Seldom well-lit and nestled deep in the corner off the 60 Freeway, the quiet, unperturbed shopping complex of the Puente Hills Mall is easily missed if not for the subtle glow of the AMC 20 sign. Known mainly as the filming location for the 1985 classic Back to the Future, it becomes evident with a cursory visit that the mall has not embraced the namesake of the film. Contrasted with the grandiose and bombastic changes sweeping through its mall counterparts in nearby cities, the empty, outdated stores dotting its almost anemic interior does nothing to inspire confidence in its ability to operate as an economic hotspot. Yet it persists with an almost quiet dignity, kept afloat by the slowly stagnating lifeline of the box office.
Turn the corner, however, and the scene shifts drastically. Its unassuming exterior seemingly blends with the early 2000s aesthetic of the rest of the complex, but the interior spews forth an entertainment diaspora rivaling the towering arcade megaplexes of Tokyo. Having lived in the area throughout my high school years, I’ve long realized that the increasingly narrow late-night hangout options of such a sleepy suburban town inevitably shifts to the pulsing, seizure-inducing lights of Round One. Acting as the conspicuous pacemaker of the dying mall, the Japanese arcade center insists on distinguishing itself from the generic establishments of its surroundings, doubling down on its distinct characteristic with an aggressive influx of the newest machines from Japan to go along with a multitude of entertainment options such as bowling and karaoke aimed towards capturing those intimidated by the almost superhuman dexterity of weekend arcade warriors. And perhaps the contrasting nature of these two institutions within the same multiplex illustrates a changing landscape of this area, its name — as I’m sure it’s now evident– has yet to be given. To the locals, Rowland Heights, or its neighboring community of City of Industry, has long been a tradition, a bustling hotspot of authentic Asian cuisine ranging from decades-old independent family shops to popular chains imported on a whim to test the market. For the older generation, it’s a den of tranquility, a dense metropolis of nostalgic sights and tastes. It operates as a place of convenience, where comfort food and beverages flow freely and cheaply for the younger crowds strapped for cash looking for a hangout place away from the monotony of local suburbs.
Ask around outside of its sphere of influence, and the significance of Rowland Heights drops precipitously. Dwarfed by the rising economic and cultural importance of its cousin to the west, the city has never really been considered a part of the Asian powerhouse that is the San Gabriel Valley, despite being counted within its geographic vicinity. Touted with international deference by culinary authorities and avid gastronomes alike, the tremendous influx of wealth seen in the SGV – especially affluent cities like Monterey Park, San Gabriel, and Arcadia – has led to an explosion of Chinese regional culinary representation never seen outside of East Asia. Fueled by the desire for a taste of home, authentic Chinese restaurants began rapidly expanding, razing the local culinary scene seemingly overnight. Nowadays, it’s hardly uncommon to see a banquet-style, high-end Beijing restaurant sporting a Bible-thick menu next to a casual tea shop serving $2.50 bubble milk teas. Such disparity speaks not to a lack of identity, but a reaffirmation of the traditional values eminent throughout the area. The staggering demand for the the type of social eating revered by Asian people largely translated to chains of the same restaurants sprouting across multiple cities in the area. Packaged and disseminated via social media by the self-proclaimed “626” youths, the virality of a restaurant can hit fever pitch almost overnight, spiking average wait times to Disneyland levels. Don’t believe me? A quick glance at the bottom of any menu in any given restaurant would more than likely give you the information for its branch locations across the valley. In the vast expanse of the US, and especially in a metropolitan area defined by its infinite sprawl, it’s hard to wrap one’s head around such density and diversity of Chinese cuisine, a feat matched only by its place of origin half way across the world.
In many ways, Rowland Heights and its associated blend of small suburban communities represent a distilled byproduct of its older cousin’s success. With few exceptions, the distinctive shops and restaurants are but carbon copies of their counterparts across the freeway. Segmented neatly by the bisecting 60 Freeway, the menage à trio of Walnut, Rowland Heights, and City of Industry can largely be dictated by the freeway exits. Exit too early, you get swaths of railroad tracks hugged by industrial offices that often hide unique food gems. Gridlocked by both narrow streets and vehicles, the few exits that delineate Rowland Heights observe dense shopping plazas stacked high; the strip mall aesthetic is consistent with much of the Greater Los Angeles sprawl. At the far western exits, the aforementioned Puente Hills Mall mark the end of the City of Industry border, serving both as a welcome and exit sign along with a smattering collection of chains, a friendly reminder of suburban American’s greatest hits with the likes of TGIF, Applebees, and the works. Despite all this, to dismiss Rowland Heights as nothing more than an inferior copy of the SGV behemoth would be disingenuous, to say the least. The understated factor of its appeal lies in the elegant simplicity in which the area is laid out. Pockets of gastronomic hotspots underscored by expansive parking lots offer a degree of accessibility, a luxury its crowded brethren to the west cannot afford. The quiet disposition of the unincorporated community signals its greatest strength, as more subdued competition allows niche experiments to flourish. To restauranteurs and investors daunted by the fierce turnover rates and discerning palates of the skyrocketing population in the SGV, Rowland Heights offers a playground for the adventurous, a region grounded in the traditional but not afraid to defend the new. Aroma Craft was once an ambitious coffee project started by a Taiwanese roaster, with humble beginnings as a café operated out of an office space. Now with a full-on brick-and-mortar store coupled with its own in-house roastery, Aroma’s iron grip on the third-wave coffee market in the area manifests in the unflinching way it doles out handcrafted coasters and high-quality imported beans, staunchly incognizant of the lurking Starbucks just next door. Bagetti, Buccumi, Frank and Sons, Round1, Hirameki Anime Goods, and Arcade Infinity are few more examples of what once stood as proud testaments against the encroaching homogeneity of the cultural landscape.
At least it used to be. Though some of these institutions still exist, more and more, the area has succumbed to the economic pull of its larger western orbit. As blossoming populations began branching outwards, the once unknown frontier of Rowland Heights has now exhibited the same pattern of its neighboring cities. In August of 2017, I was astonished to see a Beijing transplant opened in one of the more comatose shopping plazas unafraid to hide the paucity of its customers. After a meal there, I happily noted the addition of such an esteemed institution in the mix here, only to be faced with brutal reality 3 months later as another restaurant quickly supplanted its place. I make an effort to revisit this area every couple months, and the volatility of the landscape has only increased since. Honda-ya, the sole izakaya slinging out sticks of charoal-grilled yakitori within the 13-square-mile radius, had stood the test of time for more than 20 years despite being located in a desolate corner adjacent to the railroad tracks. It, too, had fallen within the last year, relegating throngs of dedicated patrons to aimlessly wander elsewhere in search of the delectable scorched and bite-sized protein. Mr. Bagetti, a joyous Italian chef that loved to innovate with butter-less baguettes, able to put forth perhaps the only French toast I’ve ever enjoyed, also expressed the frustrations of catering to a growing population that only craves the familiar (damn you, Pizza Hut) before ultimately shuttering his storefront. I have no doubt these are but a few of the transforming trends, with some establishments having undergone so many ownership changes most locals were completely unaware of the middle stages of the metamorphosis. Survival rests on having established a beloved fanbase from the beginning, brandishing conservative tradition as a weapon to combat the inevitable economic overhaul. The culinary landscape of a region caters to the tastes of its demographic, and to this point, there are many that are fighting to capture specific niches. What was once a haven for cultivating new ideas has now become a free-for-all conflict for precious real-estate. Businesses are now thrown with reckless abandon at the saturated map, hoping to cash in on the shifting tides that have since rejected subversion of cultural traditions as a faux pas.
Deep in the industrial district of the City of Industry, for two days a week, a giant warehouse is transformed into a gargantuan exhibit hall for all things collectible. The Frank and Sons Collectibles Show wears its ethos proudly –a collectibles show for collectors– steadfast in their weekly tradition of maintaining their commitment to popular culture. On the opposite side of town, Round One still stands as a beacon of cultural distinction, a novelty that may seem to clash with the old-school beliefs of Frank and Sons, but in many ways complements its resolve to adding a splash of color to an increasingly monochromatic town. The two bastions stand proudly against the onslaught of trendy boba shops, international hotpot chains, and Chinese-inspired “bistros” that seek to extinguish the few bright spots on a heat map that once distinguished it from its affluent neighbors to the west. Change is never a bad thing, and neither is an inflow of wealth. Rowland Heights has never been a stranger to emulating the trends of the SGV, and had in its own way been strict on the new. Yet its evasion from the spotlight allows it a unique opportunity to set a precedent; it can still yet become a testament to the marriage between new and old, balancing the reminiscent traditions of nostalgia with the ephemeral trends of modern food culture. The San Gabriel Valley is perhaps one of the greatest testament to the positive impact of minority culture on the culinary landscape of the US, but it is also relentless in its attempts at recapturing the sentiments of the past. To that point, it just might be better for its oft forgotten little cousin to the east to embrace its own identity, even if it means staying in the shadows a while longer.
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