It's Friday afternoon in the Texan city of San Antonio, and Jennifer Hwa Dobbertin is treating me to an “I used to live in Thailand” boozy boba drink. As I sip the aged rum, orange liqueur, herbal bitter and Thai tea blend, my gaze wanders across the interiors of her restaurant, Best Quality Daughter, from the pink floral wallpaper and neon-lit Hanzi characters to two vintage Chinese posters. Between them sits a photograph of a woman reclining on a mattress, white ornamental lines painted on her bare back. In a room adjacent to where I sit – softly lit with wicker blinds – I can see a young family enjoying their meal in a circular, retro booth.
This is Dobbertin’s whimsical Asian-American world. It's not about personal branding or fusion cuisine, but rather a genuine reflection of her upbringing as the child of a Chinese-Taiwanese mother and American father in San Antonio. The chef’s epicurean journey started when she was eating burgers and fried catfish at their family diner, and scoffing homemade pork stir-fries and beef noodle soup at home. Childhood trips to Taiwan and exposure to San Antonio's iconic Mexican flavours have also left their mark on her culinary identity.
This is Dobbertin’s whimsical Asian-American world. It's not about personal branding or fusion cuisine, but rather a genuine reflection of her upbringing as the child of a Chinese-Taiwanese mother and American father in San Antonio. The chef’s epicurean journey started when she was eating burgers and fried catfish at their family diner, and scoffing homemade pork stir-fries and beef noodle soup at home. Childhood trips to Taiwan and exposure to San Antonio's iconic Mexican flavours have also left their mark on her culinary identity.
Behind the bar at Best Quality Daughter, left, and Jennifer Hwa Dobbertin | Credit: Patrica Chang
Here, at Best Quality Daughter, she wants to serve a relaxed, unhurried cuisine. “[It’s] food that’s fun,” she tells me energetically. “Something I don’t take too seriously, but do well… people [can] come on a fancy date night or after the gym, and feel comfortable either way.”
The menu is comforting. I’m eating tom yum soup, a creamy staple packed with poached shrimp, local oyster mushrooms and Thai basil that reflects the chef’s previous six-year stay in Bangkok, where she worked with non-profit organisations. Her curry guisada Dan Dan is, in turn, a tribute to San Antonio's beloved stewed beef and gravy breakfast tacos (a local institution in their own right). Only here, the braised Wagyu beef, covered in salsa verde, Chinese black beans, heirloom tomatoes and coriander sits on fragrant noodles rather than a corn tortilla.
Dobbertin is one of a number of young chefs putting San Antonio on the America food map. The Alamo city has a crowd of fresh-faced kitchen talent jostling to make a name for themselves, drawing from diverse backgrounds and cultures to produce a distinctly San Antonio style of cooking.
When Dobbertin returned to San Antonio from Bangkok in 2011, she took on various kitchen roles, eventually hosting an inaugural pop-up in 2013. In 2014, her Hot Joy collaboration with fellow chef Quealy Watson earned the duo a place in food magazine Bon Appétit’s list of top ten new restaurants in the US; in 2023, Best Quality Daughter earned Dobbertin a James Beard Best Emerging Chef nomination.
Here, at Best Quality Daughter, she wants to serve a relaxed, unhurried cuisine. “[It’s] food that’s fun,” she tells me energetically. “Something I don’t take too seriously, but do well… people [can] come on a fancy date night or after the gym, and feel comfortable either way.”
The menu is comforting. I’m eating tom yum soup, a creamy staple packed with poached shrimp, local oyster mushrooms and Thai basil that reflects the chef’s previous six-year stay in Bangkok, where she worked with non-profit organisations. Her curry guisada Dan Dan is, in turn, a tribute to San Antonio's beloved stewed beef and gravy breakfast tacos (a local institution in their own right). Only here, the braised Wagyu beef, covered in salsa verde, Chinese black beans, heirloom tomatoes and coriander sits on fragrant noodles rather than a corn tortilla.
Dobbertin is one of a number of young chefs putting San Antonio on the America food map. The Alamo city has a crowd of fresh-faced kitchen talent jostling to make a name for themselves, drawing from diverse backgrounds and cultures to produce a distinctly San Antonio style of cooking.
When Dobbertin returned to San Antonio from Bangkok in 2011, she took on various kitchen roles, eventually hosting an inaugural pop-up in 2013. In 2014, her Hot Joy collaboration with fellow chef Quealy Watson earned the duo a place in food magazine Bon Appétit’s list of top ten new restaurants in the US; in 2023, Best Quality Daughter earned Dobbertin a James Beard Best Emerging Chef nomination.
Street art signage for Best Quality Daughter | Credit: Patrica Chang
Just as food holds a central place in Dobbertin's life, so did her mother, who was raised by Chinese immigrants after arriving in the US from Taiwan at the age of 17, married to a soldier and speaking no English. That marriage ended in divorce a decade later, after which she met Dobbertin's father, a bar manager. The restaurant name, Best Quality Daughter, alludes to the “very complicated relationship” between Dobbertin and her mother.
It is drawn from a line in Amy Tan's 1989 novel The Joy Luck Club, which explores a daughter's anxieties about meeting her Chinese immigrant mother's expectations. Over a New Year’s Eve dinner, the mother assures her daughter that she possesses the “best-quality heart”. “It’s about feeding being Chinese people’s love language, and the tender moment between a mother and daughter,” Dobbertin says.
As I eat, I notice the chopstick packaging, which urges diners to “hold them firmly, then fight for your right to parity”, embodying a spirit of empowerment and resilience that echoes throughout Dobbertin’s narrative. “I've earned my spot at the proverbial table,” she says. More importantly, she asserts, besides putting out good food and service, “I want this to be a safe space for my employees.”
The San Antonio food scene has shaped the work of Venezuela-born Geronimo Lopez, too. The chef owns Botika, a Peruvian-Asian restaurant located, like Best Quality Daughter, in the Pearl district of the Texan city. The area once housed a brewery but has recently been transformed into a shopping and dining hub.
Lopez describes his signature creations as reminiscent of comforting dishes from his childhood: the menu features the likes of slow-cooked ribs (braised with cane sugar to caramelise and blacken), roasted with red wine and tomato and served with wok-sautéed, and heavy ginger, garlic and soy-infused yakisoba noodles. Despite using Asian ingredients and techniques, the egg rolls and barbecue ribs Lopez ate as a child are emblematic of Venezuelan cuisine in his eyes, too – imbued with flavours not typically found in traditional Chinese gastronomy.
Just as food holds a central place in Dobbertin's life, so did her mother, who was raised by Chinese immigrants after arriving in the US from Taiwan at the age of 17, married to a soldier and speaking no English. That marriage ended in divorce a decade later, after which she met Dobbertin's father, a bar manager. The restaurant name, Best Quality Daughter, alludes to the “very complicated relationship” between Dobbertin and her mother.
It is drawn from a line in Amy Tan's 1989 novel The Joy Luck Club, which explores a daughter's anxieties about meeting her Chinese immigrant mother's expectations. Over a New Year’s Eve dinner, the mother assures her daughter that she possesses the “best-quality heart”. “It’s about feeding being Chinese people’s love language, and the tender moment between a mother and daughter,” Dobbertin says.
As I eat, I notice the chopstick packaging, which urges diners to “hold them firmly, then fight for your right to parity”, embodying a spirit of empowerment and resilience that echoes throughout Dobbertin’s narrative. “I've earned my spot at the proverbial table,” she says. More importantly, she asserts, besides putting out good food and service, “I want this to be a safe space for my employees.”
San Antonio is easy, laid-back, with a much slower pace. There’s plenty of space for everyone, and people truly root for one another”
The San Antonio food scene has shaped the work of Venezuela-born Geronimo Lopez, too. The chef owns Botika, a Peruvian-Asian restaurant located, like Best Quality Daughter, in the Pearl district of the Texan city. The area once housed a brewery but has recently been transformed into a shopping and dining hub.
Lopez describes his signature creations as reminiscent of comforting dishes from his childhood: the menu features the likes of slow-cooked ribs (braised with cane sugar to caramelise and blacken), roasted with red wine and tomato and served with wok-sautéed, and heavy ginger, garlic and soy-infused yakisoba noodles. Despite using Asian ingredients and techniques, the egg rolls and barbecue ribs Lopez ate as a child are emblematic of Venezuelan cuisine in his eyes, too – imbued with flavours not typically found in traditional Chinese gastronomy.
Dishes at Botika, left, and Geronimo Lopez
“They’re a bit of both worlds,” he says about his tiraditos – sashimi presented akin to ceviche. Instead of dicing and marinating the raw fish, Lopez arranges the thin slices around the plate, marinating them in leche de tigre. His dishes show how, when Chinese and Japanese communities first migrated to South America, they brought their culinary culture with them: sashimi, miso soups, rice and bowls. “But then their kids started playing with our kids,” Lopez laughs.
In 2011, the Culinary Institute of America invited Lopez to serve as its executive chef upon its launch, given his extensive experience in global kitchens with Four Seasons, among others, and the institution's mission to elevate its Latin culinary output. He couldn't resist. The opportunity wasn't just about planting new roots but reconnecting with his own. “Having myself and my cuisine recognised by such a big institution, I felt that that was my opportunity,” he says.
Lopez trained at a culinary school in France, honing his skills in classical French and Italian cuisine. Cooking foie gras, but eating ceviche: “At the time, we Latinos didn't see the value in our food because we idolised the European style,” he says. From a French perspective, spicy isn't a flavour and the binary of sweet and sour shouldn’t be played with too much. Curry? The French want it mild, please.
With the opening of Botika in 2016, Lopez found a way to fully express his identity. And yes, he found his way back to spice.
Once you glimpse Botika’s ingredients, they’re all familiar, especially for those with a Latinx background. Lopez relies on his smoked meat, prawns and brisket fried rice to “help bridge that gap between cultures” in Botika’s unpretentious setting. “We want people to come in, hang out and have some fun,” he says, emphasising the importance of chefs being visible in the restaurant’s open kitchen, and available for a chat with diners.
Accessibility is a San Antonio thing. According to Dobbertin, many people move to Austin with big eyes, only to realise they’re clawing to just get to the middle, let alone the top. “San Antonio is easy, laid-back, with a much slower pace. There’s plenty of space for everyone, and people truly root for one another,” she says.
For Lopez, after living in Caracas, a city of two million people, and following years of travel, San Antonio is a big city with a small-town feel: “There's an innocence to the city that I still adore,” he says. He likes that strangers can easily become friends.
“They’re a bit of both worlds,” he says about his tiraditos – sashimi presented akin to ceviche. Instead of dicing and marinating the raw fish, Lopez arranges the thin slices around the plate, marinating them in leche de tigre. His dishes show how, when Chinese and Japanese communities first migrated to South America, they brought their culinary culture with them: sashimi, miso soups, rice and bowls. “But then their kids started playing with our kids,” Lopez laughs.
In 2011, the Culinary Institute of America invited Lopez to serve as its executive chef upon its launch, given his extensive experience in global kitchens with Four Seasons, among others, and the institution's mission to elevate its Latin culinary output. He couldn't resist. The opportunity wasn't just about planting new roots but reconnecting with his own. “Having myself and my cuisine recognised by such a big institution, I felt that that was my opportunity,” he says.
Lopez trained at a culinary school in France, honing his skills in classical French and Italian cuisine. Cooking foie gras, but eating ceviche: “At the time, we Latinos didn't see the value in our food because we idolised the European style,” he says. From a French perspective, spicy isn't a flavour and the binary of sweet and sour shouldn’t be played with too much. Curry? The French want it mild, please.
With the opening of Botika in 2016, Lopez found a way to fully express his identity. And yes, he found his way back to spice.
At the time, we Latinos didn't see the value in our food because we idolised the European style”
Once you glimpse Botika’s ingredients, they’re all familiar, especially for those with a Latinx background. Lopez relies on his smoked meat, prawns and brisket fried rice to “help bridge that gap between cultures” in Botika’s unpretentious setting. “We want people to come in, hang out and have some fun,” he says, emphasising the importance of chefs being visible in the restaurant’s open kitchen, and available for a chat with diners.
Accessibility is a San Antonio thing. According to Dobbertin, many people move to Austin with big eyes, only to realise they’re clawing to just get to the middle, let alone the top. “San Antonio is easy, laid-back, with a much slower pace. There’s plenty of space for everyone, and people truly root for one another,” she says.
For Lopez, after living in Caracas, a city of two million people, and following years of travel, San Antonio is a big city with a small-town feel: “There's an innocence to the city that I still adore,” he says. He likes that strangers can easily become friends.
Tacos at Jerk Shack, left, and chef-owner Nicola Blaque | Credit: Jason Risner
At the Tasting Texas festival, I meet chef Nicola Blaque of the Jerk Shack. Amid a curious audience, I watch her make her signature Jamaican jerk chicken seasoning as she passionately recounts her experiences of introducing San Antonio to artisanal Caribbean cuisine. She grinds garlic and allspice, zests limes and lemons and adds thyme, peppercorns, sugar, hot peppers and vinegar.
For Jamaica-born Blaque, who moved stateside aged four, cooking offered a reprieve from the realities of her decade-long life as an army soldier. During overseas service in Iraq, Afghanistan and Kuwait, she found solace in preparing meals with ingredients her mother would send. “The only thing I liked to do was to cook,” she reflects, recalling how a fellow soldier dubbed her jerk seasoning the “Caribbean mole”.
In 2013, Blaque knew she needed more out of life. “Something was calling me,” she says. After visiting a friend in San Antonio, which has one of the largest active and retired military populations in the US, she and her husband relocated from Hawaii. They love the city for its communal and warm feel. During school, Blaque had worked as a private chef for clients including NBA superstar shooting guards C.J. Miles and DeMar DeRozan. It made sense in a new city to start afresh building a catering business.
Four years later, a journey to Jamaica to attend a relative's funeral and reunite with her family sparked the opening of the Jerk Shack: “Whether it was the Blue Mountains, the fresh air or the free-range chicken, I tasted the best jerk chicken of my life there,” she says.
“I had never worked in or run a restaurant before,” Blaque says. The chef was taken aback when a crowd of 2,000 people lined up outside the 18sq m place on opening day. “No indoor seating, no fans,” she laughs. “I thought I was going to sell jerk chicken out of this window.” Since then, Jerk Shack has hit must-eat lists across US publications, earned Blaque a James Beard nomination and grown a steadfast fan base in San Antonio.
At the Tasting Texas festival, I meet chef Nicola Blaque of the Jerk Shack. Amid a curious audience, I watch her make her signature Jamaican jerk chicken seasoning as she passionately recounts her experiences of introducing San Antonio to artisanal Caribbean cuisine. She grinds garlic and allspice, zests limes and lemons and adds thyme, peppercorns, sugar, hot peppers and vinegar.
For Jamaica-born Blaque, who moved stateside aged four, cooking offered a reprieve from the realities of her decade-long life as an army soldier. During overseas service in Iraq, Afghanistan and Kuwait, she found solace in preparing meals with ingredients her mother would send. “The only thing I liked to do was to cook,” she reflects, recalling how a fellow soldier dubbed her jerk seasoning the “Caribbean mole”.
People might think it’s a bit of this and that – in Caribbean food, it's made of love”
In 2013, Blaque knew she needed more out of life. “Something was calling me,” she says. After visiting a friend in San Antonio, which has one of the largest active and retired military populations in the US, she and her husband relocated from Hawaii. They love the city for its communal and warm feel. During school, Blaque had worked as a private chef for clients including NBA superstar shooting guards C.J. Miles and DeMar DeRozan. It made sense in a new city to start afresh building a catering business.
Four years later, a journey to Jamaica to attend a relative's funeral and reunite with her family sparked the opening of the Jerk Shack: “Whether it was the Blue Mountains, the fresh air or the free-range chicken, I tasted the best jerk chicken of my life there,” she says.
“I had never worked in or run a restaurant before,” Blaque says. The chef was taken aback when a crowd of 2,000 people lined up outside the 18sq m place on opening day. “No indoor seating, no fans,” she laughs. “I thought I was going to sell jerk chicken out of this window.” Since then, Jerk Shack has hit must-eat lists across US publications, earned Blaque a James Beard nomination and grown a steadfast fan base in San Antonio.
Blaque uses traditional Jamaican cooking techniques but gives dishes a San Antonio twist | Photo credit: Jason Risner
At Jerk Shack, too, the city of San Antonio imprints as much on the menu as Jamaica’s cookbook does. Blaque opts for habaneros over hotter scotch bonnet peppers that would need to be imported. “This is all locally sourced,” she tells the audience watching her cook. “We do it our way. It's cooking from your heart.”
Someone in the audience asks about the darker, burnt look of her jerk. Blaque calls it the “spices’ charm”. The molasses she uses is sweetening but also has a darkening effect. “These recipes are passed down from your family, so we teach what we know to make what we have here in San Antonio,” Blaque says. “People might think it’s a bit of this and that – in Caribbean food, it's made of love.”
Back in Jamaica, her ancestors would have cooked the chicken in pimento leaves at a low smoking point to avoid detection. “So much of the flavour I find is from the smoke of cooking outdoors, whether it's in a pit or on the grill,” Blaque says. At the Jerk Shack, after brining the meat for 24 hours in a blend of sugar, salt, lemon and oranges, they use a gas charbroiler and smoke chips to substitute pimento leaves.
Blaque, too, then borrows techniques and ingredients from her Caribbean heritage and pairs them with San Antonio’s ever-evolving cuisine. Just like Lopez' and Dobbertin's restaurants, at Jerk Shack, diners aren’t simply tasting a cuisine, but the identities, roots and influences behind what’s on the plate.
For all three chefs, food is as much about safeguarding and passing down cherished comforts, ensuring they endure for future generations, as offering a taste of Taiwanese, Venezuelan or Jamaican food.
Main photo credit: Patrica Chang
At Jerk Shack, too, the city of San Antonio imprints as much on the menu as Jamaica’s cookbook does. Blaque opts for habaneros over hotter scotch bonnet peppers that would need to be imported. “This is all locally sourced,” she tells the audience watching her cook. “We do it our way. It's cooking from your heart.”
Someone in the audience asks about the darker, burnt look of her jerk. Blaque calls it the “spices’ charm”. The molasses she uses is sweetening but also has a darkening effect. “These recipes are passed down from your family, so we teach what we know to make what we have here in San Antonio,” Blaque says. “People might think it’s a bit of this and that – in Caribbean food, it's made of love.”
Back in Jamaica, her ancestors would have cooked the chicken in pimento leaves at a low smoking point to avoid detection. “So much of the flavour I find is from the smoke of cooking outdoors, whether it's in a pit or on the grill,” Blaque says. At the Jerk Shack, after brining the meat for 24 hours in a blend of sugar, salt, lemon and oranges, they use a gas charbroiler and smoke chips to substitute pimento leaves.
Blaque, too, then borrows techniques and ingredients from her Caribbean heritage and pairs them with San Antonio’s ever-evolving cuisine. Just like Lopez' and Dobbertin's restaurants, at Jerk Shack, diners aren’t simply tasting a cuisine, but the identities, roots and influences behind what’s on the plate.
For all three chefs, food is as much about safeguarding and passing down cherished comforts, ensuring they endure for future generations, as offering a taste of Taiwanese, Venezuelan or Jamaican food.
Main photo credit: Patrica Chang
The Lowdown
Jennifer Hwa Dobbertin is the chef-owner of Best Quality Daughter, the celebrated Asian American diner at the Pearl complex, where you will also find Geronimo Lopez’ Botika. Nicola Blaque is the chef-owner of the Jerk Shack and Freight Fried Chicken.