FIRST LOOK: Campfire

A meal in a steakhouse is a wild little spike on the EKG of our mortal pizza lives.

Steakhouses are a place for birthdays with zeroes in them and wrap parties for long careers. They’re where big-deal clients are ornately wooed. They’re home to proposals both sacred and profane, where trusty anniversary gin is properly dirtied. All our various big life things are toasted, individually but simultaneously, through blood and bottle, under a single roof with a lot of butter.

In other words, more than the usual or recommended amount of emotions are pinned to dinner at the new Steak 48 in Del Mar. It’s a house of cheers and tears.

Sure, some come just because they’re hungry and like nice things. There are regulars who, through achievement or the natural flow of money down a bloodline, can casually dine in this strata of $500 checks and $100 tips. You often see them at the bar, their radiant epidermises the result of skin creams rare and exotic, some combo of shea butter and narwhal breath that’s illegal in many countries.

The rest of us have not yet victoriously pinned NASDAQ to the mat, are not collectors of infinity pools. But we’d like to try that on for size for a moment, and that’s important for the steakhouse. We’re middle-class Janes and Joes who have socially agreed to suspend economic disbelief for one night of carnivore dinner theater. In our daily lives, we responsibly count and monitor the outflow of our chits and eat our crucifers. Tonight, we take capitalism for a fleshy joy ride.

There are moments of pause. For instance, the waiter suggests my wife, Claire, try a Bernie Madoff–priced glass of Dom Serene Evenstad pinot ($68). I politely tachycardia.

Not because I’m cheap—I am cheap, but my cheapness knows its place. Looking for deals at a steakhouse is like trying to score drugs in church. Tonight, we’re gonna spend like we’re all launching SpaceX from our porticos at dawn.

All of this is why the most important thing about a steakhouse is the hospitality. Most of us spend our lives dutifully attending to demands, be it from bosses or banks or our lord-savior smartphones. At steakhouses, we’re splurging to be obsessively yet unobtrusively taken care of.

And Steak 48—the new arrival from Scott Troilo and the Arizona-based Mastro family (brothers Jeffrey and Michael and father Dennis), which first made its name with the wildly popular Mastro’s before selling it to Landry’s in 2013—are determined to serve you within an inch of your life.

A million people work here. Four attendants greet us at the host stand—less a welcome than a help ambush. You are swept up in a mild tornado of excellently trained wish caddies.

I recognize the bartender; she used to manage one of San Diego’s Michelin-starred restaurants. She’s getting her PhD, she explains—but, the point is, few restaurants have bartenders who used to run a Michelin.

Another night, our server is exactly who a steakhouse server should be—formal but not taxidermied, opinionated in all the right ways, a Vegas kinda funny. He has memorized every menu item and the perfect preparation and most common alterations. He may have invented steak.

Near the end of our meal, I ask if they’ve got the warm butter cake—Mastro’s famed dessert—and he says, “Have you ever opened a cease-and-desist letter? We have the warm vanilla cake, sir.”

The dude is a delight. And Steak 48 will win every service award.

Perched on the corner of Del Mar Highlands Town Center, Steak 48 is massive (12,500 square feet), with a wing built for corporate buyouts that includes its own bar and video screens. You enter first into the sunken main lounge, past a wall hung with hatchets, which is the edgiest thing about the design.

I’m a fan of minimalism or maximalism; Steak 48 casts their vote for in-betweenism. It won’t wow or offend. Granted, this place once housed Burlap, which was designed like a burlesque dinner party trying to entice a vice raid. Pendulums gotta swing.

There is a glass booth that stares directly down the line of their cold bar, which gives you a nifty view into the kitchen. The lights in the main bar and dining area are set to deep dusk with a billion LED candles. It’s like dining in a midnight Catholic prayer service, which sets a dreamy mood.

You know the Steak 48 concept—apps, chops, raw bar, caviar, “other” mains (Chilean sea bass, lamb, veal, scallops), potatoes five ways, volume-play desserts. A 3,000-bottle wine cellar (heavily West Coast reds and international whites and sparklings, both little-knowns and superstars like Opus and Quintessa). Their pours are benevolent and house party–sized (nine-ounce glasses of wine, five-ounce martinis—and they make a perfect dirty).

Your dinner plate lands at 300 or 400 degrees—the idea being that your first bite is as warm as your last. (But the reality being that any nicely pink cut of meat set down will not sear but turn a boiled-gray hue.

This is a longstanding hole in this approach—because, while I’m sure this next sentence will unsettle plant-based friends, I need the sight of blood on my steak. It activates something ancient in my marrow, and that lizard-brain bloodlust makes the steak taste better. Gray steak just looks like a mistake that only presidents prefer. Plus, just-warm beef is better than hot beef.)

We order the New York strip, their base model. Anyone with a heating surface can make a Miyazaki A5 Wagyu taste like euphemisms. The trick is working magic with the lowly gateway steak. And it’s good, seared and cooked to temp. Steak 48 specializes in corn-fed steaks— which are more marbled, sweeter, and richer than grass-fed (your mouth will always say yes to more fat).

We top the meat with soft, whipped truffle butter. It’s the river Styx of Steak 48: Whatever you dip in it becomes a bit closer to godliness. The greatest sauce, though, is “officially” served with seafood, but you should use it everywhere—olive oil with herbs and tomato.

Sides are hot and cold. The crème brûlée corn is topped with turbinado sugar, torched and caramelized. It is soup candy, a delicious bugle call to insulin manufacturers. Also try the whipped praline sweet potatoes. Again, they are a dessert in an appetizer costume with mascarpone cheese, candied pecans, and streusel crisp.

The wild mushrooms aren’t sautéed nearly enough. If not sizzled into submission, the forest sponges retain their bland, unseasoned moisture. And the creamed spinach would be more honest if named “spinached cream”—too heavy on the gloop.

That speaks to a weakness that pops up a lot on Steak 48’s menu. The big hits are so dependent on cream, butter, cheese, and sugar. The Maine lobster escargot is very tasty, but you’re not really tasting lobster or anything except truffle mornay sauce (to be fair, escargot and lobster are both traditionally drowned in butter). The other issue Steak 48’s gotta figure out is temperature.

Our red wine comes so cold. It is cabernet served like it’s sauvignon blanc. Red wine should be stored at 57 degrees Fahrenheit but served closer to 68, just below room temperature. I throw no shade at how people prefer to drink their wine. If you love Screaming Eagle with a couple ice cubes in it, I’ll grab the ice tongs for you. You like it with just a touch of salt and a dash of cigar ash? Cheers, weirdo.

But if you just enjoy red wine in the missionary position, as I do—good juice near room temp in a clean glass—then order your wine an hour before you come to dinner at Steak 48 and ask them to let it sit out on the bar for a while.

Same with the crab salad. Ours arrives nearly blast- chilled. Cold temps bury flavors. That’s a good thing when serving sorry ingredients or college beer. But this is very good crab. We ignore it and let it warm a touch, and it’s delicious—lumps of meat atop fresh avocado (another food that should never be served cold) and a slice of heirloom tomato, seasoned with a little basil pistou.

Get the hasselback potato, a 1950s Americana staple that was wrongly left for dead. It’s a whole spud, partially sliced so that it resembles an extreme-sports armadillo, baked until the exterior edges are crisp but the middle is tender and doused with truffle butter and chive cream sauce. Also order the hamachi crudo (served at the perfect temp) with hearts of palm, tapenade, and white soy.

Steak 48 isn’t out to set a new frontier for the genre. The steakhouse is a classic American song, one unexpected in San Diego, where our eating habits strike fear in the hearts of plants more than steer. But in times of uncertainty—as we finally normalize viral pandemics only to watch the formless mothership of AI ingest not only our roles in society, but our cultural identity and basic uniqueness as a species (no biggie)—an old song can soothe souls.

And Steak 48 sings it decently.

The Plot

North County is leaning hard into its potential as San Diego’s “second city.” From casual to fancy kitchens, its dining scene is pushing boundaries—all north of the 56.

Most notably, the region is officially the land of three Michelin stars (an elusive feat, and Addison did it). It’s also a nucleus of zero-waste, plant-forward dining thanks to The Plot in Oceanside, which is expanding to the city’s pier, Carlsbad, and Orange County.

Addison

Photo Credit: Eric Wolfinger

O’side’s casual eats scene is heating up, too, from Allmine’s San Marzano tomato–based pizzas, shared plates, and natural wine; to Mak Mak Organic’s Southeast Asian street food like Filipino lumpia and fresh fruit–puree seltzers in flavors such as lychee-guava; to Ryes and Grind’s babka French toast and pastrami-loaded latkes.

Allmine

Photo Credit: Becka Vance Photography

Oceanside is also home to Michelin star–chasing contenders tweezing up some of the county’s finest dining. We highlighted them in last year’s North County issue, and chef William Eick’s Matsu and chef Roberto Alcocer’s Valle are still hot reservations.

Matsu

One burrough south, in Carlsbad, Park Hyatt Aviara Resort’s $50 million renovation includes the debut of Ponto Lago, a white tablecloth experience featuring red oak–grilled dishes and specials like whole grilled lobsters. Before the pandemic, heavy metal–loving top chef Christopher Carriker won an episode of Chopped. Also in Carlsbad, Same Same offers jungle vibes and smoked brisket banh mi on Prager Bros. baguettes, and Yelp crowned the ramen restaurant Gonzo! a top place to eat in the country.

Ponto Lago

Chefs and restaurateurs are also considering the value of relocating, opening, or expanding to the suburbs. In San Marcos, Buona Forchetta and Maya’s Cookies’ chewy vegan treats opened locations in the growing North City development. On San Marcos Boulevard, Inland Tavern’s new executive chef Corey Muirhead, who has cheffed in Dija Mara’s and Hoxton Manor’s kitchens, recently introduced new lunch and dinner menus. Temaki in Encinitas is a sleek hand roll sushi bar. It’s wedged itself between lively watering holes, coffee shops, taco joints, and a new wine shop (Little Victory) on South Coast Highway.

Maya’s Cookies

In Solana Beach, Vino Carta wine shop hosts two culinary couples doing sweet justice to local produce and ingredients. Early in the week, have a mostly plant-forward dinner by chef Juan González and partner Megan Strom of Mesa Agrícola. They initially offered outdoor pop-up dinners around North County, including Encinitas’ Coastal Roots Farm. Try the cubed patatas bravas with roasted garlic aioli and salsa brava and the tuna tlayuda with yellowtail and crispy leeks.

Other days, Elliott and Kelly Townsend of Long Story Short cook up whatever earthy gems they find on weekly visits to Chino Farm in Rancho Santa Fe, which recently introduced Aisu Creamery, ice cream pints featuring the farm’s famous produce. Occasionally, Long Story Short does themed dinner menus, including an izakaya (Japanese pub) inspired night featuring items like a fluffy pancake with shredded cabbage and octopus, a riff on an Osaka specialty, okonomiyaki.

Long Story Short

A handful of North County’s newest restaurants have also set up shop within the region’s newest or heavily renovated hotels. Packed into the ten-room Brick Hotel in downtown Oceanside, Q&A restaurant on the ground floor draws from chef Quintonn Austin’s New Orleans background, including a seafood crepe and gumbo. At its rooftop (one of only a few in the area, the other is atop Mission Pacific Hotel), Cococabana serves Scotch bonnet pepper bloody marys during weekend brunch with ocean views.

In Rancho Bernardo, Burma Place makes a tasty lunch stop after hiking Iron Mountain or Potato Chip Rock. Order traditional Burmese dishes like lahpet thoke (tea leaf salad) made crunchy with a smattering of sunflower and sesame seeds, peanuts, fried beans, and garlic; and nan gyi thoke, a round rice noodle salad with tender chicken cooked in brothy curry. Avant, Rancho Bernardo Inn’s Baja-French restaurant, welcomes back Sergio Jimenez, this time as chef de cuisine.

Avant

Looping back toward the coast again, Del Mar Highlands Town Center and One Paseo’s dining options seem to have outpaced the number of retail shops, while Market Restaurant and Bar recently debuted a remodeled dining room, with stone and walnut tabletops and velvet chairs and drapery.

Jane Lynch celebrates her inauguration as the mayor of Funner, California.

I just catalyzed Jane Lynch’s fall from vegetarianism. She tried my scallops. It’s like watching a friend dial an ex they’d sworn off. Not on my watch, Jane! I think but do not say.

She can eat whatever she’d like. She’s Jane Damn Lynch, star of screen and stage. She said “cocaine” to Paul Rudd a few times in a movie. Just kept hammering that word, squeezing it for all its comedic pulp. And each time she said it, the scene got funnier. The funny should have died far before it did, but she just kept it alive, juggled the funny.

No, wait. She’s clarifying. Neither I nor Gordon Ramsay have ruined anything, she says (we’re dining in Hell’s Kitchen, Ramsay’s signature restaurant at Harrah’s Resort SoCal, a fairly big deal). We do not have that power over Jane Damn Lynch. She’s been tinkering recently with chicken and seafood, she explains. The chicken-and-fish-only exception has always struck me as odd. Is the line, “Don’t eat it if you can ride it?” But Jane Damn Lynch will not be questioned. Her body, her seafood.

Not that I would have taken any perverse pride in altering the life of a famous and talented person like Jane Damn Lynch. We’d just been talking about why she had gone plant-based a few years prior. “I watched a video of these doctors in their 60s talking about how they went plant-based,” she says, sipping a lavender zero-proof cocktail from a menu of mocktails in her honor at Hell’s Kitchen (Jane Damn Lynch’s been sober a while now). “I noticed how young and healthy they all looked and I thought, Hmmm… maybe there’s something to it.”

I had spent the last day researching her life in preparation for our meal together. And I had not read about her protein trysts. So I thought I’d derailed her. I have derailed things in the past. There is a history of derailing.

Jane Damn Lynch is here on official business. She is now mayor of Funner, California. It’s an ad campaign for Harrah’s Resort SoCal —quite honestly, one of my favorite campaigns (created by local agency, 62Above). First of all, they actually renamed the town. It’s not a nickname or a branding rephrase. It’s the legal operating name of the town. I’m not sure what it takes to rename a town, but I’m guessing money.

Then they named David Damn Hasselhoff the first mayor of this now nonfictional province of gambling and lazy rivers and resort massages and concerts and pool parties. Yes, him of beefy Baywatch slow-motion beach jogging. The Night Rider, a man who isn’t just cheesy (and hot), but actually possesses the cheese, inhabits and owns his emotional fromage, so that what in lesser mortals might be a negative becomes an attribute, a bankable character trait.

The mayorship of Funner is not a democracy. If you’re famous and funny and are okay with going to a SoCal casino for 15-minute meals with media hacks—some of whom take their job far more seriously than I am able to—you get the keys to slot machine city. They hand you an arm falcon, put you on billboards all over San Diego.

Their mayor before Jane was Rob Riggle. He played the role perfectly, his jaw like human skin stretched around an anvil—just a massively proud mandible that projects a certain level of bone structure–based confidence. He had an air of grapes and palm fronds and baccarat.

“Rob was the spoiled boy king,” Mayor Jane Damn Lynch says. “I’m more of the people. And yet I’m tall enough that I’m not really of the people. I walk around, I glad-hand, I float above. I act like I’m one of you, but of course I’m not. I’m six feet tall. I’m regal. I’m a celebrity. I’m not you, you’re not me. You want to be me, and I’m delighted by that.”

Jane Lynch’s mayoral duties include falcon-holding and zen-chasing at Harrah’s Resort & Casino—plus awkward lunches with media pundits.

There it is. That classic Jane Damn Lynch unselfconscious plainspeak, the aristocratic deadpan that makes her character in Marvelous Miss Masel such a vicious treat. I was waiting for that morsel of playacting. She knew I was waiting for it. She gave it to me, a small preapproved gift for her media interviews. I refrain from saying, “Do the cocaine thing.” Composure loosely adheres to me.

Jane Damn Lynch is dressed in a purple pantsuit. She looks like she could do some damage with a profit and loss statement, but opts to have shorter people do that. Like, with a wave of her hand, beefy men would whisk you off her premises. But, until she dictates your removal, she’s game to share some beet salad.

All you need to really know about Jane Damn Lynch is that she’s lovely. She is, as she says, elevation-tall. She has textbook posture. She is refreshingly real when she talks, doesn’t seem to be tiptoeing just in case I’m a “gotcha” media hack waiting for her to slip into a luscious scoop. And these days every public figure—especially funny people whose job it is to sidle up to the line of unacceptable and pull back at just the right moment before they say something that incinerates their career and gets them tied to a stake in the public square of social media—has reason to not answer with their honest thoughts and feelings at all.

In the days of cancel, if smart, every famous person would answer like baseball players to every question they’re ever asked. Just say, “Well, I just trust God has a plan,” when pressed about whether they’d like Coke or Pepsi.

The most fascinating thing about my meal with Jane Damn Lynch was the process. When celebrities come to San Diego, especially as part of a media campaign, they tap certain local writers and creatives who might do an interesting job spreading the word. They offer morsels of Jane Damn Lynch personal time.

Usually this results in a social media pic, a lighthearted blurb on the local news to show that San Diego is a place where famous people come, that while you’re kissing good luck charms and praying to dead relatives while you pull the brass appendage on the slot machine, Jane Damn Lynch is walking on the same extremely soft carpet that you are walking on. You’re sharing the room with a shiny human.

But these 15 minute interviews are always fairly awkward for both of you and yield very little substance aside from mutual observations of awkwardness. It’s media as speed dating. Or speed acquaintancing. You spend the first three to four minutes making small talk and trying to establish some sort of baseline connection with Jane Damn Lynch.

You’re trying to prove that you’re the kind of person that can be trusted, that she can go ahead and drop the Big News, the Jane Damn Lynch news that will get San Diego Magazine—this media company my wife and I bought in a state of passion and possibly economically suspect idealism—trending on Google, read by everyone who’s ever loved Jane Damn Lynch. They’ll not only sign up for a thousand-year subscription to go along with their permanent SDM neck tat, but they might also come here to Hell’s Kitchen to try their very good beef wellington (a 1950s classic that’s been revived, it’s basically a full fancy steak baked in a puff pastry, a wonderfully marsupial steak design).

You only get a few minutes with celebrities like Jane Damn Lynch because being a celebrity is like being constantly followed by a flock of birds that are pecking away at the thing you have the least of: time. There are 24 hours in a day and 300 of those hours have been requested of celebrities by various organisms, including me.

Thirty nonprofits would like you to speak at their big annual fundraiser. Ten media outlets would like an all-day shoot in your family home—and, weirdly, just for quirk, a tour of your bathroom. A passerby has thoughts on your last movie and would like to express them in descending order of importance, so if your spouse wouldn’t mind if they borrowed a couple minutes. Just a couple, like 30 or so, if you don’t politely remove yourself.

I’ve been in media for so long that I’ve given up on 15 minute interviews. But I am a bit fanboyed by Jane Damn Lynch. She just seems like the kind of person you could road trip with. She’d have fun thoughts on gas station jerky.

So when Lynch’s people contacted me, I pitched them a short video idea: “The Mayor and a Food Critic Go to Hell” (since I feel like hell is a place many people would like politicians and food critics to at least visit). We’d share a meal, film the banter back and forth. I’d do my food critic thing with the dishes and zero-proof offerings of Hell’s Kitchen (they also have wine and cocktails and all the things, but it’s 1 p.m. on a weekday and I for sure don’t want to get half-buzzed and end up burdening Jane Damn Lynch with the story about the time I wet myself on national TV), casually spelunk through Jane Damn Lynch’s thoughts on life. The video goes viral, SDM buys Meta, Mark Zuckerberg becomes my trusted intern.

News came back from Jane Damn Lynch’s people. They’re in! And, and, and! I get 45 minutes! What a luxurious time treat! As the date of our lunch gets closer, less fun emails arrive. The first says no video will be allowed. Since that was the concept, it’s deflating. The magic of Jane Damn Lynch is seeing her deadpan face as she says something lovely or wrecks your world a bit with her smarts. I’m a person on TV. She’s a far more famous and talented person on TV. It could’ve been great!

But we’re adaptable. Okay, I say, then let’s do an audio recording so that people can hear Jane Damn Lynch sparkle. We’ll release it as a special podcast. News comes back. No go on the audio.

Troy Johnson and Jane Lynch pose for a photo mere moments after agreeing to launch a chain of daytime restaurants together (just kidding).

At this point, I nearly pull out of the brief lunch with Jane Damn Lynch. As righteously cool as it would be—and I’m going to get to eat Gordon Ramsay food, for chrissakes—we’ve got a company to run. I’m not sure it’s the best use of my time. As I’m about to cancel, my vision fills with an image of Sue Sylvester striding in her tracksuit like a dark lord of physical education down the halls of whatever the high school was called in Glee. I don’t cancel on Jane Damn Lynch.

About 15 minutes into our lunch—Hell’s Kitchen is lovely, exactly the big flashy kind of restaurant I want when I visit a casino, and the service and food are very good—I see Jane Damn Lynch’s people start to shuffle a bit off to the side. They seem to be sending code to Jane Damn Lynch. She’s doing her best to stay tuned into our conversation, and this is where I get the juiciest bit I’m going to get today:

“If I never act in a TV show or film again, I’m totally okay with that,” she says.

DID YOU HEAR THAT, INTERNET?! Jane Lynch says she would be fine NEVER ACTING AGAIN! There is a vague impression that she might be done acting but that’s really missing the point and misconstruing her words because she’s just kinda saying that she’s grateful for what she’s got and has a keen sense of inner peace if it all ended today! Put all the viral on this article! Send it to the moon! You’ll have my acquisition offer next week, Mark!

A slight activity, a buzzing, a “next, please” vibe starts to take hold of Jane’s people off on the side. My liaison, a very good PR person named Mary Ann, comes over to the table. “We have two more minutes,” she says. I look at my recorder. It’s only been 20 minutes! I was told 45! Some wire has been crossed and now there’s panic.

Jane Damn Lynch and I were having a grand old time. I was luxuriously backstroking in her minutes, which she’s graciously sharing—and now, bam! I’m thefted minutes! I need to get a few really usable insights into her life and thoughts on Funner and mayorship. Pressure’s on.

So I pull the classic pro move that I’ve learned over many years of journalism: I choke.

At some point in trying to bridge the gap and seal that human connection in speed-media—the clock is ticking, you have two minutes, time for the journalism hail mary—you will find yourself talking about something you have no good reason to share. Like some random fact about a sibling or how you enjoy Pez as a concept but struggle with the chalkiness. Some odd secret about your life will fall out of your mouth despite neither party requesting nor really wanting access or exposure to that info. I think I tell Jane Damn Lynch a story. I’m not sure. Kinda blacked out.

“Well, I’m a fan of fun,” she says of her Funner mayorship. “They came to me and said, ‘We’re actually in a town called Funner, California.’ And I was like, ‘I have to be the mayor of this town.’ Funner, is that a word? It’s a word in my heart.”

Anyway, she’s very polite, a consummate pro. She gives me far more minutes than she was asked to give. I am the bird on her minutes, and I respect how much she’s indulging my pecking at them. After we say our goodbyes—and, as you’ve learned by now, I didn’t get a real story from Jane Damn Lynch aside from maybe this longwinded story about trying to get a story from Jane Damn Lynch—she actually comes back to the table and gives me more time. We casually chat about how we love our wives and how I grew up with a gay parent. We dabble in light politics.

Then a production crew starts to mic her up so that she can film new mayor videos for Funner, California. Our minutes have expired, and she is now being asked to distribute the minutes elsewhere.

As I’m leaving, I yell to her, “HEY, JANE! HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED OPENING A CHAIN OF DAYTIME RESTAURANTS CALLED JANE LUNCH?”

“I HAVE NOT!” she says, not skipping a beat. “I DON’T HAVE ANY PLANS TO DO THAT! THAT ONE IS YOURS; YOU CAN GO FOR IT!”

So Jane Damn Lynch and I will not be going into business with each other, either. But the scallops were great.

A few days back I got a text from Aaron Browning, who owns Flying Pig Pub & Kitchen in Oceanside with her husband, Roddy. It was a screenshot of a Facebook post. The poster praised the approximately 30 restaurants in North County who are refusing the statewide order to close outdoor dining for three weeks (possibly longer).

“That’s the way it’s done,” the post said. “Awesome.”

Not surprising. Many have been vocal about their opposition to shutting down local businesses. Pandemic life in Southern California is a delicate and increasingly wobbly balance between public health and economic survival, and the decibel level on both sides has risen.

Aaron Browning, owner of Flying Pig Pub & Kitchen

This part, though, shocked Browning a little: “To those you [sic] that wilfully close and complain… you own it now.”

The person was blaming restaurant owners—like Aaron and Roddy—who are complying with the order, shaming them for not joining the protest.

“It’s crazy because it’s dividing us,” Browning explains. “We didn’t used to be divided in this. I got a message from another restaurant owner saying she’s getting so much pressure [from other restaurateurs].”

As if restaurants didn’t have it bad enough, now they’ve begun turning on one another. It’s the ultimate no-win situation. If an owner refuses to shut down, they face fines and legal ramifications and public shame. If they comply with the order, they’re seen as sheeple who are abandoning their fellow restaurant owners.

It’s deepening the economic divide, too. “The other day I drove by [a restaurant that’s complying with the order] and saw the owner sitting alone at the bar with his head in his hands,” she says. “Then I turned the corner and saw [a restaurant that’s defying the order] was jam-packed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried this week.”

I called Browning and we talked through the impossible a bit:

Troy Johnson: What’s your take on the shutdown of outdoor dining?

Aaron Browning: I’m not way right, or way left. I guess I’m just old-school. They told us to do A, so we’re supposed to do A. For ten years, we’ve done everything that we’ve been told to do as business owners. Now we’re told to do it for safety reasons, so we’re going to do it. We may not agree 100 percent, but we do it.

The not-agreeing comes from a lack of evidence that outdoor dining causes the spread?

Exactly. There are no numbers about people getting sick from socially distanced outdoor dining. The best reason I’ve heard is someone who posted on Facebook that the shutdown has nothing to do with the business. It has to do with keeping people home. But if that’s the case, look at the big-box stores. There’s a line to get into Costco. I can go to Wal-Mart and stand indoors next to 30 people for ten minutes because they only have two checkers. That’s more dangerous than someone sitting in a parking lot at a picnic table. I’ve said from the beginning, I feel like everything they’ve thrown at us has been arbitrary. They have a fishbowl with a bunch of pieces of paper in it and they just pull something out and enforce it or ban it. But we’re not going to rock the boat. Do I think it’s kind of bullshit? Of course I do. But I do it.

And you’re getting pressure to defy the order?

The peer pressure is crazy. It’s a mob mentality: “If we all do it, they can’t possibly punish us all.” One of my really good regulars put this whole rant on Instagram and if any restaurants want his business, they won’t comply. You would not believe how many people send messages saying, “You guys need to just open and we’ll come eat—this is ridiculous!” My view is, “Well, okay, you guys are my regulars, why don’t you just come and get food to go?” I feel bad for all these restaurant owners who spent $10,000 to put up those tents and now they have to close. We sold $900 last night. Any businessperson would say, “Close your doors.” Do we want to use our life savings? No. But we will.

So you’re getting it from every direction.

Every direction. The people who feel strongly call you sheeple if you close. One of my really good friends went to [a place that’s staying open] and his social media post had the tag #freedomlunch. I wasn’t mad. I was just, like, “Really?”

But others support you complying?

Yeah. I have a lot of regulars who are terrified. I have one who was picking up dinner and there were too many people picking up food at the same time—so her husband hid in the car. They like what we’re doing. We’re a husband-and-wife business. We can’t afford to piss people off. We can’t afford to lose any guests. My daughter’s teacher said she wouldn’t step foot in a restaurant that has decided to stay open.

How do you feel about the restaurants refusing to comply?

I mean, part of me is all for it. You do you, boo. But what happens if some 25-year-old goes home to their grandma and god forbid she dies and they trace it back to the restaurant? Everybody keeps saying, “Don’t judge the people who are staying open,” but I’m annoyed. You guys are going to ruin it for the rest of us who are following the rules. And why do you want to make such a big spectacle about it? Why go to all the news stations and do the social media? There are a lot of components I don’t think these restaurants are paying attention to. And who are these lawyers telling these people nothing bad is going to happen to them? That any fine they get will just be swept under the rug? I don’t know if that’s true. I would think that somebody from the [Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control] is going to get pissed off and makes examples of people. Now your $80,000 liquor license is gone; how is your business going to survive? We can’t afford to lose our liquor license.

What if you knew you’d have to close forever tomorrow? Would you open in protest?

No. We’d say fuck it and we’d close and hibernate until it’s over. Even now, we’ll have people order to go and ask if they can just sit on the patio and eat it. And we’ll say, “Well, no, you can’t.” There is a part of me that doesn’t want to see my business die. Part of me wants to say, “Yeah, you can sit in my parking lot.” But, no, I can’t.

The outdoor patio setup at Flying Pig Pub & Kitchen

So how are you adapting?

We’re making pickled onions and jars of pickled vegetables to sell as stocking stuffers. I made cookies for the first time in 47 years last night and I was like, “Hey, maybe we can sell these!” Roddy said, “Honey, how much money do you think we’re gonna get for a damn cookie?” At the end of the day, it is what it is. If I gotta become a real estate agent, then that’s what I do. In the meantime, I’ll just pickle some shallots for your stocking. It’s down to “How much profit can I get out of this onion?”

And while you’re launching a pickled vegetable stocking stuffer side hustle, the ones defying the order are making money.

I know [a restaurant here in Oceanside that’s defying the order] is up in sales 30 percent compared to pre-COVID. People say they’re doing it for their staff—but at that point, are you really?

In light of the rift between the protesting restaurants and those that are complying—are we still at the point where this has brought the community together?

Yeah. It’s wild how we’ve come together to keep these businesses alive. These small businesses are still open because people are being good and buying trinkets from the local trinket store. It’s also crazy how innovative we’ve all become. Look at Campfire. Their food is not designed to go into a box. So in order to stay open they became a barbecue joint where people walk up and get their brisket to go. They completely changed their concept. Nine months of this stuff has really taught us how to change and adapt and do more with less.

Kitchen workers from Flying Pig Pub & Kitchen

Breakfast Republic

With a string of locations around San Diego from East Village to North County, this popular brunch spot is known for more than just a never-ending supply of chicken puns, egg decor, and eclectic pop culture references. Brunch lovers can flock here for Oreo pancakes, shrimp and grits, s’mores French toast, and breakfast cocktails.

Eight locations, see website for details

Brockton Villa Restaurant

Salty sea air, the sounds of seagulls and waves, and a stunning view of La Jolla Cove. Housed in one of La Jolla’s original beach cottages, Brockton Villa offers a fusion of American, Mexican, and Mediterranean flavors sprinkled throughout their menu items. But before letting your eyes wander the menu for too long, look for the house specialty: Coast Toast. The popular French toast, similar to a soufflé, is a must-try for first-timers. The award-winning dish has a hint of orange, and if you’re really in the mood to splurge, you can get it à la mode.

1235 Coast Boulevard, La Jolla | 858-454-7393

Broken Yolk Cafe

Started in 1979 in Pacific Beach, the hometown favorite has grown to 15 locations in San Diego County. Try their Tiki Toast (Hawaiian bread made into French toast), or their Golden State Benedict, a toasted English muffin topped with grilled tomato, avocado, applewood-smoked bacon, poached eggs, hollandaise, and a Sriracha drizzle.

15 locations, see website for details

Cafe 21

Experience the culture of Azerbaijan at Cafe 21, from their fusion dishes to their style of service and everything in between. Their concept is small plates, which allows for variety and the experience of trying different tastes and flavors—the bread and housemade jam is a must at breakfast, it goes well with the organic Peruvian blend. 802 Fifth Avenue, Downtown | 619-795-0721

2736 Adams Avenue, University Heights | 619-640-2121

Caroline’s Seaside Cafe

The cafe is on the campus of UCSD Scripps Institution of Oceanography, in the Seaside Forum, in walking distance from Scripps Pier. Relax on their ocean-view patio and enjoy the Mediterranean egg scramble while you watch the waves. Espresso drinks and baked goods are available all day at the counter.

8610 Charles F. Kennel Way, La Jolla | 858-202-0569

Claire’s on Cedros and Claire’s Too

Located in the heart of Solana Beach, this quaint cafe and bakery specializes in homemade breads, pastries, and desserts like peach cobbler coffee cake. They grind their coffee beans and juice their Valencia oranges daily on-site. If you’re on the go, make a quick stop for coffee, salads, or baked treats at Claire’s Too, whose bakery counter is just across from the restaurant entrance.

246 North Cedros Avenue, Solana Beach | 858-259-8597

Crushed

Crushed

Offering selections from American, Mexican, and Italian fare, this family-owned and operated brunch spot is known for their drinks just as much as their food. Try one of their “bresserts” (breakfast desserts), like the popular cinnamon roll pancakes, with some craft beer, mimosa, or wine. If you’re hoping to get a trendy Instagram post out of your visit, start off your morning with their mimosa flight and choose three different flavors, such as elderflower or ginger lychee, that are sure to brighten up any picture.

967 Garnet Avenue, Pacific Beach | 858-230-6567

Farmer’s Table

This restaurant brings together locally sourced organic ingredients with wood-fired pizzas and flatbreads, omeletes, and skillets. They’re famous for The Barn Yard bloody mary, a pitcher topped with an entire roasted chicken (made for four people or more). There’s also a kids’ brunch menu.

550 West Date Street, Little Italy | 619-255-0958

8141 La Mesa Boulevard, La Mesa | 619-724-6465

3055 Clairemont Drive, Bay Park | 619-359-4485

Great Maple/Hash House a Go Go

For over two decades, Hash House has brought a little country to the coast with its fresh spin on classic Midwestern comfort food. The most popular meal, Andy’s World Famous Sage Fried Chicken, is a must-try, and they’re famous for their bloody marys. Great Maple, a second location from Hash House’s founder, is a modern eatery with fresh housemade pies, Benedicts, and French toast logs. For anyone with a sweet tooth, the Fruity Pebbles pancakes (a limited offer on the secret menu) and the maple bacon donuts are must-trys.

1451 Washington Street, Hillcrest | 619-255-2282

3628 Fifth Avenue, Hillcrest | 619-298-4646

Hob Nob Hill

Hob Nob Hill

Located in the heart of San Diego, Hob Nob Hill has been serving scratch-made food to generations of San Diegans and visitors alike since 1944. They recently built an expansive outdoor space on First Avenue. Try the crab Benedict or bone-in pork chops and eggs.

2271 First Avenue, Bankers Hill | 619-239-8176

Jrdn Restaurant

Jrdn is the place to go for sushi, cocktails, and people-watching—all with an ocean backdrop. It’s right on the Pacific Beach boardwalk and features both a breakfast and an all-day menu with their own take on surf ‘n’ turf cuisine. Catch them in the morning for a refreshing acai bowl or a hearty veggie scramble, or treat yourself to a lobster roll or poke bowl anytime after 11 a.m. If you’re in the mood to complement the view with a drink, pick from an extensive wine list or build your own mimosa.

723 Felspar Street, Pacific Beach | 858-270-2323

Luca Restaurant

Tucked away in an alfresco courtyard adjacent to The Guild Hotel’s central lobby, Luca features Mediterranean and North African flavors, such as deviled eggs with tobiko caviar truffle oil and a unique take on ​avocado toast​, served with poached eggs, arugula salad, tomato jam, and quinoa popcorn. Let your travel-deprived self enjoy the French Riviera ambience in some dreamy brunch-time.

500 West Broadway, Downtown | 619-764-5160

Madison on Park

Try the carnitas stack, a Belgian waffle made with manchego cheese, drizzled with avocado sauce and topped with carnitas and a poached egg. This University Heights hangout also serves brunch cocktails, including the Motor Bike, which is El Jimador tequila blanco with aperol and hints of watermelon, ginger, and lime.

4622 Park Boulevard, North Park | 619-269-6566

Morning Glory

If you’re looking for ambience that will stun you just as much as the food, Morning Glory’s got you covered way beyond your expectations. Come up to the second floor in the heart of Little Italy to enjoy the trendy Japanese soufflé pancakes or the pork belly fried rice. Or just sit and gape at the pink Champagne vending machine and the giant electric-pink flower looming overhead. Either way, you’ll be living any Millennial’s *aesthetic* brunch dreams.

550 West Date Street, Little Italy | 619-629-0302

Parc Bistro-Brasserie

Getting a table on the charming patio at this modern bistro is like taking a quick escape to a Parisian cafe for a couple of hours. Start off the weekend with crepes, quiche, a croque monsieur with Bayonne ham, or go all out with a seafood tower. There’s several French wines served by the glass, mocktails, and mimosas to wash it all down. Brunch is served Saturdays and Sundays until 3 p.m.

2760 Fifth Ave., Bankers Hill | 619-795-1501

Sheldon’s Service Station

Pair an iced tea, iced coffee, or ice-cold beer with something from the cafe’s pastry bar or with their popular Service Station Benedict, and enjoy the San Diego weather on the covered patio, complete with refreshing misters. And make sure to keep up to date on the avocado toast special of the week.

8401 La Mesa Boulevard, La Mesa | 619-741-8276

Snooze, an A.M. Eatery

This breakfast eatery aims to foster a more sustainable food system, serving seasonal foods with local and organic ingredients. Whether you follow a strict diet, have food allergies, or you’re just plain picky, their breakfast and brunch menu features something for anyone with an appetite, from paleo to vegetarian and vegan, to dairy-free and gluten-free options. The restaurants also feature a full bar serving mimosas, bloody marys, margaritas, and local craft beers.

3940 Fifth Avenue, Hillcrest | 619-500-3344

8861 Villa La Jolla Drive, #509, La Jolla | 858-483-5556

3435 Del Mar Heights Road, Suite D3, Del Mar | 858-703-5300

Toast Gastrobrunch

Toast does wonders with its namesake, but hungry brunchers can expect a range of dishes, from prime beef and eggs to the signature Eggs in Purgatory, a sourdough bread bowl with poached eggs in a spicy shakshuka sauce, mushrooms, pork belly, feta, egg, scallions, and mint. Their house specialty is coconut pistachio kanafee, which is shredded phyllo with a ricotta and jack cheese filling, served with an orange blossom syrup and toasted brioche, topped with pistachios. They also offer a selection of bloody marys, bellinis, mimosas, draft beers, and cocktails like espresso martinis.

5970 Avenida Encinas, Carlsbad | 760-438-1212

Urban Mo’s Bar and Grill

The famous buffet at this bar in the heart of San Diego’s LGBTQ+ community may be no more, but you can still get a flavorful breakfast every day until 1 p.m. with dishes like country fried steak, chocolate chip pancakes, or a filling breakfast burrito. Don’t forget to complement your meal with a mimosa.

308 University Avenue, Hillcrest | 619-491-0400

The Westgate Hotel

Show up for Sunday brunch in your Sunday best. Visit their new alfresco dining at Veranda at Westgate Room and try their French-inspired cuisine featuring fresh California flavors. Indulge in the lemon ricotta pancakes with blueberry marmalade and maple syrup or the house brioche French toast with cinnamon butter and crème fraiche.

1055 Second Avenue, Downtown | 800-522-1564

Morning Glory