Stop Killing Restaurants, California

For some, September signals the bittersweet end of summer. For others, it’s a new beginning: the height of harvest season in California wine country. Vineyard grapes reach optimal ripeness for picking, stomping, and fermenting, while the warm, dry, and temperate weather invites wine lovers across the country outdoors to see the vineyards for themselves. Craving a vino vacation of your own? Here’s what to do, eat, and drink, plus where to stay.

Temecula

Families, in particular, should start in the Riverside County city of Temecula, where anyone age 6 or above can sightsee from the skies with family-run company Cielo Balloons. Those who prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground might go for a sunset horseback ride with California Ranch Company before turning in for the night at the ultra-luxurious South Coast Winery Resort & Spa—the first and only five-time winner of the “Golden State Winery of the Year” award, as granted by the California State Fair Commercial Wine Competition—or a room at the Spanish-style Ponte Vineyard Inn, which has its own vineyard and is within walking distance of two more.

From there, stroll to Bottaia Winery, where creative types looking to play winemaker for a day can blend their own vinos and bring them home as a souvenir to age. Hop in the car for your five-minute drive to lunch at the upper veranda of Flower Hill Bistro at Miramonte Winery. Wrap up your day with a tasting at the nearby Peltzer Family Cellars before heading into town for a last hurrah dinner at the 98-year-old, storied Swing Inn Cafe & BBQ.

August 29, 2025

California’s Best Restaurants, As Chosen by Its Top ChefsRELATED ARTICLE

Temecula Wines to Try

• 2019 Wild Horse Peak Il Temporale at South Coast Winery: Firm-bodied with notes of black cherry. Bright acidity and velvety tannins.
• 2023 Blush at Bottaia Winery: Simple and clean with notes of raspberry, melogold grapefruit, and lime.
• 2024 Sauvignon Blanc at Peltzer Family Cellars: Light and crisp, with apple blossom and honeydew melon notes.

Central Coast

Head north and stop for a meal at the Hotel Californian’s Blackbird restaurant in Santa Barbara, where executive chef Travis Watson and his staff host a once-monthly series featuring a different winery or spirits company. Patrons who don’t want to build their schedule around that event can still savor offerings from local wineries like Lincourt and Firestone before checking in at The Inn at Mattei’s Tavern in Los Olivos.

After spending some time in the property’s airy restaurant and renowned spa, continue onwards to Paso Robles, where you should plan ahead to book a table at the Michelin-starred Six Test Kitchen. There, the seating counter—which can only accommodate 12—wraps around the kitchen for a real-time, behind-the-scenes view of the staff whipping up 12 delicate courses using the bounty of the area’s farms. (Traveling next month? You’re in luck— October is the region’s Harvest Wine Month, when many wineries host special events.)

If you’re looking instead to prioritize the “coast” part of the region’s namesake, follow Carmel-by-the-Sea’s free, self-guided wine walk (get the app for discounts on included wineries’ tastings) before holing up at the romantic, 19th-century Seven Gables Inn, which overlooks Lovers Point Beach in Monterey. Admire the stained glass windows and Victorian architecture; plus, every single one of its 25 rooms offers views of the water.

July 10, 2025

10 Budget-Friendly Travel Destinations Near San DiegoRELATED ARTICLE

Central Coast Wines to Try

• 2022 Estate Collection Soul of a Lion at Daou Vineyards: Fragrances of violet and strawberry jam; flavors of red fruit and chocolate-covered blueberry.
• 2024 Rosé at Peachy Canyon: Notes of strawberry, guava, and elderberry liqueur with a spicy Tajín aftertaste.

Livermore

Take the 101 straight to Livermore’s iconic Wine Trolley, which shuttles riders to three local vineyards for tastings. Or sit down for a casual picnic at Del Valle Regional Park with a sandwich from Ofelia’s Kitchen and a bottle from First Street Wine Company. Make a stop at McGrail Vineyards before unpacking your suitcase for a stay in one of The Purple Orchid Resort & Spa’s 10 fireplace-equipped rooms and suites. Nibble on a complimentary, made-to-order breakfast while looking out at the garden or olive orchard from every room. Guests can also enjoy a community event each evening, featuring an olive oil tasting, wine, and cheeses.

Originally published August 25, 2020

Since only about 10 percent of California wineries are owned by women, and an even smaller percentage are owned by people of color (POC), it may be surprising to hear that Escondido has its very own unicorn: a Black- and female-owned winery. Denise Clarke is humble and talented (and has an impeccable palate—but we’ll get to that), and she’s the woman behind one of San Diego’s best kept wine secrets, Altipiano Vineyard and Winery. It sits on a former avocado grove, one of many in Escondido—and its origins literally rose from the ashes.

Clarke is a longtime wine enthusiast, and a 2007 trip to Tuscany sparked her deep love for Italian wine. While sipping a glass of her favorite varietal, sangiovese, and gazing out at the Tuscan countryside, she promised herself that she would own her own vineyard someday. Fast forward a few months to a raging wildfire in Escondido, and Clarke’s family frantically packing up their most cherished possessions to evacuate their home. When they returned a few days later, they found that the lush avocado grove on their property had been completely destroyed. They were devastated, but Clarke quickly saw this as an opportunity to fulfill her dream, pivot from avocados to grapes, and produce her own wine—though it was all happening much sooner than she’d expected.

In the aftermath of the 2007 fire, Clarke invited soil consultants to assess whether the land was suitable for a vineyard, and she learned about the first steps required to plant one. When it was deemed possible, she made her first purchase at Nova Vine nursery in Santa Rosa, because they grow the brunello clone she fell in love with in Italy. She planted the vineyard in June 2008, and the winery soft-opened in February 2012.

“My vineyard brought the love I felt in Italy to fruition,” Clarke says. “Altipiano was inspired directly from the fire. I didn’t want to leave my home or the land that I loved, and Mother Nature chose my new crop for me.”

Altipiano Winery

Photo courtesy of Denise Clarke

After years of grueling work and trial and error, she became the first—and to date, only—Black woman running a winery in San Diego County.

Nearly 12 years later, Clarke still encounters the typical scrutiny trained on Black female business owners, and no matter her level of success, she finds that she must prove herself over and over again. She’s constantly asked questions like “So, your [white] husband is the one who actually owns this winery, right?”, and is skeptically quizzed about the winemaking process. She wasn’t taken seriously as a vintner until her wines started winning gold and double gold medals at major competitions like the San Francisco International Wine Competition.

The seven wineries in Escondido’s Highland Valley are a tight-knit group, but there have been times when Clarke felt like she wasn’t part of the “club.” However, she has embraced her challenges, and says that those moments of exclusion, paired with unwavering support from her family and friends, are what motivate her to work harder—and have led to some of her biggest successes.

Asked to reflect on why she’s had to jump through hoops to be taken seriously in the wine industry, she says it’s largely due to the misconception that POC don’t drink wine, especially Black people. “Just like anything that’s not traditionally Black, we don’t see POC portrayed in the wine industry drinking or purchasing wine, so POC are less inclined to purchase and drink wine themselves. This is true for nearly every industry, and the wine industry is no different.”

As a POC and number-one lover of all things wine, I can assure you this assumption is false, yet it has led to the industry excluding huge segments of the potential market for decades.

“I think wineries can fix this from within,” Clarke says. “They can start by hiring diverse staff that are reflective of the community. They can create a space that is safe, comfortable, and welcoming for people of all backgrounds. And as an industry, we can encourage POC to become involved in wine, and experience things that are nontraditional for them.”

Clarke has created the Tuscan-inspired winery she always dreamed of. The microclimate of Escondido’s Highland Valley (similar to that of France and Italy) and the area’s nutrient-rich soil are the perfect pairing for growing high-quality grapes and producing lean and balanced yet bold wines.

She focuses on Italian varietals, her favorites being her Estate Brunello Sangiovese, Estate Barbera, Primitivo, and Aglianico. Her passion for her wine really comes through when she starts describing the “personality traits” of each one, personifying them all. She calls her sangiovese her favorite child, “Lady Brunello,” and describes her as elegant with beautiful finesse.

She has big plans for Altipiano, including an upcoming renovation of the tasting room patio and an expansion of her residence to open it for farm stays.

Clarke wants her vineyard to be a place where people of all backgrounds can gather to relax over a bottle of wine.

“I’ve trained my staff to make everyone feel welcome the minute they walk into the winery,” she says. “No matter how busy we are, everyone is greeted when they arrive, and they are always welcome here.”

Nia Gordon is a psychologist by day, and spends her free time writing about wine—but most often just sipping it. Her blog is themoreyoubordeaux.com. @themoreyoubordeaux

Altipiano Winery / Denise Clarke

Photo courtesy of Denise Clarke

The fries don’t need to be crispier or fluffier. The service is not too slow, forgetful, or distracted. The weird new safety protocols are not dystopian or annoying. Honestly the only thing that really matters is if the place is clean and safe.

Constructive criticism of restaurants has its time and place, and now is not the year nor the planet. As a food writer for the last 12 years, I’ve been paid to analyze restaurant culture. I always felt a bit uneasy about the criticism part. I mostly tried to experience it firsthand and interpret its stories, share some notes on what made me swoon and what made me shrug. I was real, respectful, and sometimes too harsh.

And right now, quite frankly, no one needs that crap. Restaurants need our support, not our qualitative Yelp analysis.

Food has never been restaurants’ biggest charm or raison d’etre. Their top-line virtue, their LinkedIn header, their elevator pitch—is hospitality and escape. A welcoming place populated by people trained to cater to your wants, to become your instant momentary friend, muster snickers for your jokes, receive your bar tales of burden without judgment, feed you and quench your thirst and entertain you. And few things in life besides sex are as emotionally pleasing as a great restaurant experience.

Restaurants turn the basic human needs of eating and drinking—needs which, aside from breathing, we have to repeat most often—into micro-vacations. They helped us momentarily escape bosses, humidity, rain, taxes, exes, parking tickets, school debts, roommates, kids, laundry, bullies, the list goes on.

Well, they may not feel like escapes for a while. There will still be quality music and plant walls and hopefully damn good food and drinks. They are master party hosts, so the good ones will probably even manage to make dining in the days of COVID entertaining. But it’s hard to escape the worst modern reality when everyone in the restaurant is wearing masks and gloves and holding a bottle of hand sanitizer.

So imagine a friend’s house burnt down. At their first dinner party, you wouldn’t care if you’re sitting on folding chairs. You wouldn’t complain if they’re a bit distracted or the sauce isn’t homemade.

It’s our turn to take care of them. It’s our turn to make these locals and neighbors feel valued and appreciated, to take their mind off the crushing economic blow of COVID19. The honor of showing hospitality shifts to us as diners.

Restaurants have always been the first to revitalize a neighborhood, to curate a culture. If we help them get through their scariest, most awkward moment, they will again.

I’m working on a story for SD Mag about some ideas of what that will exactly look like. But in his guidelines for reopening restaurants, California governor Gavin Newsom painted the basic picture.

Everyone will be in masks. Some will take your temperature at the door, ask about your recent travel and if you’ve had any symptoms. People will be cleaning everywhere. Kitchens will be operating on smaller staffs. Food will take longer. Menus will be smaller, shorter. There will be no condiments. The tables will not be pre-set. Fancy menus will mostly be gone for disposable ones. Convenient self-serve items (sodas, lemons, straws, silverware, whatever) will be gone. You’ll have to fill your own to-go container. The restaurant is going to look and feel empty. There may be mannequins in seats. There may be inflatable dolls of scandalous intent. You may be seated next to a table of giant theme park stuffed animals.

Quite frankly, most of these restaurants and their employees would rather not be here. Every time they show up for work, they’re putting themselves and the people they love at risk. But they are facing nothing short of financial ruin if they don’t give it a shot.

Almost overnight, they have had to reinvent their entire business model. Every owner and employee you see in front of you is learning a drastically new and difficult way to do their job, in real time. They are going to struggle. Restaurants have long been one of the most vigilant businesses when it comes to sanitization, but it’s impossibly more of a burden now. They’ve never had to fully sanitize every inch of a table after each guest.

So, please, deal with it. And if you are healthy and have the financial means, dine out. Support these people. Put on your empathy pants, stuff your pockets with patience. Order booze (the biggest money-maker in any restaurant).

To be clear, I think we should still as a community monitor which ones seem to be taking the guidelines seriously and creating a safe, clean environment. If you see a restaurant or employee flagrantly disregarding the new standards, ask to talk to the manager. Be the Karen (but a kind, caring Karen). Chances are they don’t know they’re making you feel unsafe. They are actively re-learning how to operate in a brand new, intimidating world. It’s not going to be perfect. The last thing these people want to do is scare you off, because their existence depends on you feeling safe. Don’t go running to an online forum and rip a local restaurant for a mistake.

If you bring it to their attention and they tell you to take a hike or refuse to change it, make absolutely sure that you’re clearly in the right that they should be changing their practices before going public.

But if you have any sort of complaint about the experience that isn’t related to public safety, please, dear god, keep it to yourself for a while. Just eat your burger a tiny bit overcooked, and realize you are here to help. If it’s a highly enjoyable experience, that’s gravy.

Gerry Torres sat on the concrete outside his restaurant, City Tacos, a face mask dangling from his ear, exhaustion in his voice. He pointed his phone’s camera at some tacos on his lap—the meal he’s giving away free to anyone who shows up this week (his restaurants are otherwise closed). Tommy Nguyen of Cross Street Chicken & Beer had WIFI issues, but when we finally connected he showed us his spicy fried chicken sandwich and his hand sanitizer station. Priscilla Curiel, of San Ysidro’s Tuetano Taqueria, sat alone in her empty restaurant. She’s often cooking by herself in her kitchen, her children with her. She’s shortened her hours due to lack of demand, even though GQ just named Tuetano one of the best new restaurants in the country.

It’s easier to see them now. In the beginning it was heartbreaking. I’ve been interviewing restaurateurs and broadcasting their stories nearly every day since March 17, when Gavin Newsom ordered all California restaurants shut down their dining rooms (allowed to offer takeout and delivery only). Every night, I open my Instagram feed to them, their stories, and their food.

Most of them appear on my screen the same way—mask precariously afixed, voices as muffled as hope, yet still echoing in what is now their empty restaurant. Most are sweating. Behind them, a skeleton crew of cooks also wear masks, laboring over stoves, cutting various foods with their gloved hands.

Some offer curbside pickup. Others dispense the takeout at the front door. At some you can still walk in, with tape marking the social-distance six feet. At their hostess stands, once adorned with flowers or a ceramic cat waving hello, there are now giant bottles of hand sanitizer and signs telling people to stay distant, be cool. Where customers used to sit are now stacks of to-go boxes and containers and cutlery. And every time I ask the same question: “How are you doing?” They all answer just about the same way—a deep breath, a slight hesitation as they consider how much to share, how much grief to spill.

Many restaurants have closed. The fine dining ones, especially, are not designed for the current takeout or delivery. For the weeks after the stimulus package was announced, I asked if they’d received money. The co-owner of Dumpling Inn said no. Many others also said no. So I stopped asking. Then news broke that national chains, like Ruth’s Chris and Shake Shack, had received money designed for small businesses (both eventually returned the money).  

Grief exhaustion is real. I know it. They know it. Humans can only take so many crushing, emotional stories until the brain starts to avoid gloom at all costs. Restaurants have always been the relief—from the daily must-dos, grievances, inconveniences, sublimations, fatigues, injustices. And now the ones who’ve entertained us—given us a warm, welcome place to break bread so that we don’t break—are the ones who need the consoling, the help, the reassurances.

I started the video series with longer, heartfelt interviews, and I watched the numbers of viewers drop. And so now I just have the restaurateurs show viewers the food.

I have the Flavors of East Africa do closeups of their glistening, spicy jerk chicken (available for takeout here), the chef of Campfire zoom in on their coconut rice that’s part of their Caribbean dinner special (available for takeout here). Dario Gallo, owner of Civico 1845, who recently opened a fine dining spot Il Dandy with two Michelin-star chefs, gets the camera close to a lasagna (available for takeout here). Louisiana Purchase comes on screen looking professional, chef “Q” and bartender Rob on their lush patio looking like an episode of “Between Two Ferns.” They show me their fried chicken and ribeye steak with spicy crawfish cream sauce (available for takeout here). New vegetarian restaurant The Plot shows me their meatless loaf, made with mushrooms and beets (available for takeout here). Puesto’s chef shows us how to make rajas chicken on his stovetop (available for takeout here).

The home taco kit from Puesto 

We all just stare at food together. It’s odd. And comforting, nearly ASMR. We get to see inside these kitchens, see the human faces of the chefs and cooks and owners and workers still on the front lines, still trying to help their community and save not only their own livelihoods, but also their employees’. We stare at mac n cheese together, pining for a time when we can sit in those restaurants again, eat it there and not be terrified.

Some have wondered if it’s irresponsible. Should we all just be cooking at home and not promoting that people get takeout and delivery? I’m not a virologist. I don’t trust my advice on health matters, and neither should you. So I searched out this interview with Paula Cannon, professor of molecular microbiology and immunology at the Keck School of Medicine at USC. “Yeah, you can [order restaurant takeout] in a way that I think is completely safe….” she said. “The chances of anything being on those food containers is vanishingly small.”

She advised to call ahead, ask about the restaurant’s takeout policy and safety precautions, pay over the phone or computer, ideally do curbside pickup, and advised against standing in a crowded line situation. But, in the end, she surmised, “If you want to feel better you can zap your takeout food in the microwave oven or 400 [degree] oven… you will absolutely wipe out any virus that probably wasn’t there in the first place.”

Hearing that, I was convinced. We can occasionally order takeout to help these small restaurant owners—our neighbors and a vital part of what makes a city special—through this pandemic. (Personally, I avoid delivery, because I feel that puts a driver at risk, but again, don’t follow my advice on health protocols).

Fact is, California has deemed restaurants as essential businesses for good reason (we need to guarantee the security of the national food system during a pandemic), I don’t feel reckless in helping our locals sell jerk chicken.

What has struck me most from this process is how compelled most of them are go give. Whether it’s City Tacos’ free weekly meals, or Philip Esteban donating a meal for every one ordered through his Instagram (@craftmealssd), or Common Stock offering free meals to anyone in the industry who’s lost their job in the pandemic.

They are helping others while desperately needing help themselves. The whole industry is tending to each other’s wounds.

The good news is that many restaurants report this takeout and delivery is saving them. It’s keeping the lights on so that, hopefully, one day, they can bring their employees and people back. For now, until better news comes or until the system breaks, that’s all we can do.

We can stare at food.

Flavors of Africa’s June Owino and his jerk chicken

It’s March 21st. I am sitting in my car outside of Tribute Pizza in North Park. I’m a little nervous. I have never been nervous to order a pizza. The restaurant is closed. All restaurants have been ordered closed by the state of California, only allowed to do takeout and delivery. Boxes and boxes of food and relief goods and sanitation supplies are packed against Tribute’s windows. Construction zone barricades on the sidewalk designate pickup zones. I park my CRV. As instructed, I use my cell phone to call them and let them know I’ve arrived. New signs are posted on the windows explaining how to do this. People have to relearn how to order pizza in a pandemic.

A woman emerges. She wears gloves and carries our pizza and a CSA box of veggies from local farmers. We are careful to give her six feet of space. Anyone working serving the public right now is at risk. She gives us two options. She will put our pizza on top of our hood, or in our trunk. She will not hand us the food, and we do not want the food handed to us. We opt for the trunk, though afterward I feel the hood would’ve been safer.

On the drive home, the car smells of hand sanitizer and pizza. Once home, I place everything outside of our front door. I remove all the food from the to-go bag. I won’t allow it in the house where my eight year old is. I take a tube of Clorox wipes, and wipe down all of the containers of food on our porch.

“Is this crazy?” I ask my wife.

Sanitizing the pizza boxes before bringing it into the house.

Photo Credit: Claire Johnson

Italy and Spain and China are on lockdown. California and New York are on lockdown. A third of the country is on lockdown. “Death toll” is a number well wake up to, hospitals are getting crushed with the flood of sick people, healthcare workers are working to the point of exhaustion while exposing themselves to coronavirus every minute of their lifesaving work. For the first time in my life I know what a ventilator is, how many are available in the U.S., and that it’s not enough.

It is definitely crazy. Everything is crazy. Nothing is normal.

Hand sanitizer at the to-go station inside Tribute Pizza.

Photo Credit: Claire Johnson

I carry the food containers into the house, making sure not to put them down on our kitchen counters. I sanitize one free hand, use that hand to grab a clean plate from the cupboard, and dump the contents of the meatballs onto the plate. I do the same with the pizza.

Once all the food is safely on clean plates, I discard the containers. I go to the sink and wash my hands thoroughly for two birthday songs. Finally, we sit down to eat. It is delicious. And yet I’m not totally comfortable doing this. Maybe there is no comfortable way to eat in the pandemic.

Let’s back up to how we got here.

It’s March 8th. I’m at a crowded Mexican restaurant in San Diego taking notes on ceviche. This is my job. I take it very seriously. I’m unaware how wildly luxurious it will be a week from now to think about ceviche. I’m unaware how wildly free it was to be in a crowded restaurant and not worry about endangering a healthcare worker or a grandparent or humanity. Beyond washing our hands every hour or so, life is relatively normal. There are many birthday parties happening around us.

It’s March 9th. In four days, I’m scheduled to fly to the Midwest to film a TV show about restaurants. But the country’s starting to quiver a little bit. My wife and I decide to keep our two-day trip to the mountains. It’s important. I’m going to be gone for weeks. I need her to remember who I am.

It’s March 10th. I wake up in Big Bear to a text from my co-host: “I’m a little nervous.” She’s not a nervous type. Five days earlier I had asked her if she was concerned and she said she would kick coronavirus’s ass. I believed her. We laughed it off, a tad uneasily.

I get on a call with our producers to gauge their concern. They just don’t know. Nobody knows. We’re not epidemiologists. Just average people binging on the news cycle, trying to not be on the wrong side of history. At that point it was still valid to ask, “Is it bad enough to cancel things and ruin people’s lives economically?” Our TV show helps restaurants by telling their stories. At this point they are struggling because the virus has reduced customers to a trickle, and their people—dishwashers, cooks, servers, bussers, bartenders, owners, suppliers—need help. Four hours after that call, the WHO declares coronavirus a pandemic. We cancel our flights, postpone the show. It feels terrible and right, but even then we’re not sure.

Construction cones denote where to park for curbside pickup.

Photo Credit: Claire Johnson