A blog about hospitality, entrepreneurship, and building community.
When I opened Allmine, I thought I was opening a restaurant. And I was—but what I quickly learned is that a restaurant is rarely just a restaurant. Over time, I began to understand that I was also building something far less tangible and far more enduring: a gathering place, a living room for the neighborhood, a home for ideas and conversation, a space where food, people, and purpose meet and continue to shape one another. This blog grew out of that understanding.
Roxana’s Notes is where I reflect on what it means to live in this work of hospitality. It’s about the quiet, almost invisible gestures that make a guest feel at ease—the bread arriving warm enough to still feel alive in your hands, the pause before the second glass of wine is poured, the way a team moves together when the room is full. It’s about the bigger, less romantic realities too: the long nights spent reworking a menu, the uncertainty of keeping an independent restaurant steady in a changing economy, the heartbreak of watching other beloved places close their doors.
In my years as an entrepreneur, I’ve learned that a restaurant is an ecosystem as much as a business. It holds farmers and vendors, cooks and servers, neighbors who bring their friends, and families who make a tradition out of gathering around the same table. It holds their milestones and their rituals, their laughter and their silences. And it holds the weight of knowing that these connections don’t happen by accident—they’re built with care, choice by choice, every single day.
These notes aren’t business manuals. They aren’t marketing copy. They’re meditations on a life rooted in hospitality—sometimes practical, sometimes philosophical, often both. I write about why we choose ingredients that honor their origins, what it takes to keep a restaurant alive without losing its soul, and why a simple, well-made meal shared among people who care about each other can feel like an act of belonging.
Whether you’re another restaurant owner, someone dreaming of opening your own place, or simply a guest curious about the world behind the table, my hope is that you’ll find something here worth lingering over.
At its heart, this blog is about connection: between craft and care, between a restaurant and its guests, between the work we do and the lives we touch. It’s about food that hugs you back—and the people who make that possible.
Welcome to Roxana’s Notes.
Join the Revolution
Where your food comes is important.
This is a long email, and we're about to get geeky, but stay with me, because it is important to know.
Next time you eat at your favorite establishment, ask them where the ingredients come from...
This weekend I found myself at a potluck brunch at the Tiny Farm in Cardiff, sitting at a wooden table with local farmers, growers, and people who care about where their food comes from. The dishes were simple and beautiful and centered around one ingredient that is picked every month by the organizers. This time it was fennel and everyone embraced it.
What stayed with me even more than the food was the shared understanding around that table: healthy soil creates healthy plants, healthy plants create nourishing food, and nourishing food builds healthy bodies. It felt less like a meal and more like a collective affirmation of values.
More than just the taste, why is it important that we buy local?
When fruits and vegetables are allowed to ripen in the field, on the plant, under the sun, they complete their full biological cycle. Sugars develop slowly, minerals are absorbed through living root systems, and complex flavor compounds have time to form. A tomato that ripens on the vine is sweeter, more aromatic, and richer in vitamin C, antioxidants, and phytonutrients. Produce picked early, for long transport, may turn red in a truck or cold room, but it never reaches the same nutritional density or depth of flavor. Weeks in refrigeration slow enzymatic activity, weaken cell structure, mute aroma, and gradually diminish both texture and vitality. It may look fresh, but it is no longer biologically alive in the same way.
The same is true for meat. Animals raised on healthy, diverse pasture build their bodies from grasses and plants grown in mineral-rich, living soil. Their fat carries higher levels of omega-3s and CLA, their meat contains more micronutrients, and the flavor is fuller and more complex. Just as vegetables reflect the health of the soil they grow in, meat reflects the health of the land the animals graze. When soil is alive, grasses are nutrient-dense. When grasses are nutrient-dense, animals are resilient and well-nourished. And when animals are well-nourished, the food they provide truly supports our own health. And the taste is just impeccable.
This is the heart of regenerative farming. Regenerative agriculture goes beyond “sustainable.” It is a system designed to restore what has been depleted. It builds organic matter in the soil, increases microbial life, improves water retention, supports pollinators and wildlife, and captures carbon instead of releasing it. In regenerative grazing, animals move across pasture in a way that mimics natural herds, stimulating plant growth, fertilizing the soil, and allowing land to rest and regenerate. It closes the loop between soil, plants, animals, and people. In simple terms, it is farming that leaves the land healthier every year than it was the year before.
Preservation, when done thoughtfully, honors this cycle rather than interrupting it. Pickling and fermentation capture vegetables at their peak, when nutrients and flavor are fully developed. Natural fermentation preserves vitamins, increases mineral bioavailability, and creates beneficial bacteria that support digestion and immunity. A carrot or cucumber that ripened in the field and is then gently fermented becomes a living food, one that carries the essence of its season while extending its life without stripping it of its integrity.
Eating seasonally and locally follows the same wisdom. Spring offers cleansing greens, summer brings hydration and sweetness, autumn provides grounding roots and squashes, and winter delivers hardy brassicas and citrus that support resilience. Our bodies respond to this rhythm. Food grown nearby and in season is fresher, more nutrient-dense, and more in tune with what we physiologically need at that time of year. It also carries a sense of place. You can taste the climate, the soil, the care of the farmer. Eating becomes relational again, not transactional.
Supporting small local farms means supporting the people who are rebuilding soil, protecting biodiversity, caring for animals with respect, and choosing long-term health over short-term yield. These farms are cultural anchors. They hold knowledge, seed diversity, and food traditions. They are part of what makes a community resilient.
There is also the environmental truth. Food that travels thousands of miles requires fuel, refrigeration, packaging, and storage. Long supply chains depend on monocultures that exhaust soil and increase chemical inputs. Regenerative, local systems shorten that journey and actively heal the land by building carbon-rich soil, retaining water, and restoring ecosystems.
And then we have microgreens, a small but powerful example of what freshness truly means. We use them on almost all of our dishes and we harvest them to order just days after sprouting. They are extraordinarily nutrient-dense, often containing many times the vitamins and antioxidants of their mature counterparts and our bodies are able to absorb 100% as opposed to fully grown vegetables. That's why they are proven to not only taste great, but also are essential in fighting diseases like cancer.
Sitting at that farm table in Cardiff, surrounded by food grown with care and people who understand the responsibility that comes with feeding others, I was reminded that eating is an act of connection. Connection to seasons, to farmers, to animals, to soil, and to one another. Choosing food that ripens in the field, meat raised on living pasture, vegetables preserved at their peak, and farms that give back to the land is a way of participating in something larger than ourselves.
So choose the farmers market, local produce and fresh eggs. Ask where your food comes from. Taste the difference. Support the hands that grow it. This is how healthy soil becomes healthy food, and healthy food becomes healthy bodies. This is what we do for you at allmine, This is the revolution.
With warmth,
Roxana
and then we were featured in San Diego Union Tribune
Dear friends,
I’m sitting on the same couch where plans were sketched and revised, where doubt and confidence took turns sharing space, where a small idea learned how to stand on its own. Today, I’m holding a two-page spread in the San Diego Union-Tribune, and for a moment everything feels slower, as if the world itself is pausing to acknowledge how far that idea has come.
Those pages carry more than recipes. They carry the long days and the good nights, the laughter from the dining room, the smiles of guests who return, the small gestures of encouragement that remind us why we keep the doors open, why we keep creating, why we keep building. They carry the work of a team who shows up with care and pride, and the faith of a community who gave us a chance from the very beginning and never stopped believing in what this little neighborhood place could become.
This story is also carried by the people who work alongside us, often behind the scenes but never out of heart. Our farmers and ranchers who grow and raise food with integrity, our vendors and wine merchants who guide us toward bottles with soul, the contractors, electricians, plumbers, and technicians who keep the lights on, the ovens hot, and the doors open when something inevitably breaks. allmine exists because of a web of skilled, generous people who believe in what we are building and show up with the same care we try to put on every plate.
This feels like a milestone. A moment of recognition and validation for years of effort, learning, adjusting, and staying the course. Hard work and tenacity really do add up, and moments like this remind me that every early morning, every long night, every leap of faith was worth it. More than anything, it feels like momentum. A deep breath before what comes next.
I also want to extend a heartfelt thank you to Caron Golden, who managed to capture not just our recipes, but the rhythm of our kitchen and the spirit of our team. The way you saw and shared our food, our values, and especially chef Sid’s presence in these pages feels both generous and true, and we are deeply grateful for it.
And if you are in the messy middle of building something right now, carrying an idea that feels both fragile and stubborn, uncertain and full of possibility, I hope this moment reaches you too. The small steps, the long days, the steady showing up, they all matter. Even when it feels like no one is watching, even when progress feels slow, you are shaping something real. One day, you may look up and see it reflected back at you in ways you never expected.
Thank you for being part of our story, for supporting our team, and for continuing to believe in what we are building together.
With gratitude,
Roxana
525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year?
"In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
How about love?"
This year, I keep coming back to love.
Sitting at New Village Arts watching Rent, the question landed differently than it ever has before. I’ve heard that song so many times. I’ve loved it for years. But this time, it felt less like a refrain and more like an inventory. Seasons of love. The kind you don’t always notice while you’re living them, and then suddenly you can’t stop seeing them everywhere.
When I look back now, I don’t see a calendar. I see a series of loves. Some loud. Some gentle. Some that took me by surprise.
I measured this year in my love for allmine, and for what it revealed: a restaurant is rarely just a restaurant. It becomes an ecosystem, a living room for the neighborhood, a home for ideas and conversation, a place where food, people, and purpose keep shaping each other. That’s what I set to build when I opened the doors, even before I had the language for it.
I measured this year in my love for our team, the people who make the room feel held. Chef Sid grounding my ideas and giving them form, refining our dough like someone tuning a beloved instrument, building systems that carry the soul forward, and leading without ego. Eva, Evan, Elizabeth, German, Pedro, Carlos, Francisco and Roberto moving with calm and pride and laughter, in full view of the dining room, lightness woven into discipline. In the front of the house, Lila, Carson, Nik, Brooks, Emilie, Dani, Luis, Savannah and Courtney reading tables, remembering stories, knowing when to lean in and when to give you space. Dish, prep, everyone who keeps the whole machine moving without needing applause. This year reminded me again that what you feel when you walk in is not an accident. It’s people, paying attention.
Their voices don’t just echo, they shimmer. They carry our story into corners of the city we haven’t yet touched, into feeds and conversations that turn curiosity into connection. They make our work feel alive beyond the dining room, a living, breathing thing that travels on word of mouth and digital whispers alike. It’s a reminder that community isn’t confined to four walls; it’s a constellation of believers, each one adding their own light to the glow and that includes all the journalists, the influencers and the bloggers who blessed us with their presence and their tasting buds. It is the team at Visit Oceanside who gave us the Partner of the Year Award, it is the team at the Chamber of Commerce, city council and Mayor Esther Sancez who recognized us for the work that we do with an award as well.
I measured this year in my love for gatherings, and especially in the joy I find watching people learn without feeling intimidated. Thursday Wine Social became a space of discovery, where wine lovers realized there was always more to learn, that learning could be joyful, and that the most extraordinary wines are crafted by people, not machines. They found new favorites to share at their next gatherings and picked up simple, thoughtful ways to pair wine and food, turning curiosity into connection. Book Club unfolded like a long conversation that never really ends, a table where ideas and vulnerability sit side by side, reminding me that listening is its own form of hospitality. And Board Hour, that gentle rebellion against busy, taught us that connection doesn’t always need a reason, just time and a shared table. These moments, small and unassuming, are how we practice love for our community: by showing up, by making space, by choosing to belong to one another.
I measured this year in my love for being of service in big moments. Private parties, wedding receptions, milestone dinners, the work behind them, the emails, the pacing, the menus, the lighting, the music, with each intentional choice we try to make it feel effortless. We love that people trust us with their memories. We don’t take that lightly.
I measured this year in my love for collaboration. A brunch collaboration with Hearth and Harvest that reminded me how much energy comes from building with people who care. Catering collaborations that carried allmine beyond our walls, including events with the San Diego Botanic Garden and Titleist, proving that hospitality is portable when your standards are real. You can’t fake “held” in a new space. You have to make it.
I measured this year in my love for honest sourcing and the people behind it. We deepened our commitment to sustainability through Thompson Heritage Ranch, led by Ty Thompson, whose quiet integrity feels like the kind of north star I want in our supply chain. That relationship changed us. His eggs folded into our pasta dough, his pork becoming sausage and porchetta, the idea that when you start with ingredients raised with care, your job becomes respect, not transformation. It made our food feel even more aligned with what we believe: honest, traceable, rooted in relationships you can trust. We also continued to grow alongside Joseph from D’acquisto Farms, who nurtures all of our vegetables with the same care and attention we try to bring to every plate, and Dana and Alex from Seas Greens, who have been our microgreen partners for years and whose dedication and consistency remind me how collaboration can taste like trust.And of course, all our wine and beer friends, as well as our other distributors who always keep our shelves stocked: Erin, Tyler, Sean, Brandon, Darren, Josh, Lindsay, Josh and Gigi.
I measured this year in my love for what’s hard to talk about. The landscape shifting. The quiet closings of other restaurants that don’t make headlines but leave a mark. The reminder that restaurants don’t survive on hype. They survive on return visits, loyalty, consistency and a community choosing to keep a place alive. I’ve felt deeply grateful this year for the people who keep showing up, and I’ve felt how delicate all of it can be at the same time. This industry is not easy, it is complex, it is fragile and it relies on humans and their love.
I measured this year in my love for experiences, and not always food. I traveled when I could, from the desert to big cities, chasing moments. Meals that stopped conversations, yes, but also rooms, pacing, gestures, the way hospitality feels when it’s done with warmth and care. Those are the kinds of experiences worth traveling for. I am committing to having more of them because that’s when I feel alive, when I can tell that the way a place makes me breath is changing me.
I measured this year in my love for strength. When I walked into Omode Training House, it was the first time in my life going to a real gym, and now I’m the person talking about PRs and encouraging everyone to lift weights. I didn’t expect that version of myself, but I also didn't expect to find a community that supports each other, who shows up to do hard things. I didn’t know how much confidence lives inside showing up consistently until I felt it change how I move through everything else. It gave me stability, mental and emotional, and a huge sense of pride. Big shoutout to my coaches: Vera, Bonnie and Omar. (My deadlift PR is #245, thanks for asking).
I measured this year in my love for slowing down. Fostering dogs through SPOT, taught me, in the middle of a very full life, how to pause and love. Long walks, fun mornings, training and chasing teats, holding dogs that have been through trauma, became one of the most grounding experiences this year. It showed me what it meant to be of service, how much love we all have to give, and how care can change someone’s life, even "just a dog."
And woven through all of it was that question from Rent (a remarkable rendition put together by New Village Arts Theater in Carlsbad) repeating softly in the background: How do you measure a year when life doesn’t move neatly? When love shows up in craft and care, in people and partnerships, in work that asks a lot, in rooms full of strangers who leave feeling like they're part of the family?
For me, it’s this.
In love given.
In love returned.
In all the ways it keeps asking to be counted.
With love,
Roxana
Do we always win?
Someone asked me recently if running a business ever gets easier. If there’s a point where you finally feel like you’re winning.
It stopped me for a second, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I realized how polished the outside can look compared to the inside. The photos. The full dining room at allmine. The posts that show momentum. They tell part of the story, but not the whole thing.
The truth is, most days are not wins. Most days are decisions made with incomplete information, numbers that barely work if everything goes right, and the math you do in your head at midnight when the house is asleep. It’s equipment breaking at the worst possible moment and knowing that not having dough for the weekend isn’t an option, so you buy a new mixer and have it delivered while you’re driving from one farm to the next.
It’s costs rising without warning, plans that looked solid suddenly wobbling, and adjusting in real time because stopping isn’t on the table.
When something finally works, it usually comes after dozens of things didn’t. And even then, that “win” arrives carrying its own set of responsibilities. More pressure. Higher stakes. New expectations. There’s no finish line where you get to sit down and enjoy it for long.
Owning a business also means knowing you can’t do it alone and building a community that will support you when you need it. allmine works because people step in. Because relationships matter long before you need them. Trevor from A South O drops off a keg when I forgot to order it. Ty finishes his day at the ranch and still shows up with meat and eggs because we sold more lasagnas than planned. I swing by Alex from Seasgreens for microgreens to get us through until the next delivery.
That kind of support doesn’t happen by accident. It comes from showing up for others when there isn’t a crisis. From maintaining friendships, honoring commitments, paying attention, and treating people like partners instead of transactions. That’s what community actually looks like. Not a buzzword, but a web of trust that catches you when something slips.
It also means learning faster than feels comfortable. Spending money on lessons you never asked for. Carrying fear and momentum at the same time. Constantly checking pricing, recalculating, finding ways to save twenty dollars here and fifteen there so we don’t have to raise prices, even when that would be easier. Moving forward not because you’re fearless, but because stopping isn’t an option that makes sense anymore.
It’s not safe work. It asks a lot of you. It asks you to believe in something before there’s proof, to keep going when the math is tight and the outcome uncertain, to show up steady for your team even when you’re tired, unsure, or stretched thin.
Some people call that madness. Others call it grit.
I call it choosing to build something that matters, together, over and over again, even when the ground feels unsteady. Even when the view from the outside misses most of what’s happening underneath.
We don’t really talk about winning around here. We talk about showing up. Paying attention. Taking care of people. Making the next decision as honestly as we can.
And then we do it again the next day.
Roxana
Yesterday I talked to a master somm
If you’ve ever stood in the wine aisle wondering what any of those labels actually mean, you’re not alone.
Yesterday I talked to a master somm...
We found ourselves circling around the same word that everyone seems to be using lately: natural.
What does it really mean when it comes to wine? Most people assume it’s a category—something clearly defined, like organic or biodynamic. Then he said something that stuck with me: there’s actually no legal definition for natural wine. None. Even the Court of Master Sommeliers doesn’t officially recognize “natural wine.” Are you surprised?
Here’s what matters more: intention. Making wine that doesn’t rely on additives or shortcuts. Just grapes grown with care, fermented into something alive, honest, and reflective of the land. That’s the shared goal, whether you’re a farmer, a winemaker, sommelier, or someone simply trying to drink better wine.
Join us for the next wine class
Most wines on grocery shelves are made to taste identical year after year. They’re engineered for consistency, adjusted with stabilizers, sugar, and lab-grown yeast. But when you reach for smaller producers, the experience changes. You start tasting personality, knowledge, soil, climate, and craftsmanship showing up in the glass. It’s wine with a heartbeat.
The farming behind it matters just as much. Regenerative agriculture brings the vineyard back to life—restoring soil health, encouraging biodiversity, and creating balance without chemicals. Healthy soil grows strong vines, and strong vines don’t need fixing resulting in grapes full of character and depth.
Small-production wines honor that philosophy. They’re hand-harvested and sorted by people who know the fruit, not machines programmed for speed. Some are left unfiltered or unfined so what you see as “haze” in the glass is just the trace of real grapes, the native yeast, not a flaw. It’s the texture of authenticity, it’s the terroir.
At allmine, we’ll keep celebrating wines that feel good for your body and for the planet. Not because they fit a label, but because they represent care, craftsmanship, and connection.
We’ve also made a few cozy menu changes for the season, and our next Thursday Wine Social, on November 20th, will be all about decoding wine labels and spotting better bottles at the grocery store. We’ll taste, talk, and share a few tricks for pairing wines with your holiday meals.
Bring your curiosity. I'll bring the wine.
Roxana
From Soil to Soul
all the ingredients on this plate are made in house: the slow roasted porchetta, the pickles, the mustard and, of course, the bread.
allmine deepens our commitment to sustainability through partnership with Thompson Heritage Ranch
At allmine, we’ve always believed that what we serve on the plate should reflect what we value in the world. That every ingredient carries not just flavor, but a story — of how it was grown, who raised it, and the care it took to get here.
This week, we’re honored to begin sourcing all of our meat and eggs from Thompson Heritage Ranch, a regenerative farm in Ramona, California, led by rancher Ty Thompson. His methods are not just humane — they are restorative. His animals live on open, organic pastures. They eat clean, no-corn, no-soy diets he mills himself from locally grown grains. They’re rotated regularly to revitalize the land beneath their feet, contributing to a closed-loop ecosystem where nothing is wasted and everything has purpose.
“When you start with animals that are raised with integrity, you taste the difference — in flavor, in texture, in how it feels in your body,” says Executive Chef Sid Hilarides. “We’ve always made everything from scratch. This takes it to the next level — starting from the source.”
Regenerative farming is better for the land, for the animals, and for us. Meat raised this way is naturally higher in omega-3s, lower in inflammatory fats, and free of synthetic additives. It restores carbon to the soil, supports biodiversity, and respects the rhythms of nature. It’s a system that nourishes everyone it touches.
And as you know, here at allmine, that shows up on the plate. From the porchetta to the cheesecake, most of what we serve is now touched by Ty’s hands. His eggs are folded into our pasta dough, our dressings and our desserts. The pork becomes the house-smoked sausage we make and our porchetta. His cuts are slow-roasted, crisped, layered, and served with intention — because when the ingredients are this good, our job is simply to honor them.
What struck me most about Ty wasn’t just the quality of his meat — though it’s exceptional, it’s the way he moves through the world. He mills his own feed. He raises every animal himself. He shows up with quiet integrity and a full heart. And that’s exactly how we try to run our restaurant.
This partnership reflects the values that always guide us:
We believe food should be honest and traceable, rooted in relationships you can trust.
Great ingredients don’t need to be transformed — they need to be respected.
The most memorable meals come from the hands of people who love what they do.
That’s what you’ll taste at allmine: food that hugs you back.
With love always,
Roxana
Roxana's Note: On the Quiet Closings
You can feel it when a place goes quiet. The lights stay off, the chairs stay stacked, and the regulars who once knew exactly where to sit start looking for somewhere else to go.
You can feel it when a place goes quiet. The lights stay off, the chairs stay stacked, and the regulars who once knew exactly where to sit start looking for somewhere else to go.
In the past few weeks and months, a few restaurants in Oceanside have quietly shut their doors. All we saw was a brief social media post, a final shift worked like any other, and a last dinner service that no one realized was the end without farewell dinners or public send-offs.
Closures like these don’t always make headlines, but they leave a mark. Even if it wasn’t your spot, the absence still registers. Because a restaurant doesn’t disappear on its own. It takes with it a team of people who built their days around that space—cooks, servers, dishwashers, bartenders, hosts, vendors, suppliers and the guy who cleans our lines. People who had regulars they looked out for, dishes they took pride in, rhythms they could follow with their eyes closed. When a place closes, they lose more than a paycheck, they lose their footing, their routines, their sense of belonging.
I’ve heard people wonder how a restaurant that seemed busy or had been there for a long time, could close so suddenly. The truth is, it rarely happens all at once. It starts when the flow becomes unpredictable—when costs creep up faster than sales, when once-steady regulars begin coming in less often, when the gap between a good week and a tough one becomes too wide to cover.
Restaurants, like any small business, depend on rhythm. Not just in the way the staff works together, but in who comes through the door. The couple who dines out every Friday. The neighbor who swings by for a glass of wine after work. The family that returns again and again. When those patterns shift—even slightly—it can ripple outward faster than most people imagine. It doesn’t take grand gestures. Just small, regular choices that say: we want you here.
We all go through seasons. Life gets busy, tastes evolve, new places open and draw our attention. That’s natural. But in an industry where the margins are razor-thin and stability is always delicate, even a quiet change in habit can be felt behind the scenes.
No single person can carry a restaurant. But a community can create the conditions where it can hold steady, especially when that support becomes part of a weekly rhythm. That kind of consistency doesn’t just sustain a business—it shapes the spirit of a place.
At allmine, we’ve felt that kind of support. We see it in the familiar names on the reservation list, in the friends who bring more friends, in the regulars who have made our food part of their lives. We feel it every time someone tells us they brought visiting family, or that this is where they come when they need to exhale.
So this is both a thank you and a reminder. That restaurants don’t survive on hype. They survive on return visits, quiet loyalty, and the kind of presence that doesn’t have to announce itself. We know we’ve built something that people return to, that they feel a part of. But I’d be lying if I said we didn’t feel the tremors when the landscape shifts. We do. Every local restaurant does.
This is not a plea, it is a reminder that the places you love need you to show up. Not all at once or in grand gestures but in the regular rhythm of your week.
We do feel lucky that our community showed up, and keeps showing up. But we don’t take it for granted. We know that the trust of a neighborhood is something you earn every day.
So here’s to the people who keep showing up. Who understand that behind every open sign is a group of people working hard to keep the lights on, the dough proofing, the glasses filled, the refrigerator fixed. We see you. We’re grateful.
We’ll be here, baking the bread, turning the music on, pouring the wine, cooking the food that hugs you back.
And every time you choose to walk through our door, you’re choosing to keep that rhythm going.
See you soon.
Roxana
The Space Between the Fireworks
We hope this weekends finds you surrounded by joy, and if it doesn't come sit with us.
Friends,
At allmine, the loudest sounds rarely come from the kitchen. Even during a packed service, when the oven doors open in quick succession and the floor hums with the rhythm of a Friday night, there’s a kind of hush that settles over the room once the food lands. Not silence, exactly. Something more like reverence. Something you only notice if you’re paying attention.
This past week, in the thick of the heat and the noise and the bursts of color overhead, I found myself drawn to those quieter moments. A child, unconcerned with anything but the pesto on his fingers, grinning as he licked them clean. A couple who arrived upright and chatty, now leaning in—closer, softer—as they shared the last crust between them. A family fresh from the beach, still carrying salt in their hair, who came in for a quick meal and stayed long enough to ask if we’d be open again tomorrow.
These small moments, tucked between the louder ones, are where the heart of the place lives.
Behind the scenes, the kitchen moves with a kind of synchronicity that feels more like trust than choreography. No barked orders. No frazzled energy. Just a team that knows the work and knows each other. Someone sets a pan down just as another reaches for it. A prep list is completed without announcement. There’s a rhythm to it all that, once found, is rarely broken. Watching it unfold night after night—how seamless it is, how light—it still stops me in my tracks.
They take pride in what they do. Not performative pride, but something quieter. Steadier. They show up early, they linger after close, they root for one another and for the restaurant itself. Even on holidays like today, when most people are gathering with family, our team is here—making space for others to celebrate. They do it with grace, care and joy.
So tonight, whether you’re at a party, a beach bonfire, or seated at a table here with us, I hope you take a moment to notice what’s happening just beneath the noise. The way someone reaches for your hand. The first bite that quiets a room. The hum of a good song playing under the conversation. That’s where it all lives. Not in the spectacle, but in the slow, golden minutes around it.
That’s what we make room for here.
And that’s what we mean when we say: food that hugs you back.We hope this weekends finds you surrounded by joy, and if it doesn't come sit with us.
Roxana
Are you the Chef?
These small moments, tucked between the louder ones, are where the heart of the place lives.
I get asked that a lot—usually while dropping off a dish or clearing a plate.
No. But here’s what I am.
When you learn about a wine you’ve never heard of—but can’t wait to tell someone about—it’s because I’ve spent hours tasting, reading, learning, meeting with winemakers and small vendors who believe in craft over mass production. I pick every bottle with care. I train the team to pour with context, not just confidence.
When you sip that glass of wine and feel instantly at ease—it’s because I chose stemless glasses that look casual but are anything but. Their weight, thickness, and texture were chosen to reduce heat transfer, so your wine stays balanced and expressive, even in your hand. Just like Italians would. Hospitality lives in that kind of detail.
When you cut into our housemade bread without having to wrestle it, it’s because we give you a steak knife. Not for ceremony—for ease. For grace.
When you taste something fresh, seasonal, vibrant—it’s because I drove to the farm. I met the growers. I walked the fields and built the menu around what they had that week.
When the chili oil lands just right on your pizza, not in a heavy glob but in a delicate, even layer—that’s because we bottle it as a spray. Not for show, but for flavor. For precision.
When you feel held by our staff—seen, remembered, laughed with—it’s not because they’re my family (though I get asked that almost daily). It’s because I hired them intentionally. I’ve spent two decades building and training teams in some of the toughest hospitality environments. I don’t just look for skills—I look for kindness, humility, presence. And then I teach the rest.
When your event feels effortless, it’s because I was there from the very first email. I walk every host through the details. I make sure the menu flows, that it is built just for you, that the dietary notes are honored, the lighting is right, your family is taken care of and the music hits at the perfect volume when the candles are lit.
And when I’m not doing any of that, I’m hugging Teresa, our dishwasher—one of the kindest human I have ever met, I’m watering the flowers. Refilling the loose-leaf tea jars. Reading every reservation note before we open the doors and cracking jokes.
So no, I’m not the chef.
But I am the one who thought of every detail, and considered how every choice would make you feel. That's the work that lights me up -- making sure that every moment of your night is not just right, but unforgettable.
People often associate restaurants with what’s on the plate. But what you feel when you walk in—that’s storytelling. That’s intention. That’s hospitality. That’s my work.
And I love it.
With love always,
Roxana
The heart behind the line
If you’ve ever tasted something here that felt just a little more alive—something unexpectedly layered, restrained in the best way, or quietly bold—you’ve experienced the work of Chef Sid.
If you’ve ever tasted something here that felt just a little more alive—something unexpectedly layered, restrained in the best way, or quietly bold—you’ve experienced the work of Chef Sid.
He’s not someone who chases the spotlight, but his presence is everywhere. In the rhythm of the kitchen. In the food that makes its way to your table. In the way our team moves with confidence and care.
Sid’s story is deeply tied to Oceanside. He moved here as a teenager, met his future wife on the Strand, and never left. He’s worked in some of this town’s most iconic kitchens—from Tremont Street Bar & Grill to the now-closed Flying Bridge, a beloved harbor institution that once served scratch-made food with a live jazz soundtrack and a view of the boats. It was there, overlooking the water, that Sid first began to understand not just how to cook—but how to create a dining experience. It was also the place where, still young and early in his career, he was given the chance to put an entrée on the menu—an artichoke-stuffed chicken dish that marked his first real step from cook to creator.
He’s carried forward lessons from every kitchen he’s stepped into, refining his skills with humility, discipline, and a quiet, relentless desire to keep learning. He’s competed at the national level under the mentorship of Chef Robert Irvine, winning seven first-place awards, but what I love most about Sid has nothing to do with accolades...
Chef Sid gives form to ideas in a way that carries weight and meaning, and he does it without ever asking to be seen.
If you’ve ever tasted something here that felt just a little more alive—something unexpectedly layered, restrained in the best way, or quietly bold—you’ve experienced the work of Chef Sid.
He’s not someone who chases the spotlight, but his presence is everywhere. In the rhythm of the kitchen. In the food that makes its way to your table. In the way our team moves with confidence and care.
Sid’s story is deeply tied to Oceanside. He moved here as a teenager, met his future wife on the Strand, and never left. He’s worked in some of this town’s most iconic kitchens—from Tremont Street Bar & Grill to the now-closed Flying Bridge, a beloved harbor institution that once served scratch-made food with a live jazz soundtrack and a view of the boats. It was there, overlooking the water, that Sid first began to understand not just how to cook—but how to create a dining experience. It was also the place where, still young and early in his career, he was given the chance to put an entrée on the menu—an artichoke-stuffed chicken dish that marked his first real step from cook to creator.
He’s carried forward lessons from every kitchen he’s stepped into, refining his skills with humility, discipline, and a quiet, relentless desire to keep learning. He’s competed at the national level under the mentorship of Chef Robert Irvine, winning seven first-place awards, but what I love most about Sid has nothing to do with accolades...
Chef Sid gives form to ideas in a way that carries weight and meaning, and he does it without ever asking to be seen.
It’s the way he leads—with kindness and clarity. The way he interprets my ideas, not just executing them, but elevating them, seeing them fully, and then bringing them to life in a way that often surprises me. I’ll walk in with baskets of vegetables and fruit from local farms, or a dish imagined from memory—and somehow, chef Sid turns it into something that feels both grounded and new. That kind of collaboration is rare, and it’s the foundation of so much of what you taste here.
Chef builds systems that carry the soul of the restaurant forward. He refines our dough fermentation process like someone tuning a beloved instrument, adjusting until everything sings in harmony. He spends his mornings in the greenhouse, harvesting petite herbs, flowers and spring mix for our salads, moving through the ritual of watering, composting, and caring for plants that will later brighten your plate. He infuses oils, pickles everything I bring from the farm with a devotion that might go unnoticed—but is always appreciated. The chili oil, the basil that stays vibrant, the smell of the hot bread, the first clean snap of a pickle—those details are his quiet signature.
And when the team needs direction, he doesn’t raise his voice or demand attention—he simply shows up, fully present. He leads by doing, by modeling patience, by staying calm in the rush. There’s no bravado, no ego, just a quiet steadiness that invites trust. He moves through the kitchen with purpose, but never in a way that overwhelms. He answers questions before they’re asked, spots the thing out of place before it becomes a problem, and teaches in the small moments—while prepping, plating, or simply passing by. He doesn’t lead from above; he leads from within, shaping the culture not through slogans, but through presence and repetition, care and consistency.
One of the clearest reflections of that care is a dish we created together: Beets and Goat. It didn’t begin on the menu. It began in dialogue—an exchange of textures and memory, built around the idea of orange-roasted beets, whipped goat cheese, and garlic oil. It was close, but something was still missing. Then chef Sid brought in a bundle of chocolate habanero chilies his mother had dried and mailed from home. He infused them into our coastal flower honey, and everything shifted. The sweetness deepened. The heat softened. The dish came into focus. What began as an experiment became a signature. We hadn’t planned for it to stay. But some dishes tell you when they’re meant to.
Guests often comment on how happy the kitchen feels—how the cooks stay focused without ever seeming tense, how they move with intention but also with ease, how there’s laughter woven into the rhythm of the work. It’s something chef Sid cultivates through quiet leadership and deliberate example, setting a tone that values skill and discipline, but never at the expense of kindness or camaraderie. The result is a kitchen functions smoothly under pressure all while carrying a kind of lightness that only exists when people feel respected, supported, and proud of what they’re building together.
Chef Sid gives form to ideas in a way that carries weight and meaning, and he does it without ever asking to be seen.
But today, I wanted to shine a little light. So next time you're in, make sure to say hi to chef as well.
With love always,
Roxana