At the edge of Los Angeles’s modern downtown stands a link to the city’s Spanish colonial past. El Pueblo de Los Ángeles was one of the earliest settled areas in what is now L.A. County, and today is home to such attractions as the last standing adobe house, the city’s first firehouse, and, most importantly, one of the oldest family-run restaurants in California, El Rancho Grande. Poised to celebrate 95 years of operation on the area’s historic Olvera Street, this family has grown with the city, preserving and sharing traditional foods since just before this area was designated as a Mexican-style tourist marketplace in 1930.

Bánh Mì Mỹ Dung is a tiny sandwich shop disguised as a humble fruit stand – bananas in varying stages of ripeness hang from the awnings; stacks of boxes filled with green onions, mangoes, rambutans, Thai peppers, and leafy greens are lined up in front of the entrance. The store fits no more than ten people at a time, but it may be one of the most popular locations to visit in Los Angeles’s Chinatown, and a favorite stop for guests on our Culinary Backstreets tour: Exploring America’s Culinary Frontier. Chinh Le is the manager and face of the business, and in the far back corner is a small area where Chinh’s sister prepares the shop’s well-known sandwiches. This humble locale is the counterbalance to a neighborhood whose identity is currently in flux. Found steps away from a plaza that hosts chic restaurants attracting influencers and customers from across the nation, Mỹ Dung (a name left over from the previous owners, which translates to a female name meaning “Perfect Beauty”) attracts local Chinese community members as both a place to gather and to purchase fresh produce, sweetened condensed milk iced coffees, and affordable Vietnamese bánh mì sandwiches.

Birria is among the biggest culinary buzzwords across the U.S. today – only it’s not the goat-based Jalisco recipes that get the attention. birria de chivo, the signature dish of the state. Most people, especially Jaliscans, traditionally think of birria as being made from goat. Hector’s version, tatemada, involves a final roast of birria de chivo in the oven, making the skin charred and crisp. When the hour strikes eight on Saturday morning, Hector Ramirez pulls the wooden handle on a cast-iron lid sealing his self-constructed, propane-fueled, cylindrical oven and unveils his birria tatemada.