Before burgers became national sport, before they got brioche top hats and aiolis made of garlic and spices found only on stalactites in verdant equatorial caves, before the meat was aged Wagyu blessed by the prayers of José Andrés, before tomatoes were heirloom and had adorable names, before the bacon was triple-cut and candied in hibiscus-jalapeño-bee-pollen glazes, before duck eggs oozed their yolky mother lode to emulsify with truffle oil… there was Rocky’s.

Theirs is a spartan workman’s delight, with meat and cheese and a bun that is a kissing cousin to Wonder Bread. This burger flies coach by choice. When San Diego was nearly all fast food—that heatlamped drive-through generation from the ’60s through the ’80s, whose people associate burgers with smog emissions— Rocky’s cooked-fresh, luscious, lumpy pincushion of ground beef—served in a dark, womb-like bar within washing distance of an ice-cold beer—tasted like deities. Still does.

Rocky’s Crown Pub is 46 years old. At this point, it’s hard to separate the objective quality of the burger from the connective quality of the nostalgia. In nearly five decades, almost nothing has changed about the place or the burgers, which is all they serve (with fries and good beer and pretty bad wine). Their ordering system is sticky notes (yes, sticky notes, which they slap on the bar… you’ll see them lined up with shorthand chicken scratch and thumb smudges of grease), and they only take cash, for chrissakes. Go tap your doohickey somewhere else.

Even the pure-carnivore eating experience feels time-portally, especially now as plant-based apostles are storming the omnivore gates, quoting jackfruit scriptures. In the current probiotic and carb-phobic dining culture, Rocky’s almost feels like a meat speakeasy—a lovely, safe place to eat a burger as if several generations of medical reports were never issued.

Even if you’re entering Rocky’s for the first time, you can feel the lives lived on these stools. Unless your commuter horse smells of freshly churned butter, some website has told you of its legend. You don’t just wander into Rocky’s. You follow decades of superlatives. You are very purposefully icon-diving.

It’s in Crown Point, the little neighborhood you drive through on your way to frolic in the SPF skin circus of Pacific Beach. It’s named after original owner Patty Rockwood (AKA Rocky). A few years ago, when she decided it was time, she could have sold it to the highest bidder. (I’m not privy to the balance sheets, but the ever-present crowd and bone-simple menu—plus a beer-and-wine license—suggests one of the most stable restaurant business models in the city’s history.) Instead, she sold it to longtime employee Nick Vendetti. As loyal to him as regulars were to her.

No surface in here is stain-vulnerable. It’s all lacquered wood and vinyl, a very wipe-able design motif. The carpet can be best described as “luxuriously cleanable.” There’s a dusty wine rack behind the bar. Instead of cabernets, it’s full of remote controls for the TVs that are broadcasting various sports. One is almost always tuned in to WGN, home of the Chicago Cubs; the other to the Padres (Rocky’s occupies a Chicago-San Diego duality, with Bears and Chargers memorabilia lining the walls). The bartenders are more astute than ESPN commentators, opining on the day’s most impressive stats and orating deep dives into existential sports issues.

Rocky’s has always been as dark as a curtained van down by the river. A major plus. As San Diegans, we are stalked by sunlight, so its absence feels like a vacation. During Covid, they added a patio like everyone else. To serve the patio, the side door now stays open. And so Rocky’s has entered its (relatively) sunshiney era, which is emotionally conflicting.

Locals tend to hang at the far end of the bar, so they can greet friends and suss up newcomers. As for the crowd—it’s mostly t-shirts and sunburns. The kind of place where everyone is beautiful because no one here is trying to be beautiful. Besides, possibly, the bartender who looks fresh off a soap opera involving yoga and lesser-known martial arts.

The cash-only thing is inconvenient and impressive. That’s a market advantage earned only by the most iconic of San Diego restaurants (à la Las Cuatro Milpas)—institutions whose demand is so ravenous and continuous that they pull rank over the evolution of capitalism and commerce, immune to the grabby talons of credit card fees. There’s an ATM near the back, in a “hallway” only big enough for two people to pass if they go butt-to-butt.

At the end of the bar is the “kitchen,” best described as “the one from your first studio apartment.” It’s basically a tiny alcove off the bar with no door, so everyone can watch. The tiny box fits exactly one cook. He or she stands in front of a single small flat top, which is loaded with sizzling patties, enshrouded in chuck steam. The heroic burger jockey goes it alone. For sure these weary cooks leave work every day only to be hunted by neighborhood dogs.

The insanely constant burger-sizzling of that flat top is key to the magic of Rocky’s. It is loaded up as soon as doors open, and it almost never slows down. On weekends, every inch of that flat top will be blanketed with third-pound or half-pound patties, steaming and browning, cheese lava-flowing over the edges.

So forgive me the hubris, but I think I’ve pieced together the Rosetta Stone for understanding why Rocky’s burger—despite ignoring every chance at “premiumizing” or improving itself for decades, despite the fact that it should have been lapped by the “better burger movement” by now—still ranks among the best.

First, when you cook a burger on a flat top, the whole patty comes in contact with the heat source (creating a patty-wide browning and maillard reaction that cranks up flavor). It also renders out the fat, which creates a bath around the burger— essentially shallow-frying the beef. Each successive burger benefits from the previous burger’s brown bits and juices. So it almost functions like a wok, transferring nepotistic burger wealth to the next burger in line, building and building flavor as the day goes on.

Plus, the only thing that is cooking on that flat top all day are these nepo-burgers. Burger burger burger burger burger. Which means the last burger of the day cooked here just might be the burgeriest-tasting burger in the country.

So? you may say. Many burger joints use flat tops— what’s different about Rocky’s? Well, this: proximity. The constant burger steam floats from that tiny cubby kitchen into the tiny bar, essentially creating a fairly intense (but not oppressive) burger weather system that permeates the whole place. Sitting in that burger aromatherapy waiting for your order, your desire for it nears a frothy zeal (and often the wait is not short).

By the time your meal hits the table, you’re one or three beers in and you’ve never been more amped to eat a burger in your life. Also, since smell is critical to how well and how intensely we taste something, the burger haze cranks up how much “burgerness” we taste when we finally do dig in. It’s like eating a tub of freshly buttered popcorn as the popcorn machine lightly blows the smell of freshly buttered popcorn around you.

Intense.

Another key, suggests a longtime employee who spent his first year as the cook, is the relatively low temperature of that flat top. The low temp allows the burger to baste in its own juices, which explains why Rocky’s burgers are among the juiciest in town and will not be rushed.

In my two nights spent here, the burger (a half-pounder with grilled onions, a third-pounder with raw onions) was every bit as glorious as I’ve romanticized. My only complaint is the friendliness of the staff. Part of the joy of Rocky’s had always been Stockholm syndrome, in which you’re kidnapped by an arcane system of sticky notes and aloof or surly employees.

There’s no shortage of places to be treated like an asshole in America, but Rocky’s was always my favorite. Hothouse flowers who came here to be doted on often left driving their car fast in the direction of a strongly worded Yelp review. Now the staff seems more polite, conversational, at ease. It’s nice, but also kind of bullshit.

For the perfect order, get a half-pounder with cheese. Skip the lettuce and tomato, but keep the pickle and raw onions (the fat of the burger and cheese need all the acid). Then, halfway through eating, ditch the fixings and just eat the bun, beef, and cheese. That’s the nude heart of the legend.

In a modern society where we’re forced to change our passwords more frequently than our underwear, flipping the bird to rapid-fire and often unnecessary modifications makes Rocky’s feel like an escape room to a time when we didn’t have to give a damn about falling behind and having our souls scavenged by the vultures of tech or truffle oil.

The post Review: The Legend of Rocky’s Crown Pub appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

The po’boy is picket line food, of humble and egalitarian origins. The first one probably included hot beef, nothing deep-fried. But as it evolved through the years, it became the stage that showcased the dirty-sweet magic that hot oil performs on flour-coated foods. It doesn’t make us skinny, but it’s pretty hard to care when that crispy-fried shrimp is swimming in some remoulade sauce down the joy highway of your gullet. Just throw a little turmeric over your shoulder and sniff a salad now and then, and you’ll be fine.

For the last two weeks I’ve trekked across San Diego County in search of the best po’boy—from strip malls in Oceanside and Lincoln Park and Solana Beach to little shops in North Park and downtown to a business park in Tierrasanta. And these are my favorites, ones I’d recommend to people I like. I reiterate this now and always: I do not presume this list to be the end-all, nor the be-all. I don’t build altars of my own opinions, and I don’t eat with your mouth.

These lists are mere vehicles for me to get to know and tell the stories of the food and drink people in San Diego, jotting down my favorite things along the way. Like the story of how a No. 2 pencil predicted the success of Ron Suel of Shotcaller Street Soul Food, and the lifelong pursuit of Pete, of Pete’s Seafood and Sandwich, in North Park. The lists are my way of exploring the city, shining a little light on local people working their duffs off to create a food scene, whether that’s the duo behind Cane Patch in Liberty Station, or even the locals running a small, quality chain location (gasp!) of Fish District in Solana Beach.

I urge you to kick the tires on them yourself, add ones I missed, make your own list, and argue spiritedly. Support your local people.

A note on process: I made an initial list based on my own experiences of chasing food across San Diego for the last 12 years. Then I did internet research, put the call out to San Diego Magazine readers, and ask social media to chime in. I was able to narrow the list down to 13 places, and drove all over the county trying them all. Fried shrimp is not the only option in po’boyland, but for my search, I made a point of asking every restaurant their recommendation as to their best—and almost every single one pointed to that crustacean sea comma. So I did as I was told.

Shrimp Po’Boy @ Pete’s Seafood

This was my favorite of the hunt. First, Pete uses Baja shrimp, plump and moist. Second, the dredge on his perfectly browned crust (the color of a Florida retiree) is seasoned perfectly and is both crispy and light (he imports special flour from the East Coast for this reason). But the remoulade steals the show. It’s based on a cherry pepper relish puree, a flavor combo famous in East Coast fish shops.

3382 30th Street, North Park

Alligator Po’Boy at Cane Patch Kitchen

 

Alligator Po’Boy @ Cane Patch Kitchen

The key to a good po’boy is not to get diet-conscious on the good people of America. French bread—the classic and, some diehards will tell you, only bread for a real po’boy—has some thickness to it. Too little sauce, and your mouth feels like a sponge left out in the sun for a few days. (Originally, po’boy makers dug out the inside of the bread, leaving just the crust, so you didn’t have this problem. But in the ones I tried, at least, no one is digging out anything.) Cane Patch shows no sauce mercy, zig-zagging remoulade and ranch across bits of deep-fried alligator (like a stringy, but not dry, chicken) with pickles and tomatoes and shredded lettuce.

Liberty Public Market, 2820 Historic Decatur Road, Point Loma

Spicy Fried Shrimp Po’Boy @ Shotcaller Street Soul Food

You really should read the story of Ron Suel, who, along with his partner Ravae Smith, managed to turn a failed donut concept into a soul food success story in San Diego. Their po’boy wins by doing the classic, simple things well. First of all, they start with Leidenheimer French bread. (Leidenheimer is a legendary bakery of po’boy culture in Louisiana.) Their shrimp is lightly fried and loaded on, but it’s that comeback sauce and the pickles that give it a real nice, generous zing to offset the deep-fry. This one’s harmony.

220 Euclid Avenue, Lincoln Park

Spicy Fried Shrimp Po’Boy at H Brothers

 

Spicy Fried Shrimp Po’Boy @ H Brothers

If you like things a little spicier, H Brothers in Escondido—a stylish little space with craft beer from Nick and Justin Hedayati, the brothers whose family also runs Chicken Plus—is the spot. The fried shrimp has a crackling, formidable crust on it, set off with the spicy remoulade and hyper-vibrant tomatoes that pop. (A downfall of some po’boys is watery commodity tomatoes.)

212 East Grand Avenue, Escondido

The Fried Shrimp Po’Boy at Fish District

 

Fried Shrimp Po’Boy @ Fish District

I’m sure someone will light me up for including a chain (Fish District is a small, San Diego–based chain with six locations across SoCal). But ignoring chains seems like a precious pursuit, and one that leaves holes in any hunt for the best. I’m sure no single mom-and-pop shop would say, “My sandwich is good as long as you don’t compare it to that place with multiple locations.” Anyway, the one thing you’ve got to have nailed before expanding is quality control, and Fish District’s is high quality. Good bread, well seasoned, plump shrimp, thick-cut tomatoes, a solid remoulade, and here’s their little trick—long-cut pickles so you get some of that sharp acid in every bite.

665 San Rodolfo Drive, Solana Beach

Fried Shrimp Po’Boy @ Bud & Rob’s

Chef Bud Deslatte worked his way through restaurants in Louisiana and Atlanta before bringing Southern food to San Diego in 2008 with Bud’s Louisiana Cafe. He sold the original and now has this little shop with partner Rob Adams. Theirs is a classic—flash-fried shrimp, shredded lettuce, tomato, remoulade—an example of someone with deep Southern roots paying homage to the rules that work.

815 F Street, East Village

Bud’s Louisiana Cafe

 

Fried Shrimp Po’Boy @ Bud’s Louisiana Cafe

New owners carry on the tradition set by Deslatte with this Southern staple in a business park in Tierrasanta (it’s a nice little oasis, with a patio). They’ve got a bevy of po’boys, but the nice woman on the phone (she’s also very nice in person, real warm hospitality here, even during a pandemic) said I had to go shrimp. And it’s a solid, classic entry.

4320 Viewridge Avenue, Tierrasanta

Pete’s Seafood and Sandwich

James Tran

The post The Best Po’Boys in San Diego appeared first on San Diego Magazine.