Notes on food

It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger I am really writing about love and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.

-M.F.K. Fisher

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So what does food really mean to us?

I felt an urge to write about this. Partly because I ate a pizza that made me cry a few days ago.

The place is called June’s Pizza. They started off as a pandemic pop-up by chef Craig Murli. It shut down three years ago and finally reopened this September in West Oakland, a gritty, industrialized food desert filled with factories, abandoned buildings, empty lots littered with trash, alongside newly built condos. Murli chose to stay rooted here, where June first got its start.

The space is a converted warehouse with high ceilings, exposed beams. The spray-painted sign displays a simple menu: just two pizzas, one marg and one special. The entire assembly line is in full view once you enter — from the giant cheese wheel in the fridge to containers of densely packed frisée lettuce. It was also, surprisingly well-staffed, a stark contrast to industry trend of labor cuts and understaffing.

We ordered a white sauce pizza topped with pancetta, frisée, and chrysanthemum mustard greens. It arrived looking seemingly unpolished: uneven edges, a single large charred bubble on one corner, and a little hill of greens on one side. The whole pizza was dusted with pecorino shavings, coating everything.

Start by tossing a few greens onto each slice. The dough was chewy, bouncy, with a subtle texture from the whole wheat. The sauce with pancetta was perfectly seasoned, a hint of green onion adding a touch of sweetness. And the salad mix added that unique variation of texture and bitterness.

I grew up eating chrysanthemum mustard greens (tong hao/茼蒿) in my mom’s tofu soups. That medicinal flavor and bitterness was one I had to grow into. But tasting it raw on a pizza for the first time, it felt new yet familiar, and like everything was in perfect harmony.

On the surface, there’s something deeply beautiful about making one single thing, focus on that, and just make it great. But for me, it hits on a deeper level because of where it’s made and how it’s made, the contradictions and imperfections. This pizza felt like a love letter to California, embodying everything it represents—or at least, aspires to represent.

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Food is so much more than just flavors and sustenance. It's a gateway to our collective memories, societal values, and personal identities.

In my hometown, a small coastal city in Northern China, food was simple and unrefined: steamed fish, clams, crabs, and gritty streetside barbecue stands where shirtless men gathered to drink beer and relished charred skewers. It was all about carving out space to enjoy life in ways that were fast, affordable, and plentiful.

When I moved to California, I found so much joy in using food as a way to understand other cultures, often in unpretentious settings. It’s one of the reasons I love where I live, why I love Oakland.

A few months ago in Paris, we had a comically French encounter at the classic bistro, Chez Dumonet. A man sat beside us, dining alone. He ordered the duck confit special, devoured it to the bone, and then tackled an enormous slice of millefeuille. When he was done, he asked to meet the chef to thank him. The chef, standing outside with friends, a cigarette in hand, shook the man’s hand. And that’s it, the man walked away.

It struck me how much we can learn about a person and a culture through the simple act of eating. And through observing how people eat, I gain a deeper understanding of them—and of myself too.

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I’ve found inspiration in food writers who capture the profound connections between food, identity, and society. Ruth Reichl wrote about the lack of understanding for grocery costs and why food is inherently political. Jonathan Gold captured the vibrant smells and lively fragments of LA, once writing in the wake of the 1992 riots: "where gunshots and sirens pierce the calm, there are still reasons to stay." Our very own Soleil Ho unpacks the sensitive intersections of race, traditions, and politics, and managed to always be unapologetically authentic.

Honestly, I’m not sure what point I’m making. Partly because as I’m writing this, there’s this big pot of my husband’s chicken tortilla soup bubbling on the stove. The aroma feels incredibly familiar and comforting. The weather’s getting cooler, and steam is starting to fog up the kitchen window as I watch him slice limes into perfect little wedges. He’s definitely a precision cutter, contrary to me.

Maybe this is one of those small, ordinary moments I’ll remember years from now. And maybe, when I think of it, I won’t need a reason to feel grateful.

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