sambusa \u003c/em>and spring rolls,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he has to have more of everything on hand: more pita, cheese, meat, everything. “People in Ramadan, they fast, but they eat more. I think because people invite each other [over]. You invite four, you cook for eight.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Towards the back of the shop, shelves are stacked with at least 15 kinds of rice — from India, Pakistan, Egypt and Turkey. Shehadeh said that rice is an ingredient customers can get really picky about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the sweets aisle, he pointed out \u003cem>ma’amoul\u003c/em>, a semolina cookie filled with dates or figs, and \u003cem>baklava\u003c/em> — some made in Jordan, some in Fremont. He stopped in front of a cream biscuit from Yemen that’s been in production for 50 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030661\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Grape leaves, pickled olives and oils are on display in the window. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“At least three generations, the same shape, the same taste. Just [a] very simple thing,” Shehadeh said. “But it reminds people of their childhood back home, and they have memories with the food.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From the bottom shelf of the candy section, he picks up a glass jar holding candies shaped like fruit, something he remembers from when he was about six years old. “Back then, not many snacks were available where I grew up,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh moved here from Palestine in the early 1990s, when he was 22 years old.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The first time I came here, for me it was a culture shock,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He left a place where people socialized a lot. He said it was absolutely expected that people would knock on your door at any time. Here, he said, the expectation is privacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_12029560 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_39595_p-1020x679.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But during Ramadan, people gather: to worship, to be in community and to step away from material life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Mateo County is home to the largest \u003ca href=\"https://statisticalatlas.com/county/California/San-Mateo-County/Ancestry\">percentage\u003c/a> of Arabs of all faiths in the state of California. Even though it’s a small part of the total population, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.thearda.com/us-religion/census/congregational-membership?y=2020&y2=0&t=0&c=06081\">number\u003c/a> of Muslims here tripled in the last 15 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh said that when he moved to the U.S. from Palestine, he worked for UPS for years. Since he purchased Besan’s from a family friend 10 years ago, Shehadeh has made sure the store reflects the community. He even closes up shop for an hour on Fridays so he and other Muslims in the neighborhood can pray together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he gave a tour of Besan’s, Shehadeh received a call from a friend who’s not a strict Muslim. When he hung up, Shehadeh said with a laugh, “Some people call me to ask me, ‘When is Ramadan?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a fair question. Ramadan follows the lunar calendar, starting after the sighting of the new moon, which is the subject of an annual debate. The holiday moves up about ten days every year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030665\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030665\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Employees (left to right) Rachid Mouhaya, Arif Shehadeh and Mahmood Al Nasr prepare to break fast behind the deli counter. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Souad Elibrami said shopping in a store like this brings her back to Morocco. “When you come to the Arabic store, you feel like your country,” she said. “Everyone is celebrating Ramadan, and I like it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She comes to Besan’s every month for staples: meat, chicken and semolina. For Ramadan, she’s preparing special dishes from her hometown of Casablanca.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We make \u003cem>chebakia\u003c/em>,” Elibrami said, of a dessert made from deep-fried strips of dough rolled into the shape of a rose. “We make soup, \u003cem>harira\u003c/em>, and sometimes \u003cem>tagine\u003c/em>,” she added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Besan’s isn’t just about tapping into nostalgia. Shehadeh keeps his eye on what’s trending on social media. He knows what his community wants, like Salaam Cola, for example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030658\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030658\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shoppers stroll the aisles as sunset nears. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“That’s just a regular replacement for Coca-Cola, but it’s Turkish,” Shehadeh explained. “People who are boycotting Coca-Cola, they buy this.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pro-Palestinian activists have long scrutinized Coca-Cola’s operations in the Atarot Settlement Industrial Zone in Israeli-occupied Palestinian territory. \u003ca href=\"https://www.palestine-studies.org/en/node/1649529#endnote-019\">Israel forcibly removes\u003c/a> Palestinian communities in order to build settlements like Atarot. The United Nations has called such Israeli settlements a “\u003ca href=\"https://www.un.org/unispal/document/israeli-settlements-in-the-occupied-palestinian-territory-including-east-jerusalem-and-the-occupied-syrian-golan-report-of-the-secretary-general/\">flagrant\u003c/a>” violation of international law.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In opposition to Israel’s occupation of Palestine and their \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/live/2025/03/17/world/israel-gaza-airstrikes#tuesday-was-one-of-the-wars-deadlier-days-gaza-officials-say\">ongoing\u003c/a> bombardment in Gaza, global boycotts against reportedly complicit companies have surged. Coca-Cola and other U.S. megabrands like McDonald’s, Starbucks and KFC have all experienced a \u003ca href=\"https://washingtonpost.com/national-security/2024/08/12/coca-cola-boycott-israel-gaza/\">decline \u003c/a>in sales in regions that have had Palestine-related boycotts, the \u003cem>Washington Post\u003c/em> reported.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_12033099 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1399231798.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toward the back of the shop, a man navigated one of Besan’s narrow aisles, carrying a whole frozen lamb on his shoulder. Shehadeh explained that people can source their meat elsewhere and bring it here to be butchered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Of course, we have halal fresh meat,” he said, explaining that the meat has been butchered by Islamic guidelines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In shops like this, the relationship between butchers and customers is special: butchers need to have options for every budget and every background. It’s the most crowded corner of the store, with a growing line of people placing and picking up orders. Butcher Rachid Mouhaya took the order of one man ordering 12 pounds of goat meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He needs shoulder; he doesn’t like leg,” Mouhaya explained. “He wants something more juicy. Maybe he’s going to cook something like \u003cem>biryani\u003c/em>. I mean, he’s Indian.” Arab customers may want different cuts, different meats for dishes like \u003cem>maqluba, \u003c/em>he explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030662\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kamal Boussaid cuts a quartered lamb in the walk-in cooler. Born in Algeria, Boussaid worked in a butcher shop in Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge neighborhood for years before getting married and moving to the Bay Area. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Mouhaya said he’s worked at Besan’s for four years and has been breaking down animals since he was a teenager, learning from butchers in Morocco and France. After he came to the Bay Area, he worked at halal butcher shops and at Indian and Pakistani restaurants while getting his Master in Business Administration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another customer approached the butcher counter to pick up an order. Joe Akhmed said he’s from Uzbekistan and was buying for the Central Asian restaurant Sofiya in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During Ramadan, the butcher counter is especially busy, but Mouhaya said he loves this time of year. He cooks for others and gets invited over. It’s a month of reflection, salvation and community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032523\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032523\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shehadeh stands in the afternoon sun along San Mateo Avenue in San Bruno. During Ramadan, he generally leaves the store before sundown so he can break fast with his family. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh agreed. He said he’s proud to run this business that brings his neighbors closer together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m glad I can be part of it,” he said, supplying the community with the ingredients to gather and observe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This time of year, those things become more important. But for Shehadeh, Ramadan boils down to one thing: “To me, it’s my chance to go closer to my Creator,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in this shop, you can just feel a kind of communion — of faith, food and togetherness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Besan’s International Market in San Bruno supplies the Bay Area’s Islamic community with essential ingredients for the holy month of Ramadan and unites a wide variety of shoppers with food that feels like home. ",
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"title": "In San Mateo County, This Market Is a Community Destination for Food, Faith and Ramadan Staples | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This weekend, Muslims \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/california\">around California\u003c/a> will celebrate Eid al-fitr to mark the end of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/ramadan\">holy month of Ramadan\u003c/a>. For the past month, observers have fasted from dawn to dusk. And though fasting is a big part of Ramadan, so is food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All month long, all across the state, markets have been central to Ramadan. Not only do they supply the ingredients for the holiday, they also connect people from all ethnicities who follow Islam.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One such place is \u003ca href=\"https://www.besanmarket.com/\">Besan’s International\u003c/a> Market in San Bruno, right under the flight path of San Francisco International Airport. It’s essentially three businesses in one: a Halal butcher in the back, a kitchen for take-out and catering and a market that carries Arab, Middle Eastern and South Asian goods, from staples to snacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Owner Thaher Shehadeh said the days around the beginning of Ramadan are some of his busiest of the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030656\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030656\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00369-KQED-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shop owner Thaher Shehadeh, left, checks over the stock of groceries. Shehadeh bought the business a decade ago. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I have to be ready for it and prepare for it for months before it starts,” he said, in between fielding calls from customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The market is stuffed with goods, but it’s as tidy as a library. Because it’s Ramadan, it has even more merchandise than during the rest of the year — especially dates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Boxes of dates from all over the world are stacked waist-high in every available space because it’s traditional to break the Ramadan fast with dates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We have dates from Palestine,” Shehadeh said. “They’re hard to find. Also from California, of course, one of the best dates we have.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh supplies other ingredients for Ramadan specialties from Asia to Africa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In Ramadan, people use a lot of puff pastry and \u003cem>sambusa \u003c/em>and spring rolls,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he has to have more of everything on hand: more pita, cheese, meat, everything. “People in Ramadan, they fast, but they eat more. I think because people invite each other [over]. You invite four, you cook for eight.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Towards the back of the shop, shelves are stacked with at least 15 kinds of rice — from India, Pakistan, Egypt and Turkey. Shehadeh said that rice is an ingredient customers can get really picky about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the sweets aisle, he pointed out \u003cem>ma’amoul\u003c/em>, a semolina cookie filled with dates or figs, and \u003cem>baklava\u003c/em> — some made in Jordan, some in Fremont. He stopped in front of a cream biscuit from Yemen that’s been in production for 50 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030661\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01277-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Grape leaves, pickled olives and oils are on display in the window. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“At least three generations, the same shape, the same taste. Just [a] very simple thing,” Shehadeh said. “But it reminds people of their childhood back home, and they have memories with the food.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From the bottom shelf of the candy section, he picks up a glass jar holding candies shaped like fruit, something he remembers from when he was about six years old. “Back then, not many snacks were available where I grew up,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh moved here from Palestine in the early 1990s, when he was 22 years old.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The first time I came here, for me it was a culture shock,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He left a place where people socialized a lot. He said it was absolutely expected that people would knock on your door at any time. Here, he said, the expectation is privacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But during Ramadan, people gather: to worship, to be in community and to step away from material life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Mateo County is home to the largest \u003ca href=\"https://statisticalatlas.com/county/California/San-Mateo-County/Ancestry\">percentage\u003c/a> of Arabs of all faiths in the state of California. Even though it’s a small part of the total population, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.thearda.com/us-religion/census/congregational-membership?y=2020&y2=0&t=0&c=06081\">number\u003c/a> of Muslims here tripled in the last 15 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh said that when he moved to the U.S. from Palestine, he worked for UPS for years. Since he purchased Besan’s from a family friend 10 years ago, Shehadeh has made sure the store reflects the community. He even closes up shop for an hour on Fridays so he and other Muslims in the neighborhood can pray together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he gave a tour of Besan’s, Shehadeh received a call from a friend who’s not a strict Muslim. When he hung up, Shehadeh said with a laugh, “Some people call me to ask me, ‘When is Ramadan?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a fair question. Ramadan follows the lunar calendar, starting after the sighting of the new moon, which is the subject of an annual debate. The holiday moves up about ten days every year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030665\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030665\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_04292-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Employees (left to right) Rachid Mouhaya, Arif Shehadeh and Mahmood Al Nasr prepare to break fast behind the deli counter. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Souad Elibrami said shopping in a store like this brings her back to Morocco. “When you come to the Arabic store, you feel like your country,” she said. “Everyone is celebrating Ramadan, and I like it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She comes to Besan’s every month for staples: meat, chicken and semolina. For Ramadan, she’s preparing special dishes from her hometown of Casablanca.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We make \u003cem>chebakia\u003c/em>,” Elibrami said, of a dessert made from deep-fried strips of dough rolled into the shape of a rose. “We make soup, \u003cem>harira\u003c/em>, and sometimes \u003cem>tagine\u003c/em>,” she added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Besan’s isn’t just about tapping into nostalgia. Shehadeh keeps his eye on what’s trending on social media. He knows what his community wants, like Salaam Cola, for example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030658\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030658\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_00865-KQED-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shoppers stroll the aisles as sunset nears. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“That’s just a regular replacement for Coca-Cola, but it’s Turkish,” Shehadeh explained. “People who are boycotting Coca-Cola, they buy this.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pro-Palestinian activists have long scrutinized Coca-Cola’s operations in the Atarot Settlement Industrial Zone in Israeli-occupied Palestinian territory. \u003ca href=\"https://www.palestine-studies.org/en/node/1649529#endnote-019\">Israel forcibly removes\u003c/a> Palestinian communities in order to build settlements like Atarot. The United Nations has called such Israeli settlements a “\u003ca href=\"https://www.un.org/unispal/document/israeli-settlements-in-the-occupied-palestinian-territory-including-east-jerusalem-and-the-occupied-syrian-golan-report-of-the-secretary-general/\">flagrant\u003c/a>” violation of international law.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In opposition to Israel’s occupation of Palestine and their \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/live/2025/03/17/world/israel-gaza-airstrikes#tuesday-was-one-of-the-wars-deadlier-days-gaza-officials-say\">ongoing\u003c/a> bombardment in Gaza, global boycotts against reportedly complicit companies have surged. Coca-Cola and other U.S. megabrands like McDonald’s, Starbucks and KFC have all experienced a \u003ca href=\"https://washingtonpost.com/national-security/2024/08/12/coca-cola-boycott-israel-gaza/\">decline \u003c/a>in sales in regions that have had Palestine-related boycotts, the \u003cem>Washington Post\u003c/em> reported.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toward the back of the shop, a man navigated one of Besan’s narrow aisles, carrying a whole frozen lamb on his shoulder. Shehadeh explained that people can source their meat elsewhere and bring it here to be butchered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Of course, we have halal fresh meat,” he said, explaining that the meat has been butchered by Islamic guidelines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In shops like this, the relationship between butchers and customers is special: butchers need to have options for every budget and every background. It’s the most crowded corner of the store, with a growing line of people placing and picking up orders. Butcher Rachid Mouhaya took the order of one man ordering 12 pounds of goat meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He needs shoulder; he doesn’t like leg,” Mouhaya explained. “He wants something more juicy. Maybe he’s going to cook something like \u003cem>biryani\u003c/em>. I mean, he’s Indian.” Arab customers may want different cuts, different meats for dishes like \u003cem>maqluba, \u003c/em>he explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030662\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_BESANS-MARKET_DMB_01537-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kamal Boussaid cuts a quartered lamb in the walk-in cooler. Born in Algeria, Boussaid worked in a butcher shop in Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge neighborhood for years before getting married and moving to the Bay Area. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Mouhaya said he’s worked at Besan’s for four years and has been breaking down animals since he was a teenager, learning from butchers in Morocco and France. After he came to the Bay Area, he worked at halal butcher shops and at Indian and Pakistani restaurants while getting his Master in Business Administration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another customer approached the butcher counter to pick up an order. Joe Akhmed said he’s from Uzbekistan and was buying for the Central Asian restaurant Sofiya in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During Ramadan, the butcher counter is especially busy, but Mouhaya said he loves this time of year. He cooks for others and gets invited over. It’s a month of reflection, salvation and community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032523\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032523\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250308_Besans-Market_DMB_03105-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shehadeh stands in the afternoon sun along San Mateo Avenue in San Bruno. During Ramadan, he generally leaves the store before sundown so he can break fast with his family. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Shehadeh agreed. He said he’s proud to run this business that brings his neighbors closer together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m glad I can be part of it,” he said, supplying the community with the ingredients to gather and observe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This time of year, those things become more important. But for Shehadeh, Ramadan boils down to one thing: “To me, it’s my chance to go closer to my Creator,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in this shop, you can just feel a kind of communion — of faith, food and togetherness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "the-california-railroads-surprising-impact-on-food-and-civil-rights",
"title": "The California Railroad's Surprising Impact on Food and Civil Rights",
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"headTitle": "The California Railroad’s Surprising Impact on Food and Civil Rights | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Riding the Amtrak’s California Zephyr \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/bay-area\">from the Bay Area\u003c/a> to Chicago had always been an item on passengers Jamie Thomas and Shreya Jalan’s bucket lists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I always took trains with my dad,” Thomas told KQED. “My fondest memories are sitting with him, chatting or getting dinner together. It was a very good place to connect with people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This includes strangers. The dining car, where Thomas was seated next to fellow Bay Area resident Jalan, practices “community seating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The number of stories we get to hear and exchange, I think it’s really beautiful,” said Jalan, who didn’t know Thomas before the trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Growing up in California, fourth graders learn about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11910890/how-oaklands-16th-street-train-station-helped-build-west-oakland-and-the-modern-civil-rights-movement\">the transcontinental railroad\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/201507271000/stanford-project-unearths-personal-histories-of-chinese-railroad-workers-2\">the mostly Chinese laborers\u003c/a> who laid the track eastward from Sacramento, leveling, drilling and tunneling through the Sierra Nevada to connect with the westward tracks. The so-called “Big Four” railroad tycoons behind the construction — the Central Pacific Railroad — are also well-known. However, some of this history can get overlooked, like how the railroad – and its connection to food – shaped much of California’s story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018787\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018787\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Place settings in a dining car on display on Dec. 18, 2024, at the California State Railroad Museum. \u003ccite>(Kelly B. Huston/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trains would go on to make the Golden State a powerhouse. But innovation went hand in hand with exploitation of land and rail workers, whose resistance against discrimination led to breakthroughs in labor and civil rights. As author and archivist, Benjamin Jenkins put it, “The railroad really revolutionizes just about every part of California’s politics, society and economy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Laying The Tracks\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Some of the \u003ca href=\"https://dp.la/exhibitions/transcontinental-railroad/nation-transformed/connection-exclusion?item=967\">routes\u003c/a> of the Zephyr line parallels that of the first transcontinental railroad. One of the most beautiful train routes in the United States, Zephyr’s California path alone is stunning. Leaving Emeryville, near Oakland, it hugs the Bay before passing under the Carquinez Bridge and heading into the Delta, snaking by islands and waterways. After stopping in Sacramento, it climbs through California’s foothills, then into the Sierra Nevada.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On shorter routes, a lot of trains have cafe cars with drinks, snacks and pre-packaged food. But many of the longer Amtrak routes have dining cars like this one, with a full kitchen taking up the whole lower level. Diners mingle over white table cloths, flower vases and plastic plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_12029482 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/al-akbar-band-1020x686.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time the Central Pacific was completed in 1869, trains with \u003ca href=\"https://www.nyhistory.org/blogs/dining-in-transit-the-introduction-of-the-railroad\">dining cars\u003c/a> were already running out of Chicago. It would take California a while to catch up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Big Four had big plans. They purchased a small railroad line, the Southern Pacific, and expanded it dramatically, stretching from the Bay Area down to Los Angeles and across hundreds of miles to Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early days of the Southern Pacific, the Big Four had a near-monopoly in California. Riding the train was prohibitively expensive, but when a competing company — known as the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway — later reached Los Angeles, it caused a rate war. Tickets from Chicago to LA dropped from $125 to $1. Los Angeles went from cowtown to boomtown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, the train offered few amenities and people packed their own food to avoid terrible roadhouse meals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most of the people would make fried chicken and get on the train. They’d trade some of that fried chicken for pillows and [other goods],” said Lawrence Dale, who worked for the BNSF Railway Company for more than 42 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Standing at an exhibit at the \u003ca href=\"https://barstowrailmuseums.com/\">Western American Railroad Museum\u003c/a> in Barstow, Dale explained that the further the trains went, the less practical it was for passengers to bring all of their own food on a trip. And when there’s a business vacuum, someone will try to fill it. Enter Fred Harvey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018784\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018784\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lawrence Dale poses near an exhibit at the Western American Railroad Museum in Barstow on Dec. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The museum takes up a section of what was once Barstow’s Harvey House, a restaurant designed for train passengers right off the railroad tracks. For a building that’s more than 110 years old, it’s beautiful with columns, decorative brick arches and shaded walkways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In partnership with the Santa Fe railroad, Harvey built Harvey Houses every 100 miles. They served fancy cheeses, oysters, fruit, sirloin and generous slices of pie. Another big attraction: waitresses known as “Harvey Girls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Girls were young, single and almost always white.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All I can tell you about Harvey Girls is they were young women out of the Midwest,” said Dale. “They were brought in here by Fred Harvey and weren’t allowed to date. They weren’t allowed to do nothing except serve the people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, plenty of Harvey Girls did marry and relocate to farms and ranches across the West. While they were Harvey Girls, they worked long hours, lived in dorms under the watchful eyes of house mothers and were expected to meet strict standards of decorum and image, down to their uniform.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>White gloves, white full-cover apron with a black garment underneath.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018770\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018770\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1232\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-800x493.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1020x628.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1536x946.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1920x1183.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fred Harvey manager Victor Patrosso poses in front of the El Tovar Hotel in Grand Canyon National Park with a group of 20 Harvey Girls dressed in their evening uniform in 1926. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Bow in the back of the hair,” Dale said, pointing to a display. “They were all supposed to be dressed alike.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For passengers, eating at a Harvey House was an elevated dining experience, but it was more efficient than leisurely. Trains called in passengers’ orders ahead by telegraph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Say a westbound train pulled into Needles, a city in San Bernardino County. The conductor would come through the cars, taking orders and contact the next Harvey House down the line in Barstow, letting staff know how many people planned to eat and what time they’d arrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Passengers disembarked, sat in the well-appointed dining room and had a limited time to eat before the train left the station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Houses were a precursor to fast food and chain restaurants and they helped change the intent of train travel from something that was just utilitarian to an experience, according to Ty Smith, director of the California State Railroad Museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018769\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018769\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1190\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-800x476.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1020x607.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1536x914.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1920x1142.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Harvey girls and other employees pose in front of the Bright Angel Lodge in Grand Canyon National Park in 1915. \u003ccite>(T.L. Brown/National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Dining was at the heart of the transition from conveyance to experience,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sacramento, a city rich in railroad history, is the perfect home for the museum, where kids wearing conductor’s hats and blowing train whistles mingle with adult rail buffs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re two blocks from mile marker zero, where the Central Pacific Railroad started building from west to east,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the Gold Rush, trains transported picks and shovels and other goods from the city into the foothills to the miners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_11910890 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/04/16thStreetStationOakland_02162022-qut.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Foodways are embedded throughout the museum, too. Smith pointed out a display that holds artifacts of a Chinese workers camp: a ginger jar, a tea cup, a rice bowl, a glazed stoneware jar that stored vinegars and sauces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Chinese workers made up 90% of the labor force for the Central Pacific Railroad, they were in segregated camps, according to Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Chinese railroad workers didn’t get the same pay or food allowances that their Irish and other counterparts did,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even this small display illustrates the racism baked into the building of the railroads: the chasm between people who owned the railroads and the people who worked on them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The museum also has a sleeper car on a rocker to simulate the feeling of being on a train. It’s set up to show how the car would look both during the day and in the evening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the day, the upper berths would be folded up. The lower berths serve as comfy seats,” said Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019268\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"842\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-800x263.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1020x335.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1536x505.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-2048x673.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1920x631.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Interior view of the Harvey House Hotel between 1909-1910 in Barstow, California. The decor includes ceiling lamps, a clock, a potted palm, deco stencils and wooden chairs. (left): View of the Harvey House Hotel from the railroad tracks. The building, also called Casa del Desierto, was designed by Francis Wilson and includes arcades, balconies, and corbeled brick. \u003ccite>(G. M. Hamilton/Denver Public Library Special Collections)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At night, porters would unfold the upper berths and convert the seats to beds. Smith pointed to a little button passengers could push to call a porter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next to the sleeper car is a 1937 Cochiti dining car, which ran on Santa Fe’s Super Chief train between Chicago and Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That gives us a chance to talk about what it was like to dine on a train during the golden era of rail travel,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the narrow galley kitchen, it’s hard to imagine all the people needed to prepare three gourmet meals a day for 50 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The chef, people doing prep, mise-en-place,” Smith enumerated. “You’d have to find a cadence to work within the space. A lot of gleaming stainless steel-like surfaces — knives and graters and colanders and big soup pots.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018775\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1626px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018775\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1626\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg 1626w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-800x984.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1020x1255.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-160x197.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1249x1536.jpg 1249w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1626px) 100vw, 1626px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Unnamed railroad chef carving turkey in the narrow kitchen galley of a Baltimore and Ohio train, undated. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Called to the dining room by chimes, passengers would sit among abundant flower arrangements and intricate Art Deco metalwork. They ate at tables with tablecloths and off of china with patterns that reflected the route: poppies in California and animal images inspired by Native American art in the Southwest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Docent Allen Blum shared a menu for the Super Chief, including “ripe California colossal olives, grapefruit, orange and raisin fruit, swordfish steak, and poached salmon.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Menus often reflected cuisines and ingredients along the route. Blum said the Super Chief carried politicians and stars from Walt Disney to Jack Benny to Marilyn Monroe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was definitely considered first class,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Passengers on dining cars came to expect attentive service — one waiter per two tables. Smith explained that the businessman best known for railroad dining cars was George Pullman. He built and owned luxury train cars to appeal to passengers who wanted to travel in style, and he leased his cars to the railroads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Smith said Pullman was a master at branding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018772\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018772\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-800x648.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1020x826.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-160x130.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1536x1244.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1920x1555.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Group photograph of the ‘Owl’ Dining Car Crew (back row, left-right): Bert Hackett, unidentified, unidentified, Henry Earl (front row, left-right): Joe C. Brown, Arthur Johnson, unidentified, steward, Charles Williams, dated 1927. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Pullman is creating the romance of train travel,” he added. “To ride on a Pullman car means something, and this feeds his ability to lease these cars to the railroads.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Pullman built his business on the backs of the Black service workers he hired.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a luxurious experience, but a completely racialized experience,” said Susan Anderson, history curator at the California African American Museum. “From the appointment of the sleeping area to the dining car to the cuisine and the meals, the way that you were waited on, all of that was just premium. And all of it, on the Pullman cars, was provided by Black labor.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Engines of resistance\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>White men held positions like engineer and conductor. The servant-type jobs — porter, steward, cook, maid and waiter — were reserved for Black people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“George Pullman and the Pullman Company were explicit about this,” Anderson said. “They wanted white people to be waited on by Black people because, in our history, racism conflated being a slave or being a servant with being Black.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018776\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018776\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1186\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-800x474.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-1020x605.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-1536x911.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-1920x1139.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sunset Limited Pullman porters standing on train platform (left-right): George Kunnard, Eddie Hayes, Sam Dungey, S. Matthews, Albert Moore, McNally Ray, 1923, African American Museum & Library at Oakland Photograph collection, MS 189, African American Museum & Library at Oakland, Oakland Public Library. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Porters who did everything from turning down beds, carrying luggage and serving food were usually not addressed by their names. They were called “George” after Pullman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anderson said the subjugation of Black workers was a direct reflection of the way the U.S. economy was organized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So, that’s U.S. history. But Black history is that they took these positions and they made the most out of them, and they used them to the advantage of their own people and their own families,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many Black people saw railroad jobs as opportunities to broaden their horizons, bring money back home or leave Southern states altogether and move their families elsewhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“People who worked for the railroad got a lot of respect in the community,” said Anderson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her own family has a connection to railroad history. Anderson’s maternal great-grandfather was a chef on the railroad. His name was Edward Wilcox and his family was originally from Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018774\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018774\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1138\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-800x455.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1020x580.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-160x91.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1536x874.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1920x1092.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Four Pullman porters standing on sidewalk in an undated photograph, identified on the image’s reverse as C.L. Jones, Richardson, J. Simms. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They came to West Oakland in the late 19th century,” Anderson said. “They actually established a church in West Oakland. It’s still there, Bethlehem Lutheran Church. And that enclave was partly like a labor reserve for the Southern Pacific Railroad.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1926, the Pullman Company was \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13931436/frances-albrier-black-red-cross-naacp-richmond-shipyard-berkeley-wwii-seniors\">the largest single employer of African American workers\u003c/a> in the country, with over 10,000 porters and 200 maids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Anderson, a lot of intellectuals worked as porters or waiters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There were college men who had no other employment opportunities in a racist economy,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The railroad workers left a big legacy in American civic and cultural life. In his autobiography, Malcolm X wrote about selling sandwiches on trains. Renowned photographer \u003ca href=\"https://www.jstor.org/stable/3134060\">Gordon Parks\u003c/a> waited tables in dining cars. \u003ca href=\"https://www.baltimoresun.com/2021/03/25/pullman-porters-once-the-backbone-of-passenger-rail-service-laid-the-groundwork-for-what-became-the-civil-rights-movement/\">Thurgood Marshall\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1984/06/16/us/for-a-politician-power-and-riches-go-together.html\">Willie Brown\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1984/07/27/tom-bradley-beating-the-odds/78bf47b4-d24e-42ea-be97-dec78cae9723/\">Tom Bradley\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/My-Life-as-I-See-It/Dionne-Warwick/9781439171356\">Dionne Warwick\u003c/a> had fathers who were porters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12031165\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1597px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP.png\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12031165\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1597\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP.png 1597w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-1536x1039.png 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1597px) 100vw, 1597px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Delegates, 1st Porters’ national convention. At top, C. L. Dellums of Oakland’s 16th St. Station, who became the powerful Vice President of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters and later president. \u003ccite>(AAMLO Collection)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Railroad workers networked with each other across the country, sharing copies of Black-owned newspapers and other literature, including \u003cem>The Messenger\u003c/em>, a political and literary magazine for Black people that was founded by \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/garvey-philip-randolph/\">A. Phillip Randolph\u003c/a>, an influential civil rights activist and labor organizer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they began the effort to organize so that they could demand better wages, better working conditions for themselves, better hours,” Anderson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an oral history archived at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13834135/oakland-library-wins-grant-to-digitize-unused-footage-of-the-black-panther-party\">African American Museum & Library at Oakland\u003c/a>, former Oakland-based Pullman porter Cottrell Laurence (C.L.) Dellums said, “There was no limit on the number of hours. The company unilaterally set up the operation of the runs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dellums, whose late nephew, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101866505/remembering-former-oakland-mayor-congressman-ron-dellums\">Ron Dellums\u003c/a>, was a California congressman and former Oakland mayor, started working for Pullman in 1924. He said the salary at the time was $60 a month. Workloads for the porters was from 300 to over 400 hours a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018773\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1342px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018773\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1342\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg 1342w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-800x1192.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1020x1520.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1031x1536.jpg 1031w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1342px) 100vw, 1342px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Portrait of C.L. Dellums \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“And they provided what we said was just enough rest between trips for the porter to be able to make one more trip,” Dellums said in the audio recording. “Anybody could take the porter’s job. Not only any kind of Pullman official — from the lowest to the highest — could take his job. Anybody traveling as a passenger, even though it might be the first trip they’ve ever been on a train, they could write him up and get him fired.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kept out of the American Railway Union, Black workers founded the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters & Maids in 1925. Dellums began signing up workers for the union despite the risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I never heard of a war that there weren’t battles. And never, never heard of a battle without casualties … But I will be heard from. And so I did. And sure enough, of course, they did discharge me,” Dellums said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He eventually became one of the union’s vice presidents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took years, but the Brotherhood became the first Black union to be recognized by the American Federation of Labor. In 1937, they got a contract with Pullman, the first in history between a Black union and a large U.S. company. The union established an eight-hour work day, regulated work schedules and increased pay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Brotherhood influenced much more than service work on railroads. They were on the ground for many efforts during the civil rights movement, including the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the March on Washington.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>How railroads changed what and how we eat\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Along the California Zephyr’s route through the outskirts of Sacramento, intricate irrigation systems and crops in perfect rows reveal the railroad’s impact on agriculture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019265\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019265\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"789\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-800x316.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1020x402.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-160x63.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1536x606.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1920x757.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Two men loading boxes of chopped spinach into PFE mechanical reefer. (left): Preco mechanical car icer in operation in LA. \u003ccite>(Preco/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Archivist Benjamin Jenkins has written about the railroad’s impact on what we eat in his book, \u003cem>Octopus’s Garden: How Railroads and Citrus Transformed Southern California\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first entire railroad car full of oranges left Los Angeles for the Midwest in 1877, Jenkins told KQED. The oranges traveled on a refrigerator car packed with ice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It had to be re-iced 10 times going across the desert and the Badlands to make sure that the fruit didn’t spoil,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California’s produce industry took off a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But once it starts, it really never looks back,” Jenkins said. “So the explosion of new people, new crops as a result of the railroad bringing them in, and then shipping the goods out is just utterly transformative for California.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroads built “spur lines” off the main lines to access huge parts of the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=news_12027942 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/image4-e1740093867875-1020x1015.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Wherever the railroad goes, land values start to increase,” Jenkins said. “And so they are able to sell land at a premium.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jenkins explained that in many states, the government had given the railroads loans and gifted them enormous tracts of land. The idea was that after the tracks were built, the railroads could sell off much of the land at a profit to farmers who would build packing houses right on the tracks. There were fewer land grants of this kind in California, but railroad companies still secured rights of way — sometimes over Native reservations — and became major landowners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Communities tried to entice railroads to come their way as “citrus cities” began forming in the late 1800s along tracks, especially in Southern California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroads shipped out more than just produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Full-color advertising starts to appear in the late 19th and early 20th centuries selling a packaged California lifestyle,” Jenkins said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Southern Pacific Railroad launched Sunset Magazine as a part of this campaign to draw people out west.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wooden packing crates got loaded onto trains, sporting labels with illustrations of almost comically perfect produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All of these images show a perpetually sunny Golden State, the fruits of paradise being grown underneath these purple snow-capped mountains,” said Jenkins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The railroad even circulated California postcards, advertising the state as what Jenkins called a “new Eden,” an image that endured well beyond the heyday of train travel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story was produced as part of California Foodways with support from the Food and Environment Reporting Network and California Humanities, a nonprofit partner of National Endowment for the Humanities. Big thanks also go to the African American Museum and Library at Oakland, the library and archives at the California State Railroad Museum and Rachel Reinhard.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Riding the Amtrak’s California Zephyr \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/bay-area\">from the Bay Area\u003c/a> to Chicago had always been an item on passengers Jamie Thomas and Shreya Jalan’s bucket lists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I always took trains with my dad,” Thomas told KQED. “My fondest memories are sitting with him, chatting or getting dinner together. It was a very good place to connect with people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This includes strangers. The dining car, where Thomas was seated next to fellow Bay Area resident Jalan, practices “community seating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The number of stories we get to hear and exchange, I think it’s really beautiful,” said Jalan, who didn’t know Thomas before the trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Growing up in California, fourth graders learn about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11910890/how-oaklands-16th-street-train-station-helped-build-west-oakland-and-the-modern-civil-rights-movement\">the transcontinental railroad\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/201507271000/stanford-project-unearths-personal-histories-of-chinese-railroad-workers-2\">the mostly Chinese laborers\u003c/a> who laid the track eastward from Sacramento, leveling, drilling and tunneling through the Sierra Nevada to connect with the westward tracks. The so-called “Big Four” railroad tycoons behind the construction — the Central Pacific Railroad — are also well-known. However, some of this history can get overlooked, like how the railroad – and its connection to food – shaped much of California’s story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018787\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018787\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Place settings in a dining car on display on Dec. 18, 2024, at the California State Railroad Museum. \u003ccite>(Kelly B. Huston/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trains would go on to make the Golden State a powerhouse. But innovation went hand in hand with exploitation of land and rail workers, whose resistance against discrimination led to breakthroughs in labor and civil rights. As author and archivist, Benjamin Jenkins put it, “The railroad really revolutionizes just about every part of California’s politics, society and economy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Laying The Tracks\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Some of the \u003ca href=\"https://dp.la/exhibitions/transcontinental-railroad/nation-transformed/connection-exclusion?item=967\">routes\u003c/a> of the Zephyr line parallels that of the first transcontinental railroad. One of the most beautiful train routes in the United States, Zephyr’s California path alone is stunning. Leaving Emeryville, near Oakland, it hugs the Bay before passing under the Carquinez Bridge and heading into the Delta, snaking by islands and waterways. After stopping in Sacramento, it climbs through California’s foothills, then into the Sierra Nevada.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On shorter routes, a lot of trains have cafe cars with drinks, snacks and pre-packaged food. But many of the longer Amtrak routes have dining cars like this one, with a full kitchen taking up the whole lower level. Diners mingle over white table cloths, flower vases and plastic plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time the Central Pacific was completed in 1869, trains with \u003ca href=\"https://www.nyhistory.org/blogs/dining-in-transit-the-introduction-of-the-railroad\">dining cars\u003c/a> were already running out of Chicago. It would take California a while to catch up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Big Four had big plans. They purchased a small railroad line, the Southern Pacific, and expanded it dramatically, stretching from the Bay Area down to Los Angeles and across hundreds of miles to Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early days of the Southern Pacific, the Big Four had a near-monopoly in California. Riding the train was prohibitively expensive, but when a competing company — known as the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway — later reached Los Angeles, it caused a rate war. Tickets from Chicago to LA dropped from $125 to $1. Los Angeles went from cowtown to boomtown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, the train offered few amenities and people packed their own food to avoid terrible roadhouse meals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most of the people would make fried chicken and get on the train. They’d trade some of that fried chicken for pillows and [other goods],” said Lawrence Dale, who worked for the BNSF Railway Company for more than 42 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Standing at an exhibit at the \u003ca href=\"https://barstowrailmuseums.com/\">Western American Railroad Museum\u003c/a> in Barstow, Dale explained that the further the trains went, the less practical it was for passengers to bring all of their own food on a trip. And when there’s a business vacuum, someone will try to fill it. Enter Fred Harvey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018784\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018784\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/DSC08157-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lawrence Dale poses near an exhibit at the Western American Railroad Museum in Barstow on Dec. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The museum takes up a section of what was once Barstow’s Harvey House, a restaurant designed for train passengers right off the railroad tracks. For a building that’s more than 110 years old, it’s beautiful with columns, decorative brick arches and shaded walkways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In partnership with the Santa Fe railroad, Harvey built Harvey Houses every 100 miles. They served fancy cheeses, oysters, fruit, sirloin and generous slices of pie. Another big attraction: waitresses known as “Harvey Girls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Girls were young, single and almost always white.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All I can tell you about Harvey Girls is they were young women out of the Midwest,” said Dale. “They were brought in here by Fred Harvey and weren’t allowed to date. They weren’t allowed to do nothing except serve the people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, plenty of Harvey Girls did marry and relocate to farms and ranches across the West. While they were Harvey Girls, they worked long hours, lived in dorms under the watchful eyes of house mothers and were expected to meet strict standards of decorum and image, down to their uniform.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>White gloves, white full-cover apron with a black garment underneath.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018770\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018770\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1232\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-800x493.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1020x628.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1536x946.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1920x1183.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fred Harvey manager Victor Patrosso poses in front of the El Tovar Hotel in Grand Canyon National Park with a group of 20 Harvey Girls dressed in their evening uniform in 1926. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Bow in the back of the hair,” Dale said, pointing to a display. “They were all supposed to be dressed alike.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For passengers, eating at a Harvey House was an elevated dining experience, but it was more efficient than leisurely. Trains called in passengers’ orders ahead by telegraph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Say a westbound train pulled into Needles, a city in San Bernardino County. The conductor would come through the cars, taking orders and contact the next Harvey House down the line in Barstow, letting staff know how many people planned to eat and what time they’d arrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Passengers disembarked, sat in the well-appointed dining room and had a limited time to eat before the train left the station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Houses were a precursor to fast food and chain restaurants and they helped change the intent of train travel from something that was just utilitarian to an experience, according to Ty Smith, director of the California State Railroad Museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018769\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018769\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1190\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-800x476.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1020x607.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1536x914.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1920x1142.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Harvey girls and other employees pose in front of the Bright Angel Lodge in Grand Canyon National Park in 1915. \u003ccite>(T.L. Brown/National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Dining was at the heart of the transition from conveyance to experience,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sacramento, a city rich in railroad history, is the perfect home for the museum, where kids wearing conductor’s hats and blowing train whistles mingle with adult rail buffs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re two blocks from mile marker zero, where the Central Pacific Railroad started building from west to east,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the Gold Rush, trains transported picks and shovels and other goods from the city into the foothills to the miners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Foodways are embedded throughout the museum, too. Smith pointed out a display that holds artifacts of a Chinese workers camp: a ginger jar, a tea cup, a rice bowl, a glazed stoneware jar that stored vinegars and sauces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Chinese workers made up 90% of the labor force for the Central Pacific Railroad, they were in segregated camps, according to Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Chinese railroad workers didn’t get the same pay or food allowances that their Irish and other counterparts did,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even this small display illustrates the racism baked into the building of the railroads: the chasm between people who owned the railroads and the people who worked on them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The museum also has a sleeper car on a rocker to simulate the feeling of being on a train. It’s set up to show how the car would look both during the day and in the evening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the day, the upper berths would be folded up. The lower berths serve as comfy seats,” said Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019268\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"842\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-800x263.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1020x335.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1536x505.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-2048x673.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1920x631.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Interior view of the Harvey House Hotel between 1909-1910 in Barstow, California. The decor includes ceiling lamps, a clock, a potted palm, deco stencils and wooden chairs. (left): View of the Harvey House Hotel from the railroad tracks. The building, also called Casa del Desierto, was designed by Francis Wilson and includes arcades, balconies, and corbeled brick. \u003ccite>(G. M. Hamilton/Denver Public Library Special Collections)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At night, porters would unfold the upper berths and convert the seats to beds. Smith pointed to a little button passengers could push to call a porter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next to the sleeper car is a 1937 Cochiti dining car, which ran on Santa Fe’s Super Chief train between Chicago and Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That gives us a chance to talk about what it was like to dine on a train during the golden era of rail travel,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the narrow galley kitchen, it’s hard to imagine all the people needed to prepare three gourmet meals a day for 50 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The chef, people doing prep, mise-en-place,” Smith enumerated. “You’d have to find a cadence to work within the space. A lot of gleaming stainless steel-like surfaces — knives and graters and colanders and big soup pots.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018775\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1626px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018775\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1626\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg 1626w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-800x984.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1020x1255.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-160x197.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1249x1536.jpg 1249w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1626px) 100vw, 1626px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Unnamed railroad chef carving turkey in the narrow kitchen galley of a Baltimore and Ohio train, undated. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Called to the dining room by chimes, passengers would sit among abundant flower arrangements and intricate Art Deco metalwork. They ate at tables with tablecloths and off of china with patterns that reflected the route: poppies in California and animal images inspired by Native American art in the Southwest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Docent Allen Blum shared a menu for the Super Chief, including “ripe California colossal olives, grapefruit, orange and raisin fruit, swordfish steak, and poached salmon.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Menus often reflected cuisines and ingredients along the route. Blum said the Super Chief carried politicians and stars from Walt Disney to Jack Benny to Marilyn Monroe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was definitely considered first class,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Passengers on dining cars came to expect attentive service — one waiter per two tables. Smith explained that the businessman best known for railroad dining cars was George Pullman. He built and owned luxury train cars to appeal to passengers who wanted to travel in style, and he leased his cars to the railroads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Smith said Pullman was a master at branding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018772\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018772\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-800x648.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1020x826.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-160x130.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1536x1244.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1920x1555.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Group photograph of the ‘Owl’ Dining Car Crew (back row, left-right): Bert Hackett, unidentified, unidentified, Henry Earl (front row, left-right): Joe C. Brown, Arthur Johnson, unidentified, steward, Charles Williams, dated 1927. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Pullman is creating the romance of train travel,” he added. “To ride on a Pullman car means something, and this feeds his ability to lease these cars to the railroads.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Pullman built his business on the backs of the Black service workers he hired.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a luxurious experience, but a completely racialized experience,” said Susan Anderson, history curator at the California African American Museum. “From the appointment of the sleeping area to the dining car to the cuisine and the meals, the way that you were waited on, all of that was just premium. And all of it, on the Pullman cars, was provided by Black labor.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Engines of resistance\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>White men held positions like engineer and conductor. The servant-type jobs — porter, steward, cook, maid and waiter — were reserved for Black people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“George Pullman and the Pullman Company were explicit about this,” Anderson said. “They wanted white people to be waited on by Black people because, in our history, racism conflated being a slave or being a servant with being Black.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018776\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018776\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1186\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-800x474.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-1020x605.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-1536x911.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1997-1920x1139.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sunset Limited Pullman porters standing on train platform (left-right): George Kunnard, Eddie Hayes, Sam Dungey, S. Matthews, Albert Moore, McNally Ray, 1923, African American Museum & Library at Oakland Photograph collection, MS 189, African American Museum & Library at Oakland, Oakland Public Library. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Porters who did everything from turning down beds, carrying luggage and serving food were usually not addressed by their names. They were called “George” after Pullman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anderson said the subjugation of Black workers was a direct reflection of the way the U.S. economy was organized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So, that’s U.S. history. But Black history is that they took these positions and they made the most out of them, and they used them to the advantage of their own people and their own families,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many Black people saw railroad jobs as opportunities to broaden their horizons, bring money back home or leave Southern states altogether and move their families elsewhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“People who worked for the railroad got a lot of respect in the community,” said Anderson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her own family has a connection to railroad history. Anderson’s maternal great-grandfather was a chef on the railroad. His name was Edward Wilcox and his family was originally from Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018774\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018774\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1138\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-800x455.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1020x580.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-160x91.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1536x874.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1920x1092.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Four Pullman porters standing on sidewalk in an undated photograph, identified on the image’s reverse as C.L. Jones, Richardson, J. Simms. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They came to West Oakland in the late 19th century,” Anderson said. “They actually established a church in West Oakland. It’s still there, Bethlehem Lutheran Church. And that enclave was partly like a labor reserve for the Southern Pacific Railroad.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1926, the Pullman Company was \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13931436/frances-albrier-black-red-cross-naacp-richmond-shipyard-berkeley-wwii-seniors\">the largest single employer of African American workers\u003c/a> in the country, with over 10,000 porters and 200 maids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Anderson, a lot of intellectuals worked as porters or waiters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There were college men who had no other employment opportunities in a racist economy,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The railroad workers left a big legacy in American civic and cultural life. In his autobiography, Malcolm X wrote about selling sandwiches on trains. Renowned photographer \u003ca href=\"https://www.jstor.org/stable/3134060\">Gordon Parks\u003c/a> waited tables in dining cars. \u003ca href=\"https://www.baltimoresun.com/2021/03/25/pullman-porters-once-the-backbone-of-passenger-rail-service-laid-the-groundwork-for-what-became-the-civil-rights-movement/\">Thurgood Marshall\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1984/06/16/us/for-a-politician-power-and-riches-go-together.html\">Willie Brown\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1984/07/27/tom-bradley-beating-the-odds/78bf47b4-d24e-42ea-be97-dec78cae9723/\">Tom Bradley\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/My-Life-as-I-See-It/Dionne-Warwick/9781439171356\">Dionne Warwick\u003c/a> had fathers who were porters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12031165\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1597px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP.png\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12031165\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1597\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP.png 1597w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/BSCP-1536x1039.png 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1597px) 100vw, 1597px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Delegates, 1st Porters’ national convention. At top, C. L. Dellums of Oakland’s 16th St. Station, who became the powerful Vice President of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters and later president. \u003ccite>(AAMLO Collection)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Railroad workers networked with each other across the country, sharing copies of Black-owned newspapers and other literature, including \u003cem>The Messenger\u003c/em>, a political and literary magazine for Black people that was founded by \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/garvey-philip-randolph/\">A. Phillip Randolph\u003c/a>, an influential civil rights activist and labor organizer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they began the effort to organize so that they could demand better wages, better working conditions for themselves, better hours,” Anderson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an oral history archived at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13834135/oakland-library-wins-grant-to-digitize-unused-footage-of-the-black-panther-party\">African American Museum & Library at Oakland\u003c/a>, former Oakland-based Pullman porter Cottrell Laurence (C.L.) Dellums said, “There was no limit on the number of hours. The company unilaterally set up the operation of the runs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dellums, whose late nephew, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101866505/remembering-former-oakland-mayor-congressman-ron-dellums\">Ron Dellums\u003c/a>, was a California congressman and former Oakland mayor, started working for Pullman in 1924. He said the salary at the time was $60 a month. Workloads for the porters was from 300 to over 400 hours a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018773\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1342px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018773\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1342\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg 1342w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-800x1192.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1020x1520.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1031x1536.jpg 1031w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1342px) 100vw, 1342px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Portrait of C.L. Dellums \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“And they provided what we said was just enough rest between trips for the porter to be able to make one more trip,” Dellums said in the audio recording. “Anybody could take the porter’s job. Not only any kind of Pullman official — from the lowest to the highest — could take his job. Anybody traveling as a passenger, even though it might be the first trip they’ve ever been on a train, they could write him up and get him fired.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kept out of the American Railway Union, Black workers founded the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters & Maids in 1925. Dellums began signing up workers for the union despite the risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I never heard of a war that there weren’t battles. And never, never heard of a battle without casualties … But I will be heard from. And so I did. And sure enough, of course, they did discharge me,” Dellums said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He eventually became one of the union’s vice presidents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took years, but the Brotherhood became the first Black union to be recognized by the American Federation of Labor. In 1937, they got a contract with Pullman, the first in history between a Black union and a large U.S. company. The union established an eight-hour work day, regulated work schedules and increased pay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Brotherhood influenced much more than service work on railroads. They were on the ground for many efforts during the civil rights movement, including the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the March on Washington.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>How railroads changed what and how we eat\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Along the California Zephyr’s route through the outskirts of Sacramento, intricate irrigation systems and crops in perfect rows reveal the railroad’s impact on agriculture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019265\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019265\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"789\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-800x316.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1020x402.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-160x63.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1536x606.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1920x757.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Two men loading boxes of chopped spinach into PFE mechanical reefer. (left): Preco mechanical car icer in operation in LA. \u003ccite>(Preco/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Archivist Benjamin Jenkins has written about the railroad’s impact on what we eat in his book, \u003cem>Octopus’s Garden: How Railroads and Citrus Transformed Southern California\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first entire railroad car full of oranges left Los Angeles for the Midwest in 1877, Jenkins told KQED. The oranges traveled on a refrigerator car packed with ice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It had to be re-iced 10 times going across the desert and the Badlands to make sure that the fruit didn’t spoil,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California’s produce industry took off a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But once it starts, it really never looks back,” Jenkins said. “So the explosion of new people, new crops as a result of the railroad bringing them in, and then shipping the goods out is just utterly transformative for California.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroads built “spur lines” off the main lines to access huge parts of the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Wherever the railroad goes, land values start to increase,” Jenkins said. “And so they are able to sell land at a premium.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jenkins explained that in many states, the government had given the railroads loans and gifted them enormous tracts of land. The idea was that after the tracks were built, the railroads could sell off much of the land at a profit to farmers who would build packing houses right on the tracks. There were fewer land grants of this kind in California, but railroad companies still secured rights of way — sometimes over Native reservations — and became major landowners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Communities tried to entice railroads to come their way as “citrus cities” began forming in the late 1800s along tracks, especially in Southern California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroads shipped out more than just produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Full-color advertising starts to appear in the late 19th and early 20th centuries selling a packaged California lifestyle,” Jenkins said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Southern Pacific Railroad launched Sunset Magazine as a part of this campaign to draw people out west.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wooden packing crates got loaded onto trains, sporting labels with illustrations of almost comically perfect produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All of these images show a perpetually sunny Golden State, the fruits of paradise being grown underneath these purple snow-capped mountains,” said Jenkins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The railroad even circulated California postcards, advertising the state as what Jenkins called a “new Eden,” an image that endured well beyond the heyday of train travel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story was produced as part of California Foodways with support from the Food and Environment Reporting Network and California Humanities, a nonprofit partner of National Endowment for the Humanities. Big thanks also go to the African American Museum and Library at Oakland, the library and archives at the California State Railroad Museum and Rachel Reinhard.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "all-aboard-how-railroad-cars-and-workers-shaped-race-relations-and-agriculture-in-california",
"title": "The Railroad's Surprising Impact on Food and Civil Rights in California",
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"headTitle": "The Railroad’s Surprising Impact on Food and Civil Rights in California | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A lot of kids growing up in California learn about the transcontinental railroad in the fourth grade, and the mostly Chinese laborers who laid the track eastward from Sacramento: leveling, drilling, and tunneling through the Sierra Nevada to meet the tracks that were being built east to west. The so-called “Big Four” railroad tycoons behind this western construction — the Central Pacific Railroad — are also well-known. But some of this history can get overlooked, like how the railroad — and its connection to food — shaped much of California’s story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of the route of Amtrak’s California Zephyr line parallels that of the first transcontinental railroad. One of the most beautiful train routes in the United States, Zephyr’s California path alone is stunning. Leaving Emeryville, near Oakland, it hugs the Bay before passing under the Carquinez Bridge and heading into the Delta, with its islands and snaking waterways. After stopping in Sacramento it climbs through California’s foothills, then into the Sierra Nevada.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people ride the California Zephyr just to get from point A to point B. Others, like passenger Jamie Thomas, fly to the Zephyr’s starting point in Chicago just to ride it home to the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I always took trains with my dad,” Thomas said. “My fondest memories are sitting with him, chatting or getting dinner together. It was a very good place to connect with people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Connecting with strangers, even. The dining car — where Thomas was seated next to fellow Bay Area resident Shreya Jalan — practices “community seating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The number of stories we get to hear and exchange, I think it’s really beautiful,” said Jalan, who didn’t know Thomas before the trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On shorter routes, a lot of trains have cafe cars, with drinks, snacks and pre-packaged food. But many of the longer Amtrak routes have dining cars like this one, with a full kitchen taking up the whole lower level of this train car. White table cloths and flower vases offset the plastic plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018787\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018787\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Place settings in a dining car on display at the California State Railroad Museum. \u003ccite>(Kelly B. Huston/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trains would go on to make the Golden State a farming powerhouse. Track-side restaurants and dining cars were precursors to chain restaurants and luxury travel dining. But innovation went hand in hand with exploitation of land and workers, whose resistance against discrimination led to breakthroughs in labor and civil rights. As author and archivist Benjamin Jenkins put it, “The railroad really revolutionizes just about every part of California’s politics, society and economy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Laying the tracks\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the time the Central Pacific was completed in 1869, trains with dining cars were already running out of Chicago. It would take California a while to catch up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Big Four had big plans. They bought another railroad line, a tiny one called the Southern Pacific, and expanded it dramatically from the Bay Area, down to Los Angeles over hundreds of miles all the way out to Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early days of the Southern Pacific, the Big Four had a near-monopoly in California. Riding the train was prohibitively expensive, but when a competing company — the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway — later reached Los Angeles, it caused a rate war. Tickets from Chicago to LA dropped from $125 to $1. Los Angeles went from cowtown to boom town.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, the train offered few amenities, and people packed their own food to avoid terrible roadhouse meals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most of the people would make fried chicken and get on the train. They’d trade some of that fried chicken for pillows and stuff,” said Lawrence Dale, who worked for BNSF Railroad for more than forty-two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Standing at an exhibit at the Western American Railroad Museum in Barstow, Dale explained that, the further the trains went, the less practical it was for passengers to bring all of their own food on a trip. And when there’s a business vacuum, someone will try to fill it. Enter Fred Harvey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018770\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018770\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1232\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-800x493.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1020x628.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1536x946.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1920x1183.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fred Harvey manager Victor Patrosso with a group of 20 Harvey Girls in evening uniform, standing by El Tovar Hotel in 1926. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The museum takes up a section of what was once Barstow’s Harvey House, a restaurant designed for train passengers, right off the railroad tracks. It’s beautiful — for a building that’s more than 110 years old — with columns, decorative brick arches, and shaded walkways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In partnership with the Santa Fe railroad, Fred Harvey built Harvey Houses every 100 miles. They served fancy cheeses, oysters, fruit, sirloin, and generous slices of pie. Another big attraction: waitresses known as “Harvey Girls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Girls were young, single, and almost always white.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All I can tell you about Harvey Girls is they were young women out of the Midwest,” said Dale. “They were brought in here by Fred Harvey, and weren’t allowed to date. They weren’t allowed to do nothing except serve the people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018769\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018769\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1190\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-800x476.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1020x607.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1536x914.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1920x1142.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘Fred Harvey Bunch,’ or 13 Fred Harvey employees by Bright Angel Hotel in 1915. \u003ccite>(T.L. Brown/National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Of course, plenty of Harvey Girls did marry, and relocate to farms and ranches across the West. While they were Harvey Girls, they worked long hours, lived in dorms under the watchful eyes of house mothers, and were expected to meet strict standards of decorum and image, down to their uniform.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>White gloves, white full cover apron with a black garment underneath. Bow in the back of the hair,” Dale said, pointing to a display. “They were all supposed to be dressed alike.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For passengers, eating at a Harvey House was an elevated dining experience, but it was more efficient than leisurely. Trains called in passengers’ orders ahead by telegraph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Say a west-bound train pulled into Needles, Calif. The conductor would come through the cars, taking orders, and contact the next Harvey House down the line in Barstow, letting staff know how many people planned to eat, and what time they’d arrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019268\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"842\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-800x263.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1020x335.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1536x505.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-2048x673.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1920x631.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Interior view of the Harvey House Hotel between 1909-1910 in Barstow, Calif. The decor includes ceiling lamps, a clock, a potted palm, deco stencils and wooden chairs. (left): View of the Harvey House Hotel from the railroad tracks. The building, also called Casa del Desierto, was designed by Francis Wilson, and includes arcades, balconies, and corbeled brick. \u003ccite>(G. M. Hamilton/Denver Public Library Special Collections)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Passengers disembarked, sat in the well-appointed dining room, and had a limited time to eat, before the train left the station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Houses were a precursor to fast food and chain restaurants, and they helped change the intent of train travel from something that was just utilitarian, to an experience, according to Ty Smith, director of the California State Railroad Museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Dining was at the heart of the transition from conveyance to experience,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sacramento — a city rich in railroad history — is the perfect home for this museum, where kids wearing conductor’s hats and blowing train whistles mingle with adult rail buffs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re two blocks from mile marker zero, where the Central Pacific Railroad started building from west to east,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even earlier, during the Gold Rush, trains transported picks and shovels and other goods from the city into the foothills to the miners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Foodways are embedded throughout the museum, too. Smith points out a display that holds artifacts of a Chinese workers camp: a ginger jar, a tea cup, a rice bowl, a glazed stoneware jar that stored vinegars and sauces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Chinese workers made up 90% of the labor force for the Central Pacific Railroad, they were in segregated camps, according to Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Chinese railroad workers didn’t get the same pay or food allowances that their Irish and other counterparts did,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even this small display illustrates the racism baked into the building of the railroads: the chasm between people who owned the railroads and the people who worked on them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The museum also has a sleeper car on a rocker, to simulate the feeling of being on a train. It’s set up to show how the car would look in both day and evening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the day, the upper berths would be folded up. The lower berths serve as comfy seats,” said Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At night, porters would unfold the upper berths and convert the seats to create beds. Smith pointed to a little button passengers could push to call a porter, if they wanted anything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next to the sleeper car is a 1937 Cochiti dining car, which ran on Santa Fe’s Super Chief train between Chicago and Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That gives us a chance to talk about what it was like to dine on a train during the golden era of rail travel,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the narrow galley kitchen, it’s hard to imagine all the people needed to work here, to prepare three gourmet meals a day for 50 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018775\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1626px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018775\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1626\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg 1626w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-800x984.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1020x1255.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-160x197.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1249x1536.jpg 1249w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1626px) 100vw, 1626px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Railroad chef in narrow kitchen cutting turkey, undated. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The chef, people doing prep, \u003cem>mise-en-place\u003c/em>,” Smith enumerated. “You’d have to find a cadence to work within the space. A lot of gleaming stainless steel-like surfaces: knives and graters and colanders and big soup pots.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this was perfectly organized for a tiny space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Called to the dining room by chimes, passengers would sit among abundant flower arrangements and intricate Art Deco metalwork. They ate at tables with tablecloths and off of china with patterns that reflected the route: poppies in California, and animal images inspired by Native American art in the Southwest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Docent Allen Blum shared a menu for the Super Chief, including “ripe California colossal olives, grapefruit, orange and raisin fruit, swordfish steak, and poached salmon.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Menus, like this California-influenced one, often reflected cuisines and ingredients along the route.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Blum said the Super Chief carried politicians and stars from Walt Disney and Jack Benny to Marilyn Monroe, in later years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was definitely considered first class,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Passengers on dining cars came to expect attentive service — one waiter per two tables. Smith explained that the businessman best known for railroad dining cars was George Pullman. He built and owned luxury train cars to appeal to passengers who wanted to travel in style, and he leased his cars to the railroads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>George Pullman was a master at branding, Smith added “Pullman is creating the romance of train travel. To ride on a Pullman car means something, and this feeds his ability to lease these cars to the railroads.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But George Pullman built this image and his business on the backs of the Black service workers he hired.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a luxurious experience, but a completely racialized experience,” said Susan Anderson, history curator at the California African American Museum. “From the appointment of the sleeping area to the dining car to the cuisine and the meals, the way that you were waited on, all of that was just premium. And all of it, on the Pullman cars, was provided by Black labor.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Engines of resistance\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>White men held positions like engineer and conductor. The servant-type jobs were the ones that were reserved for Black people on the trains: porter, steward, cook, maid and waiter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“George Pullman and the Pullman Company were explicit about this,” Anderson said. “They wanted white people to be waited on by Black people, because in our history, racism conflated being a slave or being a servant with being Black.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018772\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018772\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-800x648.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1020x826.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-160x130.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1536x1244.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1920x1555.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Group photograph of the ‘Owl’ Dining Car Crew (back row, left-right): Bert Hackett, unidentified, unidentified, Henry Earl (front row, left-right): Joe C. Brown, Arthur Johnson, unidentified, steward, Charles Williams, in 1927. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Porters — who did everything from turning down beds, carrying luggage, and serving food — were usually not addressed by their own names. They were called “George,” after George Pullman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Susan Anderson said the subjugation of Black workers on trains was a direct reflection of the way the U.S. economy was organized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So, that’s U.S. history. But Black history is that they took these positions and they made the most out of them, and they used them to the advantage of their own people and their own families.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many African Americans saw railroad jobs as opportunities to broaden their horizons, bring money back home or leave Southern states altogether and move their families elsewhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“People who worked for the railroad got a lot of respect in the community,” said Anderson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her own family has a connection to railroad history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One of my great-grandfathers — my mother’s father’s father — was a chef on the railroad,” she explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His name was Edward Wilcox, and his family was originally from Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They came to West Oakland in the late 19th century. They actually established a church in West Oakland. It’s still there: Bethlehem Lutheran Church. And that enclave was partly like a labor reserve for the Southern Pacific Railroad,” said Anderson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1926, the Pullman Company was the largest single employer of African American workers in the country, with over 10,000 porters and 200 maids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anderson explained, a lot of intellectuals ended up working as porters or waiters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018774\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018774\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1138\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-800x455.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1020x580.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-160x91.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1536x874.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1920x1092.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Four Pullman porters stand on a sidewalk. On the reverse is written ‘CL Jones, Richardson, J. Simms.’ \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There were college men who had no other employment opportunities in a racist economy,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These railroad men left a big legacy in American civic and cultural life. In his autobiography, Malcolm X wrote about selling sandwiches on trains. Renowned photographer Gordon Parks waited tables in dining cars. Thurgood Marshall, Willie Brown, Tom Bradley and Dionne Warwick all had fathers who were porters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroad workers networked with each other across the country, sharing copies of Black-owned newspapers and other literature, including \u003cem>The Messenger\u003c/em>, founded by influential civil rights activist and labor organizer A. Phillip Randolph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they began the effort to organize so that they could demand better wages, better working conditions for themselves, better hours,” Anderson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an oral history archived at the African American Museum & Library at Oakland, former Oakland-based Pullman porter Cottrell Laurence (C.L.) Dellums explained: “There was no limit on the number of hours. The company unilaterally set up the operation of the runs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018773\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-12018773 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-800x1192.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1192\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-800x1192.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1020x1520.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1031x1536.jpg 1031w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg 1342w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A portrait of Oakland’s civil rights and labor activist hero C.L. Dellums. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Dellums, whose nephew Ron Dellums was the late California congressman and former Oakland mayor, started working for the Pullman company in 1924. He said the salary at the time was $60 a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they provided what we said was just enough rest between trips for the porter to be able to make one more trip,” C.L. Dellums said, in the audio recording. Workloads for the porters varied from 300 to over 400 hours a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anybody could take the porter’s job. Not only any kind of Pullman official — from the lowest to the highest — could take his job. Anybody traveling as a passenger, even though it might be the first trip they’ve ever been on a train, they could write him up and get him fired.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kept out of the American Railway Union, African Americans founded the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters & Maids in 1925, and C.L. Dellums began signing up workers for the union, despite the risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I never heard of a war that there weren’t battles. And never, never heard of a battle without casualties … But I will be heard from. And so I did. And sure enough, of course, they did discharge me,” Dellums said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He eventually became one of the union’s vice presidents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took years, but the Brotherhood became the first Black union to be recognized by the American Federation of Labor. In 1937, they got a contract with Pullman, the first in history between a Black union and a large U.S. Company. They established an eight-hour work day, regulated work schedules, and increased pay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Brotherhood influenced much more than service work on railroads. They helped push through the desegregation of the defense industry during World War II. And they were on the ground for many efforts during the Civil Rights Movement — including the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and the March on Washington.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We tend to pay a lot of attention to these big historic moments, but they only were possible after decades of networking and organizing by the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The people behind the simple act of railroad dining changed California, and the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>How railroads changed what and how we eat\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Along the California Zephyr’s route through the outskirts of Sacramento, intricate irrigation systems and crops in perfect rows reveal the railroad’s impact on agriculture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Archivist Benjamin Jenkins has written about the railroad’s impact on what we eat in his book, \u003cem>Octopus’s Garden: How Railroads and Citrus Transformed Southern California\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The first entire railroad car full of oranges left Los Angeles for the Midwest in 1877,” Jenkins told KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those oranges traveled by a refrigerator car, packed with ice. “It had to be re-iced 10 times, going across the desert and the Badlands to make sure that the fruit didn’t spoil,” he explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took California’s produce industry about a decade after that to take off. “But once it starts, it really never looks back,” Jenkins said, “So the explosion of new people, new crops as a result of the railroad bringing them in, and then shipping the goods out, is just utterly transformative for California.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroads built “spur lines” off the main lines to access huge parts of the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Wherever the railroad goes, land values start to increase,” Jenkins said. “And so they are able to sell land at a premium.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jenkins explained that in many states, the government had given the railroads loans, and gifted them enormous tracts of land. The idea was that after the tracks were built, the railroads could sell off much of that land at a profit to farmers, who’d build packing houses right on the railroad tracks. There were fewer of these kinds of land grants in California, but the railroad companies still got rights of way — sometimes over Native People’s reservations — and became huge landowners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Communities tried to entice railroads to come their way. Entire “citrus cities” began forming in the late 1800s along the railroads, especially in Southern California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019265\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019265\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"789\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-800x316.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1020x402.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-160x63.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1536x606.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1920x757.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Two men loading boxes of chopped spinach into PFE mechanical reefer. (left): The Preco mechanical car icer was designed to keep produce fresh on cross-country journeys. \u003ccite>(Preco/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Railroads shipped out more than just produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Full color advertising starts to appear in the late 19th and early 20th centuries selling a packaged California lifestyle.” The Southern Pacific Railroad launched \u003cem>Sunset Magazine\u003c/em> as a part of this campaign to draw people out west.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wooden packing crates got loaded onto trains, sporting labels with illustrations of almost comically-perfect produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All of these images show a perpetually sunny Golden State, the fruits of paradise being grown underneath these purple snow-capped mountains,” said Jenkins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The railroad even circulated California postcards, advertising the state as what Jenkins called a “new Eden,” an image that would endure — well beyond the heyday of train travel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story was produced as part of California Foodways with support from the Food and Environment Reporting Network, and California Humanities, a nonprofit partner of National Endowment for the Humanities. Big thanks also go to the African American Museum and Library at Oakland, the library and archives at the California State Railroad Museum, and Rachel Reinhard.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A lot of kids growing up in California learn about the transcontinental railroad in the fourth grade, and the mostly Chinese laborers who laid the track eastward from Sacramento: leveling, drilling, and tunneling through the Sierra Nevada to meet the tracks that were being built east to west. The so-called “Big Four” railroad tycoons behind this western construction — the Central Pacific Railroad — are also well-known. But some of this history can get overlooked, like how the railroad — and its connection to food — shaped much of California’s story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of the route of Amtrak’s California Zephyr line parallels that of the first transcontinental railroad. One of the most beautiful train routes in the United States, Zephyr’s California path alone is stunning. Leaving Emeryville, near Oakland, it hugs the Bay before passing under the Carquinez Bridge and heading into the Delta, with its islands and snaking waterways. After stopping in Sacramento it climbs through California’s foothills, then into the Sierra Nevada.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people ride the California Zephyr just to get from point A to point B. Others, like passenger Jamie Thomas, fly to the Zephyr’s starting point in Chicago just to ride it home to the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I always took trains with my dad,” Thomas said. “My fondest memories are sitting with him, chatting or getting dinner together. It was a very good place to connect with people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Connecting with strangers, even. The dining car — where Thomas was seated next to fellow Bay Area resident Shreya Jalan — practices “community seating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The number of stories we get to hear and exchange, I think it’s really beautiful,” said Jalan, who didn’t know Thomas before the trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On shorter routes, a lot of trains have cafe cars, with drinks, snacks and pre-packaged food. But many of the longer Amtrak routes have dining cars like this one, with a full kitchen taking up the whole lower level of this train car. White table cloths and flower vases offset the plastic plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018787\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018787\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM-Roster-Cochiti-Dining_2024-03-27_A7R5393_HighRes-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Place settings in a dining car on display at the California State Railroad Museum. \u003ccite>(Kelly B. Huston/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trains would go on to make the Golden State a farming powerhouse. Track-side restaurants and dining cars were precursors to chain restaurants and luxury travel dining. But innovation went hand in hand with exploitation of land and workers, whose resistance against discrimination led to breakthroughs in labor and civil rights. As author and archivist Benjamin Jenkins put it, “The railroad really revolutionizes just about every part of California’s politics, society and economy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Laying the tracks\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the time the Central Pacific was completed in 1869, trains with dining cars were already running out of Chicago. It would take California a while to catch up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Big Four had big plans. They bought another railroad line, a tiny one called the Southern Pacific, and expanded it dramatically from the Bay Area, down to Los Angeles over hundreds of miles all the way out to Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early days of the Southern Pacific, the Big Four had a near-monopoly in California. Riding the train was prohibitively expensive, but when a competing company — the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway — later reached Los Angeles, it caused a rate war. Tickets from Chicago to LA dropped from $125 to $1. Los Angeles went from cowtown to boom town.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, the train offered few amenities, and people packed their own food to avoid terrible roadhouse meals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most of the people would make fried chicken and get on the train. They’d trade some of that fried chicken for pillows and stuff,” said Lawrence Dale, who worked for BNSF Railroad for more than forty-two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Standing at an exhibit at the Western American Railroad Museum in Barstow, Dale explained that, the further the trains went, the less practical it was for passengers to bring all of their own food on a trip. And when there’s a business vacuum, someone will try to fill it. Enter Fred Harvey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018770\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018770\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1232\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-800x493.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1020x628.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1536x946.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18350-1920x1183.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fred Harvey manager Victor Patrosso with a group of 20 Harvey Girls in evening uniform, standing by El Tovar Hotel in 1926. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The museum takes up a section of what was once Barstow’s Harvey House, a restaurant designed for train passengers, right off the railroad tracks. It’s beautiful — for a building that’s more than 110 years old — with columns, decorative brick arches, and shaded walkways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In partnership with the Santa Fe railroad, Fred Harvey built Harvey Houses every 100 miles. They served fancy cheeses, oysters, fruit, sirloin, and generous slices of pie. Another big attraction: waitresses known as “Harvey Girls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Girls were young, single, and almost always white.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All I can tell you about Harvey Girls is they were young women out of the Midwest,” said Dale. “They were brought in here by Fred Harvey, and weren’t allowed to date. They weren’t allowed to do nothing except serve the people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018769\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018769\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1190\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-800x476.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1020x607.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1536x914.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/18207-1920x1142.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘Fred Harvey Bunch,’ or 13 Fred Harvey employees by Bright Angel Hotel in 1915. \u003ccite>(T.L. Brown/National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Of course, plenty of Harvey Girls did marry, and relocate to farms and ranches across the West. While they were Harvey Girls, they worked long hours, lived in dorms under the watchful eyes of house mothers, and were expected to meet strict standards of decorum and image, down to their uniform.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>White gloves, white full cover apron with a black garment underneath. Bow in the back of the hair,” Dale said, pointing to a display. “They were all supposed to be dressed alike.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For passengers, eating at a Harvey House was an elevated dining experience, but it was more efficient than leisurely. Trains called in passengers’ orders ahead by telegraph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Say a west-bound train pulled into Needles, Calif. The conductor would come through the cars, taking orders, and contact the next Harvey House down the line in Barstow, letting staff know how many people planned to eat, and what time they’d arrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019268\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"842\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-800x263.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1020x335.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1536x505.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-2048x673.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/11001768.TIF_duo-1920x631.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Interior view of the Harvey House Hotel between 1909-1910 in Barstow, Calif. The decor includes ceiling lamps, a clock, a potted palm, deco stencils and wooden chairs. (left): View of the Harvey House Hotel from the railroad tracks. The building, also called Casa del Desierto, was designed by Francis Wilson, and includes arcades, balconies, and corbeled brick. \u003ccite>(G. M. Hamilton/Denver Public Library Special Collections)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Passengers disembarked, sat in the well-appointed dining room, and had a limited time to eat, before the train left the station.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harvey Houses were a precursor to fast food and chain restaurants, and they helped change the intent of train travel from something that was just utilitarian, to an experience, according to Ty Smith, director of the California State Railroad Museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Dining was at the heart of the transition from conveyance to experience,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sacramento — a city rich in railroad history — is the perfect home for this museum, where kids wearing conductor’s hats and blowing train whistles mingle with adult rail buffs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re two blocks from mile marker zero, where the Central Pacific Railroad started building from west to east,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even earlier, during the Gold Rush, trains transported picks and shovels and other goods from the city into the foothills to the miners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Foodways are embedded throughout the museum, too. Smith points out a display that holds artifacts of a Chinese workers camp: a ginger jar, a tea cup, a rice bowl, a glazed stoneware jar that stored vinegars and sauces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Chinese workers made up 90% of the labor force for the Central Pacific Railroad, they were in segregated camps, according to Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Chinese railroad workers didn’t get the same pay or food allowances that their Irish and other counterparts did,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even this small display illustrates the racism baked into the building of the railroads: the chasm between people who owned the railroads and the people who worked on them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The museum also has a sleeper car on a rocker, to simulate the feeling of being on a train. It’s set up to show how the car would look in both day and evening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the day, the upper berths would be folded up. The lower berths serve as comfy seats,” said Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At night, porters would unfold the upper berths and convert the seats to create beds. Smith pointed to a little button passengers could push to call a porter, if they wanted anything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next to the sleeper car is a 1937 Cochiti dining car, which ran on Santa Fe’s Super Chief train between Chicago and Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That gives us a chance to talk about what it was like to dine on a train during the golden era of rail travel,” Smith said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the narrow galley kitchen, it’s hard to imagine all the people needed to work here, to prepare three gourmet meals a day for 50 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018775\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1626px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018775\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1626\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328.jpg 1626w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-800x984.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1020x1255.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-160x197.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1328-1249x1536.jpg 1249w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1626px) 100vw, 1626px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Railroad chef in narrow kitchen cutting turkey, undated. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The chef, people doing prep, \u003cem>mise-en-place\u003c/em>,” Smith enumerated. “You’d have to find a cadence to work within the space. A lot of gleaming stainless steel-like surfaces: knives and graters and colanders and big soup pots.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this was perfectly organized for a tiny space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Called to the dining room by chimes, passengers would sit among abundant flower arrangements and intricate Art Deco metalwork. They ate at tables with tablecloths and off of china with patterns that reflected the route: poppies in California, and animal images inspired by Native American art in the Southwest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Docent Allen Blum shared a menu for the Super Chief, including “ripe California colossal olives, grapefruit, orange and raisin fruit, swordfish steak, and poached salmon.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Menus, like this California-influenced one, often reflected cuisines and ingredients along the route.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Blum said the Super Chief carried politicians and stars from Walt Disney and Jack Benny to Marilyn Monroe, in later years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was definitely considered first class,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Passengers on dining cars came to expect attentive service — one waiter per two tables. Smith explained that the businessman best known for railroad dining cars was George Pullman. He built and owned luxury train cars to appeal to passengers who wanted to travel in style, and he leased his cars to the railroads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>George Pullman was a master at branding, Smith added “Pullman is creating the romance of train travel. To ride on a Pullman car means something, and this feeds his ability to lease these cars to the railroads.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But George Pullman built this image and his business on the backs of the Black service workers he hired.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a luxurious experience, but a completely racialized experience,” said Susan Anderson, history curator at the California African American Museum. “From the appointment of the sleeping area to the dining car to the cuisine and the meals, the way that you were waited on, all of that was just premium. And all of it, on the Pullman cars, was provided by Black labor.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Engines of resistance\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>White men held positions like engineer and conductor. The servant-type jobs were the ones that were reserved for Black people on the trains: porter, steward, cook, maid and waiter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“George Pullman and the Pullman Company were explicit about this,” Anderson said. “They wanted white people to be waited on by Black people, because in our history, racism conflated being a slave or being a servant with being Black.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018772\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018772\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-800x648.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1020x826.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-160x130.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1536x1244.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1314-1920x1555.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Group photograph of the ‘Owl’ Dining Car Crew (back row, left-right): Bert Hackett, unidentified, unidentified, Henry Earl (front row, left-right): Joe C. Brown, Arthur Johnson, unidentified, steward, Charles Williams, in 1927. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Porters — who did everything from turning down beds, carrying luggage, and serving food — were usually not addressed by their own names. They were called “George,” after George Pullman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Susan Anderson said the subjugation of Black workers on trains was a direct reflection of the way the U.S. economy was organized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So, that’s U.S. history. But Black history is that they took these positions and they made the most out of them, and they used them to the advantage of their own people and their own families.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many African Americans saw railroad jobs as opportunities to broaden their horizons, bring money back home or leave Southern states altogether and move their families elsewhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“People who worked for the railroad got a lot of respect in the community,” said Anderson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her own family has a connection to railroad history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One of my great-grandfathers — my mother’s father’s father — was a chef on the railroad,” she explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His name was Edward Wilcox, and his family was originally from Louisiana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They came to West Oakland in the late 19th century. They actually established a church in West Oakland. It’s still there: Bethlehem Lutheran Church. And that enclave was partly like a labor reserve for the Southern Pacific Railroad,” said Anderson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1926, the Pullman Company was the largest single employer of African American workers in the country, with over 10,000 porters and 200 maids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anderson explained, a lot of intellectuals ended up working as porters or waiters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018774\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12018774\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1138\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-800x455.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1020x580.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-160x91.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1536x874.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1322-1920x1092.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Four Pullman porters stand on a sidewalk. On the reverse is written ‘CL Jones, Richardson, J. Simms.’ \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There were college men who had no other employment opportunities in a racist economy,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These railroad men left a big legacy in American civic and cultural life. In his autobiography, Malcolm X wrote about selling sandwiches on trains. Renowned photographer Gordon Parks waited tables in dining cars. Thurgood Marshall, Willie Brown, Tom Bradley and Dionne Warwick all had fathers who were porters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroad workers networked with each other across the country, sharing copies of Black-owned newspapers and other literature, including \u003cem>The Messenger\u003c/em>, founded by influential civil rights activist and labor organizer A. Phillip Randolph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they began the effort to organize so that they could demand better wages, better working conditions for themselves, better hours,” Anderson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an oral history archived at the African American Museum & Library at Oakland, former Oakland-based Pullman porter Cottrell Laurence (C.L.) Dellums explained: “There was no limit on the number of hours. The company unilaterally set up the operation of the runs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12018773\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-12018773 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-800x1192.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1192\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-800x1192.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1020x1520.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320-1031x1536.jpg 1031w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/MS189_1320.jpg 1342w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A portrait of Oakland’s civil rights and labor activist hero C.L. Dellums. \u003ccite>(African American Museum and Library at Oakland)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Dellums, whose nephew Ron Dellums was the late California congressman and former Oakland mayor, started working for the Pullman company in 1924. He said the salary at the time was $60 a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they provided what we said was just enough rest between trips for the porter to be able to make one more trip,” C.L. Dellums said, in the audio recording. Workloads for the porters varied from 300 to over 400 hours a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anybody could take the porter’s job. Not only any kind of Pullman official — from the lowest to the highest — could take his job. Anybody traveling as a passenger, even though it might be the first trip they’ve ever been on a train, they could write him up and get him fired.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kept out of the American Railway Union, African Americans founded the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters & Maids in 1925, and C.L. Dellums began signing up workers for the union, despite the risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I never heard of a war that there weren’t battles. And never, never heard of a battle without casualties … But I will be heard from. And so I did. And sure enough, of course, they did discharge me,” Dellums said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He eventually became one of the union’s vice presidents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took years, but the Brotherhood became the first Black union to be recognized by the American Federation of Labor. In 1937, they got a contract with Pullman, the first in history between a Black union and a large U.S. Company. They established an eight-hour work day, regulated work schedules, and increased pay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Brotherhood influenced much more than service work on railroads. They helped push through the desegregation of the defense industry during World War II. And they were on the ground for many efforts during the Civil Rights Movement — including the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and the March on Washington.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We tend to pay a lot of attention to these big historic moments, but they only were possible after decades of networking and organizing by the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The people behind the simple act of railroad dining changed California, and the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>How railroads changed what and how we eat\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Along the California Zephyr’s route through the outskirts of Sacramento, intricate irrigation systems and crops in perfect rows reveal the railroad’s impact on agriculture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Archivist Benjamin Jenkins has written about the railroad’s impact on what we eat in his book, \u003cem>Octopus’s Garden: How Railroads and Citrus Transformed Southern California\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The first entire railroad car full of oranges left Los Angeles for the Midwest in 1877,” Jenkins told KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those oranges traveled by a refrigerator car, packed with ice. “It had to be re-iced 10 times, going across the desert and the Badlands to make sure that the fruit didn’t spoil,” he explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took California’s produce industry about a decade after that to take off. “But once it starts, it really never looks back,” Jenkins said, “So the explosion of new people, new crops as a result of the railroad bringing them in, and then shipping the goods out, is just utterly transformative for California.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Railroads built “spur lines” off the main lines to access huge parts of the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Wherever the railroad goes, land values start to increase,” Jenkins said. “And so they are able to sell land at a premium.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jenkins explained that in many states, the government had given the railroads loans, and gifted them enormous tracts of land. The idea was that after the tracks were built, the railroads could sell off much of that land at a profit to farmers, who’d build packing houses right on the railroad tracks. There were fewer of these kinds of land grants in California, but the railroad companies still got rights of way — sometimes over Native People’s reservations — and became huge landowners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Communities tried to entice railroads to come their way. Entire “citrus cities” began forming in the late 1800s along the railroads, especially in Southern California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12019265\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12019265\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"789\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-800x316.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1020x402.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-160x63.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1536x606.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/CSRM_40274_p-2_duo-1920x757.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(right): Two men loading boxes of chopped spinach into PFE mechanical reefer. (left): The Preco mechanical car icer was designed to keep produce fresh on cross-country journeys. \u003ccite>(Preco/California State Railroad Museum)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Railroads shipped out more than just produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Full color advertising starts to appear in the late 19th and early 20th centuries selling a packaged California lifestyle.” The Southern Pacific Railroad launched \u003cem>Sunset Magazine\u003c/em> as a part of this campaign to draw people out west.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wooden packing crates got loaded onto trains, sporting labels with illustrations of almost comically-perfect produce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All of these images show a perpetually sunny Golden State, the fruits of paradise being grown underneath these purple snow-capped mountains,” said Jenkins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The railroad even circulated California postcards, advertising the state as what Jenkins called a “new Eden,” an image that would endure — well beyond the heyday of train travel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story was produced as part of California Foodways with support from the Food and Environment Reporting Network, and California Humanities, a nonprofit partner of National Endowment for the Humanities. Big thanks also go to the African American Museum and Library at Oakland, the library and archives at the California State Railroad Museum, and Rachel Reinhard.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "serving-up-french-bistro-and-north-african-comfort-food-in-a-tiny-eastern-sierra-town",
"title": "Serving Up French Bistro and North African Comfort Food in a Tiny Eastern Sierra Town",
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"headTitle": "Serving Up French Bistro and North African Comfort Food in a Tiny Eastern Sierra Town | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though only about 600 people live in the Eastern Sierra town of Independence, it’s home to a destination restaurant. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/StillLifeCafe/\">Still Life Cafe\u003c/a> has served up French bistro and North African dishes for nearly 30 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hungry hikers climbing Mt. Whitney tell each other about the steak au poivre. Skiers on their way to Mammoth follow their friends’ recommendations, and stop for a tagine. Locals in the Owens Valley come to sip wine and slurp onion soup. It’s a place where strangers interact. Hikers talk with movie script writers, who chat up the truck drivers and locals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hikers Mark Harris, of Lake Tahoe, and Michael Proctor, from Los Angeles, heard about the Still Life Cafe from friends. When they recently hand-delivered French olive oil and sardines, Chef Malika Adjaoud Patron exclaimed, “Oh, I love sardines. This is perfect.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t want to let it go!” she laughed, clutching the bottle of olive oil. “This is my food, every day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s not unusual for customers to come bearing gifts for Patron. “People bring me lemons from their trees, oranges, avocados,” like neighbors and friends would, she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That kind of gesture makes sense at the Still Life Cafe. It’s a restaurant that feels lived in, like a home. Every available wall space is covered in art, including a portrait of Patron’s late husband, Michele. Patron lives in the back with her daughter, Kenza, who waits tables on busy weekends. Their dog, Carlos, can be found curled up in a corner near a piano.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After offering customers a drink, Patron will sometimes linger at the bar, even though she’s the only cook. Meals at the Still Life aren’t fast-paced. This is a place to take time, sink into a booth, and have another glass of wine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each night, Patron writes the menu on a chalkboard. Dishes like escargot, oxtail stew, steak au poivre, and onion soup. When Patron craves couscous, she’ll make it for the restaurant. She decides her menu based on whatever traditional dishes she feels like cooking. “Whatever my mother or father cooked, I’m trying to recreate those dishes,” she explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12015021\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12015021\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-800x585.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"585\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-800x585.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-1020x746.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-160x117.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-1536x1123.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-1920x1404.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A plate of escargot and a bowl of onion soup at Still Life Cafe in Independence, Calif., on July 14, 2024. \u003ccite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Her menu draws on flavors from both France and Algeria, her family’s homeland. She’s descended from Algerian Berbers, who worked in France when Algeria was a French colony. Patron was born and raised in France. But every summer, her mother would take the kids to Algeria to spend two months with extended family. Patron remembers driving dirt roads, arriving at night in her grandmother’s mountain village.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The car could not go up the village, so we would have to walk with all the luggage and get to my grandmother’s place,” she said. “We lived exactly like the people in the mountains, barefoot, running around and sleeping all together in one room.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For meals, each woman in the family took responsibility for one dish. If there was meat, it came from the chickens or goats running around in her grandmother’s yard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in France, during the school year, the family had a different food routine. Patron accompanied her mother on trips to the farmers market and watched her make a couscous every Sunday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They lived near a forest at the very edge of Eastern France. Patron picked wild berries and fished by hand. She was a precocious child, she said. “I read the Marquis de Sade at 12,” she laughed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She also watched a lot of American Westerns and dreamed about going to the United States. When she was eight years old, she convinced a friend to go on an adventure into the forest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I told her, ‘Listen, we’re going to America today,’” recalled Patron. As night fell and the forest became dark, Malika couldn’t “see America” anymore. They walked until they found a little country road, not realizing they’d crossed a border.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A police officer from Luxembourg eventually stopped them and asked where they thought they were going. “We said, ‘To America.’ He was laughing,” Patron remembered. He took them back to France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Patron’s dream of visiting the United States stayed with her. As a 20-year-old, she came to Southern California, first as a nanny, then as a travel agent. When she met Michele, the Frenchman who would become her husband, he took her to his cabin in the old mining town of Darwin, near Death Valley, on a night when there was no moon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have never seen so many stars, except in North Africa. And when I woke up in the morning, and the sun hit my face, I fell in love with it right away,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It just reminded me sometimes of some places in North Africa, even though the vegetation was different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Patron fell in love with the desert and with Michele. They moved to Darwin full-time and started a family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their life began to resemble those summers she spent in Algeria. They lived a happy, bourgeois hippie life, she said, with her babies running around naked. She always cooked extra food for her neighbors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This gave her an idea: why not open a restaurant? To serve traditional food, the kind made in French countryside bistros or North African homes. So the family opened a cafe nearby, in the tiny Owens Valley community of Olancha, with a population of fewer than 200 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first Still Life Cafe attracted a mix of travelers en route to Mammoth or Death Valley, film crews shooting movies in the nearby Alabama Hills, and locals, including workers from Olancha’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.crystalgeyserplease.com/olancha\">Crystal Geyser plant\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Crystal Geyser is part French,” Patron said. “They would import the workers from Normandy, Brittany. At lunch…it looked like a real French bistro, with blue-collar workers speaking French loudly and drinking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When that building was sold, Still Life Cafe moved to Independence, 40 miles up Highway 395.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12015018\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12015018\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Still Life Cafe in Independence, Calif., on July 15, 2024. \u003ccite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Hours before any customer shows up, Patron can be found in the kitchen, preparing her onion soup, a favorite dish for Parisian party-goers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I was young, some places would stay open until four or five in the morning,” she recalled. “And people would be drinking onion soup to prevent a hangover.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To prepare the soup, Patron puts the onions in a pan with butter and lets them caramelize for over an hour. She said she’d never try to cut corners on that crucial step, otherwise “it’s going to be just boiling water with boiled onions.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the onions are ready, she pours her homemade stock through a strainer into the pot. Patron takes this kind of care when the restaurant is busy, too. “I cook on the spot,” she explained. “When somebody orders, that’s when I cut my vegetables. So it takes a bit longer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every once in a while, customers come in by mistake, people used to coffee shops or fast food, Patron said. They might ask for ranch dressing in a bottle or expect quick, anonymous service. That’s not the Still Life Cafe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She’s made some adjustments. She doesn’t serve fondue – too dangerous. She stopped cooking rabbit – too many diners balked. But mostly, when customers step into the Still Life, she wants them to experience a French bistro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When they come here, including Americans, they do exactly like French people,” Patron said. “They [take] their time. Finally, step back from the rhythm of their life, going 100 miles per hour.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "At the Still Life Cafe in Independence, California, chef Malika Adjaouad Patron draws inspiration from her homeland of Algeria.",
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"title": "Serving Up French Bistro and North African Comfort Food in a Tiny Eastern Sierra Town | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>For her series \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/californiafoodways\">California Foodways\u003c/a>, Lisa Morehouse is reporting a story about food and farming from each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though only about 600 people live in the Eastern Sierra town of Independence, it’s home to a destination restaurant. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/StillLifeCafe/\">Still Life Cafe\u003c/a> has served up French bistro and North African dishes for nearly 30 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hungry hikers climbing Mt. Whitney tell each other about the steak au poivre. Skiers on their way to Mammoth follow their friends’ recommendations, and stop for a tagine. Locals in the Owens Valley come to sip wine and slurp onion soup. It’s a place where strangers interact. Hikers talk with movie script writers, who chat up the truck drivers and locals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hikers Mark Harris, of Lake Tahoe, and Michael Proctor, from Los Angeles, heard about the Still Life Cafe from friends. When they recently hand-delivered French olive oil and sardines, Chef Malika Adjaoud Patron exclaimed, “Oh, I love sardines. This is perfect.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t want to let it go!” she laughed, clutching the bottle of olive oil. “This is my food, every day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s not unusual for customers to come bearing gifts for Patron. “People bring me lemons from their trees, oranges, avocados,” like neighbors and friends would, she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That kind of gesture makes sense at the Still Life Cafe. It’s a restaurant that feels lived in, like a home. Every available wall space is covered in art, including a portrait of Patron’s late husband, Michele. Patron lives in the back with her daughter, Kenza, who waits tables on busy weekends. Their dog, Carlos, can be found curled up in a corner near a piano.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After offering customers a drink, Patron will sometimes linger at the bar, even though she’s the only cook. Meals at the Still Life aren’t fast-paced. This is a place to take time, sink into a booth, and have another glass of wine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each night, Patron writes the menu on a chalkboard. Dishes like escargot, oxtail stew, steak au poivre, and onion soup. When Patron craves couscous, she’ll make it for the restaurant. She decides her menu based on whatever traditional dishes she feels like cooking. “Whatever my mother or father cooked, I’m trying to recreate those dishes,” she explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12015021\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12015021\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-800x585.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"585\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-800x585.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-1020x746.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-160x117.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-1536x1123.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01-1920x1404.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-01.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A plate of escargot and a bowl of onion soup at Still Life Cafe in Independence, Calif., on July 14, 2024. \u003ccite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Her menu draws on flavors from both France and Algeria, her family’s homeland. She’s descended from Algerian Berbers, who worked in France when Algeria was a French colony. Patron was born and raised in France. But every summer, her mother would take the kids to Algeria to spend two months with extended family. Patron remembers driving dirt roads, arriving at night in her grandmother’s mountain village.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The car could not go up the village, so we would have to walk with all the luggage and get to my grandmother’s place,” she said. “We lived exactly like the people in the mountains, barefoot, running around and sleeping all together in one room.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For meals, each woman in the family took responsibility for one dish. If there was meat, it came from the chickens or goats running around in her grandmother’s yard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in France, during the school year, the family had a different food routine. Patron accompanied her mother on trips to the farmers market and watched her make a couscous every Sunday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They lived near a forest at the very edge of Eastern France. Patron picked wild berries and fished by hand. She was a precocious child, she said. “I read the Marquis de Sade at 12,” she laughed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She also watched a lot of American Westerns and dreamed about going to the United States. When she was eight years old, she convinced a friend to go on an adventure into the forest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I told her, ‘Listen, we’re going to America today,’” recalled Patron. As night fell and the forest became dark, Malika couldn’t “see America” anymore. They walked until they found a little country road, not realizing they’d crossed a border.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A police officer from Luxembourg eventually stopped them and asked where they thought they were going. “We said, ‘To America.’ He was laughing,” Patron remembered. He took them back to France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Patron’s dream of visiting the United States stayed with her. As a 20-year-old, she came to Southern California, first as a nanny, then as a travel agent. When she met Michele, the Frenchman who would become her husband, he took her to his cabin in the old mining town of Darwin, near Death Valley, on a night when there was no moon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have never seen so many stars, except in North Africa. And when I woke up in the morning, and the sun hit my face, I fell in love with it right away,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It just reminded me sometimes of some places in North Africa, even though the vegetation was different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Patron fell in love with the desert and with Michele. They moved to Darwin full-time and started a family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their life began to resemble those summers she spent in Algeria. They lived a happy, bourgeois hippie life, she said, with her babies running around naked. She always cooked extra food for her neighbors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This gave her an idea: why not open a restaurant? To serve traditional food, the kind made in French countryside bistros or North African homes. So the family opened a cafe nearby, in the tiny Owens Valley community of Olancha, with a population of fewer than 200 people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first Still Life Cafe attracted a mix of travelers en route to Mammoth or Death Valley, film crews shooting movies in the nearby Alabama Hills, and locals, including workers from Olancha’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.crystalgeyserplease.com/olancha\">Crystal Geyser plant\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Crystal Geyser is part French,” Patron said. “They would import the workers from Normandy, Brittany. At lunch…it looked like a real French bistro, with blue-collar workers speaking French loudly and drinking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When that building was sold, Still Life Cafe moved to Independence, 40 miles up Highway 395.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12015018\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12015018\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/240715-StillLifeCafe-02.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Still Life Cafe in Independence, Calif., on July 15, 2024. \u003ccite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Hours before any customer shows up, Patron can be found in the kitchen, preparing her onion soup, a favorite dish for Parisian party-goers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I was young, some places would stay open until four or five in the morning,” she recalled. “And people would be drinking onion soup to prevent a hangover.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To prepare the soup, Patron puts the onions in a pan with butter and lets them caramelize for over an hour. She said she’d never try to cut corners on that crucial step, otherwise “it’s going to be just boiling water with boiled onions.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the onions are ready, she pours her homemade stock through a strainer into the pot. Patron takes this kind of care when the restaurant is busy, too. “I cook on the spot,” she explained. “When somebody orders, that’s when I cut my vegetables. So it takes a bit longer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every once in a while, customers come in by mistake, people used to coffee shops or fast food, Patron said. They might ask for ranch dressing in a bottle or expect quick, anonymous service. That’s not the Still Life Cafe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She’s made some adjustments. She doesn’t serve fondue – too dangerous. She stopped cooking rabbit – too many diners balked. But mostly, when customers step into the Still Life, she wants them to experience a French bistro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When they come here, including Americans, they do exactly like French people,” Patron said. “They [take] their time. Finally, step back from the rhythm of their life, going 100 miles per hour.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "how-this-petaluma-cheesemaker-finds-inspiration-in-music",
"title": "How Music Inspires the Cheeses at This Petaluma Dairy",
"publishDate": 1726830012,
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"headTitle": "How Music Inspires the Cheeses at This Petaluma Dairy | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>Soyoung Scanlan is one of California’s most celebrated cheesemakers, but growing up in South Korea, she never imagined this career. In fact, cheese wasn’t even part of her early life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t eat cheese until I was like 18 or 19 because cheese was not available,” she said. “From the U.S. Army, we could get processed cheese, like Kraft singles. Yellow plastic-looking things.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She was born in Seoul in the late 1960s. Both her parents had experienced the Japanese occupation, the Korean War, and poverty. They connected over their shared love of classical music, Scanlan explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The only place there were pianos was in the churches. So the way my father met my mom was he was playing Chopin, and my mom walked into the church, and they fell in love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Growing up, Scanlan said that their house had no refrigeration, but it did have a garden and lots of music. Her father was her first piano teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I read music first,” she said. “I learned how to read music before I learned the alphabet.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004840\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004840\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"An Asian woman sits playing a grand piano.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1362\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-800x545.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-1020x695.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-1536x1046.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-1920x1308.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyoung Scanlan plays her piano at her home in San Francisco on Sept. 5, 2024. Music has always been a part of Scanlan’s life. She named her dairy, Andante Dairy, after a musical tempo. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Scanlan studied chemical engineering, got a graduate degree in biotechnology, and worked in a cancer research center. She came to the U.S. to get a Ph.D. in molecular biology. Her first week in Boston, she went to the symphony, and ended up sitting next to the man who would become her husband.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The couple went on a trip to France, rented a farmhouse and took a fateful visit to a farmers market, where Scanlan met a cheesemonger who gave her a perfectly ripe piece of goat cheese from the hill town of \u003ca href=\"https://www.paxtonandwhitfield.co.uk/shop/buy-cheese-online/by-type/soft-cheese/rocamadour\">Rocamadour\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was almost melting on my hand, like ice cream,” Scanlan said with a kind of reverence. She remembers the near-liquid center almost oozing out of the delicate rind. She basically had to drink it out of her hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That was the first goat milk cheese in my life,” she said, “and it had so much flavor. I said, ‘I need to go to the place where it was made because I think I can actually taste the rocks and the air and something very dry. I can taste it.’ ”\u003cbr>\n[ad fullwidth]\u003cbr>\nThey spent a day driving to Rocamadour, where she said the rocks and the hills and the air did smell like that cheese she’d tasted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The experience was an epiphany about the power of milk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan said she read hundreds of books and articles about milk’s biophysical properties and about its history. In the late 1990s, now living in Northern California, she met other cheese obsessives and started making a cheese that used milk from both goats and cows. She found it fulfilled her scientifically curious mind more than life in a lab.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But I had no clue if it was good or not,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004835\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004835\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Two women pour milk from a pale into a large metal vat.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Marcela Mejia (left) and Soyoung Scanlan pour goat milk into a cheese vat at Andante Dairy in Petaluma on Sept. 3, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She took a few pieces to Napa’s Oakville Grocery, the North Bay’s go-to gourmet store of the time. People there shared it with folks who worked at the revered restaurant, The French Laundry. Scanlan was invited to prepare a tasting for chef Thomas Keller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a day she said she won’t forget. She remembers shaking when she entered the busy kitchen, asking for the famous chef.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All the prep tables were full of salmon and lamb.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But when the chef announced it was time for a cheese tasting, staff cleared the tables and put out a tablecloth and formal serving plates and utensils. Everyone in the kitchen removed their dirty work aprons, put chef’s jackets on, and held their breaths while Scanlan presented Thomas Keller with a tiny box holding only six pieces of cheese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside label=\"more California Foodways stories\" tag=\"california-foodways\"]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He tasted, smiled, and walked away from the table. Everyone else in the kitchen knew that meant he liked it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they serve my cheese every day, ever since,” Scanlan said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was only after that day that Scanlan named her company \u003ca href=\"https://www.andantedairy.com/\">Andante Dairy\u003c/a> and decided to give each cheese a musical name. She explains that sometimes, an aspect of the cheese makes her think of the musical inspiration for its name. Sometimes, she has music on her mind, and she decides to create a compatible cheese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of her first was Nocturne, a blue-gray, ash-covered, truncated pyramid inspired by Chopin’s composition, meant to be played at dusk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s Minuet, a triple-cream goat’s milk cheese, finished with a cow’s milk crème fraîche. Scanlan created it to be eaten while sipping champagne.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I wanted to do something pretty and elegant, like the dance, \u003ci>minuet\u003c/i>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her cheese called Piccolo is, appropriately, tiny. Even though Largo is made from the same curd, it’s four times the size and ages so long that it develops a deeper flavor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cheesemaking is hard on the body, and Scanlan knows she can’t do this forever, but she still has cheeses she wants to make inspired by music. Like Rubato, the tempo mark for forgotten time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You are free from any directions. There is a melody, but you can do whatever you want, whatever speed,” she said. And that metaphor appeals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004838\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004838\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A hand shapes a block of cheese.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyoung Scanlan wraps up Metronome cheese, named after a device that produces rhythms to help musicians play in time, at Andante Dairy in Petaluma on Sept. 3, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She said she dreams of being able to just put aside the commercial time pressures of orders and budgets, forgetting time while she is making, and just helping the cheese become what it’s meant to be in its own time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Given the huge role music plays in Scanlan’s life, it’s kind of surprising that there is no music playing in the Andante Dairy workroom on the day of our visit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have very, very sensitive hearing,” Scanlan said. “Sometimes, when it is a little too much, it interferes in my brain.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the small workspace is quiet – no pumps, only the buzzing of a paddle spinning in a vat of milk. It’s sourced from the goats that graze on the rolling hills just out the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan monitored the temperature carefully and added milk by hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m still fascinated by this whole process,” she said. “It’s like magic.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Letting the milk in the vat agitate for a bit, Scanlan moved to a cheese press, where rounds of her newest cheese, Ballade, were squeezed overnight. She removed the 5-inch discs from their cheesecloth wrappers, flipped each round, and put them back in the mold for more, even pressing. She’ll finish the rind with pomegranate molasses inspired by the tree just outside the window.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next, she turned to tall buckets filled with cow’s milk that she pasteurized the day before, for a slow curdling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan is just over 5 feet tall. In her workroom, every waist-high bucket of milk is on wheels, and every work table is on casters so that the tiny cheesemaker can move them herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004843\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004843\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"An Asian woman sits at a grand piano next to a window.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyoung Scanlan flips the pages of her piano books at her home in San Francisco on Sept. 5, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She scooped the slow-curdled Jersey cow’s milk into cheesecloth bags, nestled in a draining tray that looked like a trough, and it became clearer why Scanlan prefers a workspace with few distractions. Her sensitivities help her tune into the cheese. She said she feels the weight, the density of the curds when she scoops. She can smell the difference between goat and cow milk – she said if cow milk is cotton, goat milk would be Irish linen, a bit finer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, for someone with a highly trained ear, Scanlan pays attention to the sounds in the cheesemaking process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The sound tells you so much. The sound of curd falling into the bag, it actually tells you how much is solid in the milk.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan said that when she’s working, the only music she needs is the constant drip of the whey draining out of cheesecloth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This is my temple. Yep,” she said. “And I guess cheesemaking, it is my prayer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://californiafoodways.com/\">\u003ci>California Foodways,\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> about food, agriculture, and the people that make both possible in each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Soyoung Scanlan of Andante Dairy is one of California's most celebrated cheesemakers. Born in South Korea, each of her cheeses is named for something musical, reflecting her background as a trained pianist.",
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"title": "How Music Inspires the Cheeses at This Petaluma Dairy | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Soyoung Scanlan is one of California’s most celebrated cheesemakers, but growing up in South Korea, she never imagined this career. In fact, cheese wasn’t even part of her early life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t eat cheese until I was like 18 or 19 because cheese was not available,” she said. “From the U.S. Army, we could get processed cheese, like Kraft singles. Yellow plastic-looking things.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She was born in Seoul in the late 1960s. Both her parents had experienced the Japanese occupation, the Korean War, and poverty. They connected over their shared love of classical music, Scanlan explained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The only place there were pianos was in the churches. So the way my father met my mom was he was playing Chopin, and my mom walked into the church, and they fell in love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Growing up, Scanlan said that their house had no refrigeration, but it did have a garden and lots of music. Her father was her first piano teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I read music first,” she said. “I learned how to read music before I learned the alphabet.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004840\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004840\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"An Asian woman sits playing a grand piano.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1362\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-800x545.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-1020x695.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-1536x1046.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-49-KQED-1920x1308.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyoung Scanlan plays her piano at her home in San Francisco on Sept. 5, 2024. Music has always been a part of Scanlan’s life. She named her dairy, Andante Dairy, after a musical tempo. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Scanlan studied chemical engineering, got a graduate degree in biotechnology, and worked in a cancer research center. She came to the U.S. to get a Ph.D. in molecular biology. Her first week in Boston, she went to the symphony, and ended up sitting next to the man who would become her husband.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The couple went on a trip to France, rented a farmhouse and took a fateful visit to a farmers market, where Scanlan met a cheesemonger who gave her a perfectly ripe piece of goat cheese from the hill town of \u003ca href=\"https://www.paxtonandwhitfield.co.uk/shop/buy-cheese-online/by-type/soft-cheese/rocamadour\">Rocamadour\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was almost melting on my hand, like ice cream,” Scanlan said with a kind of reverence. She remembers the near-liquid center almost oozing out of the delicate rind. She basically had to drink it out of her hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That was the first goat milk cheese in my life,” she said, “and it had so much flavor. I said, ‘I need to go to the place where it was made because I think I can actually taste the rocks and the air and something very dry. I can taste it.’ ”\u003cbr>\n\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cbr>\nThey spent a day driving to Rocamadour, where she said the rocks and the hills and the air did smell like that cheese she’d tasted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The experience was an epiphany about the power of milk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan said she read hundreds of books and articles about milk’s biophysical properties and about its history. In the late 1990s, now living in Northern California, she met other cheese obsessives and started making a cheese that used milk from both goats and cows. She found it fulfilled her scientifically curious mind more than life in a lab.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But I had no clue if it was good or not,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004835\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004835\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Two women pour milk from a pale into a large metal vat.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-13-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Marcela Mejia (left) and Soyoung Scanlan pour goat milk into a cheese vat at Andante Dairy in Petaluma on Sept. 3, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She took a few pieces to Napa’s Oakville Grocery, the North Bay’s go-to gourmet store of the time. People there shared it with folks who worked at the revered restaurant, The French Laundry. Scanlan was invited to prepare a tasting for chef Thomas Keller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a day she said she won’t forget. She remembers shaking when she entered the busy kitchen, asking for the famous chef.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All the prep tables were full of salmon and lamb.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But when the chef announced it was time for a cheese tasting, staff cleared the tables and put out a tablecloth and formal serving plates and utensils. Everyone in the kitchen removed their dirty work aprons, put chef’s jackets on, and held their breaths while Scanlan presented Thomas Keller with a tiny box holding only six pieces of cheese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He tasted, smiled, and walked away from the table. Everyone else in the kitchen knew that meant he liked it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And they serve my cheese every day, ever since,” Scanlan said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was only after that day that Scanlan named her company \u003ca href=\"https://www.andantedairy.com/\">Andante Dairy\u003c/a> and decided to give each cheese a musical name. She explains that sometimes, an aspect of the cheese makes her think of the musical inspiration for its name. Sometimes, she has music on her mind, and she decides to create a compatible cheese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of her first was Nocturne, a blue-gray, ash-covered, truncated pyramid inspired by Chopin’s composition, meant to be played at dusk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s Minuet, a triple-cream goat’s milk cheese, finished with a cow’s milk crème fraîche. Scanlan created it to be eaten while sipping champagne.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I wanted to do something pretty and elegant, like the dance, \u003ci>minuet\u003c/i>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her cheese called Piccolo is, appropriately, tiny. Even though Largo is made from the same curd, it’s four times the size and ages so long that it develops a deeper flavor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cheesemaking is hard on the body, and Scanlan knows she can’t do this forever, but she still has cheeses she wants to make inspired by music. Like Rubato, the tempo mark for forgotten time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You are free from any directions. There is a melody, but you can do whatever you want, whatever speed,” she said. And that metaphor appeals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004838\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004838\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A hand shapes a block of cheese.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-29-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyoung Scanlan wraps up Metronome cheese, named after a device that produces rhythms to help musicians play in time, at Andante Dairy in Petaluma on Sept. 3, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She said she dreams of being able to just put aside the commercial time pressures of orders and budgets, forgetting time while she is making, and just helping the cheese become what it’s meant to be in its own time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Given the huge role music plays in Scanlan’s life, it’s kind of surprising that there is no music playing in the Andante Dairy workroom on the day of our visit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have very, very sensitive hearing,” Scanlan said. “Sometimes, when it is a little too much, it interferes in my brain.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the small workspace is quiet – no pumps, only the buzzing of a paddle spinning in a vat of milk. It’s sourced from the goats that graze on the rolling hills just out the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan monitored the temperature carefully and added milk by hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m still fascinated by this whole process,” she said. “It’s like magic.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Letting the milk in the vat agitate for a bit, Scanlan moved to a cheese press, where rounds of her newest cheese, Ballade, were squeezed overnight. She removed the 5-inch discs from their cheesecloth wrappers, flipped each round, and put them back in the mold for more, even pressing. She’ll finish the rind with pomegranate molasses inspired by the tree just outside the window.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next, she turned to tall buckets filled with cow’s milk that she pasteurized the day before, for a slow curdling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan is just over 5 feet tall. In her workroom, every waist-high bucket of milk is on wheels, and every work table is on casters so that the tiny cheesemaker can move them herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12004843\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12004843\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"An Asian woman sits at a grand piano next to a window.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/20240903_MUSICALCHEESEMAKER-59-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Soyoung Scanlan flips the pages of her piano books at her home in San Francisco on Sept. 5, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She scooped the slow-curdled Jersey cow’s milk into cheesecloth bags, nestled in a draining tray that looked like a trough, and it became clearer why Scanlan prefers a workspace with few distractions. Her sensitivities help her tune into the cheese. She said she feels the weight, the density of the curds when she scoops. She can smell the difference between goat and cow milk – she said if cow milk is cotton, goat milk would be Irish linen, a bit finer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, for someone with a highly trained ear, Scanlan pays attention to the sounds in the cheesemaking process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The sound tells you so much. The sound of curd falling into the bag, it actually tells you how much is solid in the milk.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scanlan said that when she’s working, the only music she needs is the constant drip of the whey draining out of cheesecloth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This is my temple. Yep,” she said. “And I guess cheesemaking, it is my prayer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://californiafoodways.com/\">\u003ci>California Foodways,\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> about food, agriculture, and the people that make both possible in each of California’s 58 counties.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"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": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
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"possible": {
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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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"radiolab": {
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"info": "A two-time Peabody Award-winner, Radiolab is an investigation told through sounds and stories, and centered around one big idea. In the Radiolab world, information sounds like music and science and culture collide. Hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, the show is designed for listeners who demand skepticism, but appreciate wonder. WNYC Studios is the producer of other leading podcasts including Freakonomics Radio, Death, Sex & Money, On the Media and many more.",
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"reveal": {
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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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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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},
"rightnowish": {
"id": "rightnowish",
"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"order": 16
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},
"science-friday": {
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"info": "Science Friday is a weekly science talk show, broadcast live over public radio stations nationwide. Each week, the show focuses on science topics that are in the news and tries to bring an educated, balanced discussion to bear on the scientific issues at hand. Panels of expert guests join host Ira Flatow, a veteran science journalist, to discuss science and to take questions from listeners during the call-in portion of the program.",
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