Flavor

While most Japantowns across the country have vanished, Los Angeles is home to not just one, but two, Japanese enclaves. Most people know Little Tokyo. But on the Westside, past the 405 and tucked between strip malls and office buildings, there’s another: Sawtelle.

Smaller in footprint but steeped in history, Sawtelle reflects the legacy of Japanese immigrants — their resilience, resourcefulness and ability to reinvent. That spirit lives on in one of L.A.’s most dynamic neighborhoods today: a cultural crossroads where you can slurp the best ramen, dig into sisig, cool off with Korean soft serve, try a California roll burger or sing your heart out at karaoke until 4 a.m., all within 2.69 square miles.

Get to know Los Angeles through the places that bring it to life. From restaurants to shops to outdoor spaces, here’s what to discover now.

Long before Sawtelle became a hotspot for buzzy restaurants and boba shops, it was a refuge. Named after the manager of the Pacific Land Company that developed the area, Sawtelle in the early 20th century was a haven for Japanese immigrants barred from owning property or signing leases under exclusionary laws, like the 1913 California Alien Land Law. In this less developed pocket of the Westside, landowners looked the other way — allowing Japanese immigrants to carve out enough space to build new lives.

The proximity to the coast reminded them of home, mild weather and fertile soil made outdoor work a pleasure, and local Kenjinkai organizations offered vital community support. By the 1910s, Sawtelle — “so-te-ru,” as it was affectionately called — had become a magnet for Issei, or first-generation Japanese immigrants. Between 1920 and 1925, its population tripled, driven by an influx of Japanese farmers, a booming film industry and the opening of UCLA. Here, they set up nurseries and small businesses, tended gardens for wealthy Westsiders, built temples and schools and laid the groundwork for a close-knit community.

The neighborhood flourished until World War II, when residents were forced into internment camps and their lives upended. Those who returned started over, restoring what had been lost. In many ways, Sawtelle is a testament to the immigrant instinct to endure, adapt and rebuild — even with the odds stacked against them. In 2015, that resilience was officially recognized when the city named the area Sawtelle Japantown, sparking a renaissance of Japanese influence with restaurants, markets and shops celebrating Japanese culture and identity.

These days, Sawtelle’s prewar landmarks are fading, giving way to office buildings and rising commercial rent. Traci Toshiyuki Imamura, a fifth-generation Japanese American, remembers when her father’s business, Tensho Drugstore, stood at the corner of Sawtelle and Mississippi — a neighborhood fixture in the mid-1940s. Today, it’s the Furaibo restaurant.

“I miss the regular everyday people and how close people were with each other in the community,” she said. “It makes me emotional just thinking about what Sawtelle felt like to me when I was a young girl in contrast to what it is evolving to.” Now living in Torrance, Imamura serves on the Westside Community Planning Advisory Group and advocates against Sawtelle’s gentrification and upzoning.

Over the years, the neighborhood has certainly changed, and its identity has expanded beyond its Japanese roots. But you’ll still find traces of what made it special to begin with: Family-run Hashimoto Nursery and Yamaguchi Bonsai Nursery trace back to Sawtelle’s early days and serve as nods to its agricultural past. And every summer at the Obon Festival, a traditional Buddhist celebration honoring the spirits of one’s ancestors, hundreds still gather — dressed in kimono, yukata and hachimaki headbands to dance to the steady beat of taiko drums. Kids crowd around the balloon fishing pool, parents line up for takoyaki, and for a moment, the old Sawtelle feels as alive as ever.

To walk down these streets today is to experience not just what’s current, but what endures — in the smell of yakitori on the grill, the sight of bonsai trees still tended by the same families and the beat of the taiko drums that call people back, year after year. Sawtelle is a neighborhood shaped by people who made every inch count and built a community, and in a city that’s always changing, that may be the most enduring legacy of all.

In a coffee city like Los Angeles, it’s no surprise that many coffee shops, teahouses and cafes take creativity to the next level. The sweet syrups and aesthetic latte art that marked our entry into customizable coffee culture were only the beginning — springboards for today’s caffeine scene where different flavors of fluffy cream tops and unique toppings, from sugar rims to cob-shaped corn ice cream, draw crowds to shops across the city.

Here, dramatic drinks take inspiration from a wealth of cultures and cuisines, from East Asian cafes and bubble tea shops where add-ons are the star to third-wave coffee shops highlighting flavors from around the world.

“We wanted something on the menu that was kind of a destination drink,” said Max Rand, the owner of Good Friend, a coffee shop that opened in East Hollywood last year. “That’s become a really popular thing in L.A. especially: something that people will go out of their way for, will drive across town for. It has to be interesting enough for someone to go out of their way to try it.”

Extravagant drinks aren’t always a hit — too many add-ons and the delicately bitter flavor of matcha disappears. Adding whipped cream and other flourishes can muddle the tasting notes that coffee roasters work so hard to highlight. Finding the sweet spot is difficult.

Achieving that balance — high-quality ingredients and processes complemented by unique flavors and presentation — is what makes a baroque beverage a winner. From coffee infused with yuzu to milky mango topped with matcha mousse, these are our favorite over-the-top drinks that taste just as good as they look.

After a raucous night out in my 20s, the real afterparty was always at BCD Tofu House — hunched over bubbling Korean tofu stew and a sizzling-hot stone bowl of steamed rice. After I’d scooped most of it out, a server would pour warm tea into the bowl, loosening the rice clinging stubbornly to the bottom. Scraping up those crispy-chewy bits of scorched rice, known in Korean as nurungji, quickly became my favorite part of the meal.

Long before electric rice cookers, Koreans traditionally cooked rice over an open flame in an iron cauldron called a gamasot. As it steamed, the bottom layer would crisp up against the hot metal, forming golden-brown nurungji.

“Today, nurungji simply means the crispy layer of rice that forms at the bottom of any pot or cooking appliance,” says Sarah Ahn, who co-wrote the Korean cookbook “Umma” with her mother, Nam Soon Ahn. “Personally, and within Korean culture, I see nurungji as a deeply nostalgic food, especially for Koreans of my mom’s generation.”

Chef and cookbook author Debbie Lee adds, “Sometimes it’s intentional, sometimes it’s from overcooking — what I call a great culinary accident.”

Korea isn’t alone in its love for scorched rice. Persian tahdig is the crust that forms at the bottom of the pot, flipped and served with the crispy layer on top. Chinese guoba is crispy rice paired with saucy stir-fries to soak up every bit of flavor. In West Africa, kanzo refers to the caramelized layer left behind after cooking, often found in dishes like jollof rice. Spain’s socarrat forms the base of well-executed paella.

And in Korea, nurungji is endlessly versatile — enjoyed on its own, steeped in hot water or tea as sungnyung (thought to be a soothing palate cleanser and digestive aid), or transformed into nurungji-tang, where the rice becomes the crunchy base for a light broth with seafood or vegetables.

With its nutty, toasted flavor that highlights the grain’s natural aroma, nurungji is comfort food born out of practicality. “Like so much of Korean food, it represents our resourcefulness — nothing goes to waste! — and our ability to find flavor in humble things,” says Sarah. Rather than discarding it, Koreans embraced the crunchy layer as a snack or meal.

“My parents are from Pyongyang and fled during the war,” says Lee. “My mother told me that they’d find an abandoned house to rest in, and nine times out of 10, there was rice. They lived off porridge, steamed rice, and ultimately nurungji as a snack.”

SeongHee Jeong, chef and co-owner of Koreatown’s Borit Gogae, remembers eating it sprinkled with sugar — a delicious treat when sweets were scarce. While there’s no single way to make it today, Sarah and her mom swear by the traditional method. “Nothing compares to the flavor of rice cooked in a gamasot over a wood fire,” Sarah says. “That taste is so iconic, you’ll even find packaged snacks trying to replicate it.”

In L.A., some restaurants keep it old-school by serving nurungji simply steeped in tea or hot water, while others are getting creative with it. Think: nurungji risotto at Jilli, an iced nurungji crema at Bodega Park or a fried chicken and nurungi dish at Fanny’s. At her Joseon pop-up last year, Lee even spun it into a nurungji crème brûlée.

“It’s truly amazing how humble ingredients born from hardship always find their way back,” says Sarah.

Here are 13 of the best restaurants in L.A. serving nurungji in both traditional and unexpected ways.

A good plate of Sinaloa-style aguachile starts with liquid hot peppers, lots of lime, and freshly butterflied, raw shrimp. The flavor and heat build like a strong corrido: dramatic and full of contrast, tension and release. The chiles, the lime, the crunch of cucumber, the bite of red onion — it’s all deliberate. Bold, loud and alive. Just like Sinaloa.

In “Mexico: The Cookbook,” author Margarita Carrillo Arronte asserts that aguachile began in the sun-baked ranchlands of inland Sinaloa, not the coast. She says the original version was made with carne seca (sun-dried beef), rehydrated in water and jolted awake with chiltepín peppers. Picture ranchers grinding the chiles by hand, mixing them with lime and water, and pouring it over dehydrated meat to revive it like a delicious Frankenstein’s monster.

Francisco Leal, chef-owner of Mariscos Chiltepín in Vernon and Del Mar Ostioneria in Mid-City, shares a slightly different origin story. “According to legend, aguachile was invented in the hills of Los Mochis [Sinaloa],” he said. “The poor would mix tomatoes, onions and hot water with ground chiltepín. That’s why it’s called aguachile — chile water. They’d dip tortillas in it because that’s all they had. Naturally, when it reached the cities, people added protein.”

In both stories, aguachile migrated west to the coast — in particular, Mazatlán — where shrimp replaced carne seca. From there, it crossed borders and eventually took root in cities like Los Angeles, where it now thrives as both a beloved mariscos staple and a canvas for regional creativity.

Despite the comparisons, aguachile is not ceviche. The fish or shrimp in ceviche may marinate in citrus for hours. Traditional Sinaloa aguachile shrimp stay translucent, kissed but not cooked by the spicy lime juice.

The dish is popular across L.A.’s broader Mexican food scene, thanks to the city’s deeply rooted Sinaloan community. Many families hail from Mazatlán, Culiacán and Los Mochis and have been living in areas such as South Gate, Huntington Park, Paramount and East L.A. for decades. With them came a seafood-first sensibility that prioritizes freshness, balance and bold flavors in everyday cooking. That foundation helped aguachile thrive across generations and zip codes.

Chefs like Leal have expanded on the dish while staying true to its roots. At his Vernon restaurant, aguachile is more than a menu item — it’s a form of expression. Leal experiments with ingredients like passion fruit and tropical chiles but maintains an obsessive commitment to sourcing, texture and balance.

You’ll now find aguachile made with scallops at Gilberto Cetina’s Michelin-rated marisqueria Holbox or carrots at Enrique Olvera’s restaurant Damian in downtown L.A., but the rise of these variations is less about fleeting trends and more about the dish’s adaptability — its ability to hold complexity and evolve. Many chefs are drawing inspiration from seasonal California produce and veggie-forward palates, pairing traditional heat with a lighter, fresher profile.

But sometimes I crave the aguachile I grew up with.

My Sinaloan mom Elvia and my Sinaloan-American nephew Angel make the best aguachile I’ve ever had. They do it with high-quality shrimp that’s cleaned and butterflied just before serving, fresh-squeezed lime juice and chiles blended to order. Cold, sharp and so spicy it makes you sweat. Whether they make the dish as a quick snack with tortilla chips or an appetizer for a weekend asada, the goal is always to feed their family food from the heart.

As I explored L.A.’s aguachile scene, I was moved by how many places carried that same spirit. From front-yard mariscos stands to neighborhood institutions, here are 10 Sinaloan-style aguachiles to snack on all summer long.