In the soil, underwater and on the table. A look into small food production in Monterey County during shelter in place.
By Marielle Argueza, Nick Rahaim and Ivan Garcia
Standing knee deep in rows of fennel, Mackenzie Leek, a vegetable farmer, grabs a bulb by the fibrous stalk, pulling it swiftly from the soil. She inspects the plant’s pale green layers before pulling out a knife to slice off the uneven bits “Everyone grows celery here,” she says. “No one grows fennel. That’s why I wanted to do it,” she says.
Except for her fennel and some carrots, the growing is sparse, with half her lot unplanted for now. But organic farming takes time and patience—except maybe during a pandemic.
Before the economic shock of COVID-19, 27-year-old Leek, was in between decision making. Her two-acre plot which she rents from the Agriculture and Land-Based Training Association, or ALBA, is where she grows vegetables for her business Basanti Organics. But the small dimensions of her farm restrict her from expanding her business in different ways like opening a farmers market stall, or selling to restaurants.
Most of her operations are wholesale to Coke Farms in San Juan Bautista, just like of fellow ALBA neighbors.The other, much smaller side, is her CSA deliveries, or community supported agriculture, in which she prepares a box of her vegetables for customers on a weekly basis. On top of that there was a time crunch. She only has around two more years on the land before her lease runs out.
By the beginning of 2020, she started considering shutting down the CSA. “I was seriously thinking about stopping,” she says. “It didn’t make [monetary] sense. I’m only one person on this farm.”
But in early March with shelter in place orders from the county, her subscriptions to her CSA shot up. She went from having 48 customers to 59 in a matter of a couple weeks, which is big for a single-worker farm. She attributes the rise to people’s reticence to go to grocery stores and farmers markets. “I don’t know, maybe people who used to buy their food at the grocery stores are scared now,” she says. But she also thinks it has something to do with an entire demographic who have effectively stopped participating in the mainstream economy: seniors. “Little old ladies,” says Leek. “Most of my customers are these older ladies in Carmel Valley. So I drop their vegetables right on their doorstep.”
While business is good now, she is hesitant to celebrate her success, because it all hinges on uncertainty. “Yeah, it’s really weird. In a lot of ways it’s good for me, but I wonder what’s going to happen after this whole thing is over.” Sheltering in place, at least tentatively for Monterey County ends on May 3.
Leek is a very small piece of the greater picture that is Monterey County’s $4.25 billion agricultural industry. As food production is essential work during the pandemic, even she and her two-acre plot business, are exposing consumers—who may not have previously given a second thought about where their food comes from—to what it takes to put food on the table. In just a matter of weeks for Leek, it has meant making real-time decisions like keeping her CSA going, but it is also a waiting game. She’s not alone, every local food-related industry from local fishing to the burgeoning restaurant scene has been adapting, but also bracing for the impact that will inevitably follow. Many small businesses, like Leek’s farm, are predicting it will be very ungraceful on their part.
“People will really see how important it is to support local producers,” she says. “That’s my hope anyway.”
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On a sunny day in early April, Calder Deyerle motors his boat back to Moss Landing with a load of sablefish. He spots a pod of killer whales feeding on a baby gray whale. Schools of anchovies rise from the depths of the water and are closely followed by hungry sea birds.
After a decade of ecological flux, spurred by the climate-driven marine heatwave, commonly called the “blob,” followed by a strong El Niño, life on the waters of the Monterey Bay has settled back into a rhythm of normalcy. It’s on land where fishermen and women like Deyerle face unprecedented uncertainty as COVID-19 has left seafood markets in disarray.
“The markets are shot,” he says. “Most of the fishermen are shut down right now, they just don’t have anyone to sell their catch to.”
The small port of Moss Landing is quiet with restaurants shuttered, the normal flow of sightseers disrupted by orders to shelter in place, and marine science institutions like Moss Landing Marine Labs and the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute closed. Commercial fishing is deemed an essential business, so fishermen and women try to stay on the water bringing sustainable, wild-caught seafood to consumers. Yet, how local catch is delivered to those customers has fundamentally changed.
Around 80 percent of seafood caught in the United State that is sold domestically is delivered to restaurants, says Noah Oppenheim, the outgoing executive director of the Pacific Coast Federation of Fishermen’s Associations. With most restaurants closed the bottom has dropped out of the market. Some fishermen have kept their boats tied up because they have no one to buy their catch, Deyerle says. Others like Deyerle are earning less for what they harvest.
Deyerle hails from a fishing family and typically fishes around a small fleet of Deyerle boats captained by his father, uncle and younger brother. The family also owns the Sea Harvest restaurants and markets in Carmel Monterey. The markets remain open and the restaurants are serving food to-go, but business has slowed down significantly since the state imposed lockdowns to slow the spread of the novel coronavirus.
Real Good Fish, a Moss Landing-based community-supported fishery that delivers boxes of fresh, locally caught seafood direct to consumers, has seen a sharp spike in business in recent weeks, says owner Alan Lovewell. But, the increased sales seen by Real Good Fish, and other direct-to-consumer businesses like Ocean2Table and H&H Fresh Fish in Santa Cruz, haven’t come close to making up for the lost demand from restaurant closures.
“There are fishermen who need jobs, they want to go fishing and there are still people who want their fish,” Lovewell says. “But without the restaurant market it’s still really tough.”
Deyerle sells some of his blackcod to Real Good Fish, but both he and Lovewell say there’s more fish coming from fishermen than CSFs can handle. Another formerly lucrative market for Deyerle is selling live sablefish and thornyhead rockfish to Asian buyers in San Jose, but those sales have dropped off significantly. Most of his catch is now being frozen for the Japanese export market, but it’s less profitable yielding around a third of the value as local purchases.
There’s still activity on the Monterey Bay, squid have shown up and with them most of the California squid fleet, Deyerle says. Almost all of the squid caught in California is exported and that market already faced significant shocks through President Donald Trump’s trade war with China.
Most fishermen are now looking ahead to the salmon season on the Monterey Bay, set to open May 1. After four years of wet winters filling streams and allowing returning salmon to spawn, 2019 was the best salmon season in two decades. This year was expected to be another strong season until the economic impacts of the pandemic struck. Now fishermen fear there won’t be enough buyers to support the local catch and that the prices they can sell California king salmon will leave them in the red.
“Everything with COVID-19 is so fluid it's hard to make predictions right now,” Deyerle says. “But my main question right now is ‘what the heck are we going to do with the salmon once we catch them?’”
Organizations like the Monterey Bay Fisheries Trust have stepped in to try to connect consumers to fishermen in this time of crisis. The nonprofit has compiled a local catch guide where people support the local seafood economy while also providing themselves with a tasty, nutritious meal.
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The COVID-19 pandemic has forced restaurants to radically change how they do businesses.
For Villa Azteca, a family-owned Mexican restaurant in Old Town Salinas, this change prompted an end to the days of packed dining rooms, chalkboard specials and mimosas for Sunday brunch.
Adilenny Alvarez, the daughter of chef and owner Susana Alvararez, usually manages the payroll and serves. Since shelter-in-place has prohibited in-restaurant dining her duties have expanded to taking orders, prep work and developing recipe ideas. The change is clear to her.
“Right now our business is totally different than when people were able to come in,” Alvarez says. “It’s obviously slower but luckily we’ve been getting support from takeout orders.”
That support comes in the form of take-out orders can't compare to the consistent business from being open. Though evenings, especially Fridays, garner a sufficient amount of orders Alvarez notes midweek, days are sometimes too slow to stay open for.
One saving grace has been an increased use of the restaurant's Instagram.
“We are managing by staying active on social media,” Alvarez explains. “This has given some opportunity for my mom’s creative side to come out.”
Susana’s menu receives praise for adding innovation to traditional Mexican dishes and she continues this practice amidst the pandemic. Recent posts on Villa Azteca’s Instagram include a tall glass of vegan horchata made from oats and coconut and beer-battered cauliflower tacos nestled in bright green tortillas made with spinach. Since the shelter-in-place orders took effect in Monterey County, their Instagram has averaged four new posts a day. The content isn’t relegated to recipes either. One post features an image of trays of rice and birria delivered to the emergency departments of the Salinas Valley Memorial Hospital as a display of gratitude.
A March 27 video post from chef Susana explains the choice to stay open.
“As you know we are living in difficult times,” Susana says in Spanish. “My main concern is my employees and for them we are offering orders for take out.”
The initial announcement of shelter-in-place compelled feelings of uncertainty from some of Villa Azteca’s small staff.
“The first few days it was really hectic here,” Adilenny says. “Me and my brother had to step up and take calls for orders because we had to cut on some floor staff.”
Now, nearly three weeks since restaurants have shut their doors to diners, Adilenny feels that she’s getting used to what is normal for now.
A reliable access to fresh ingredients has helped ease the transition amidst so much change. Fresh produce staples like citrus and cauliflower are largely bought from Fresh Market Produce off East Alisal. And with business down due to closing the dining room, Villa Azteca isn’t suffering a shortage in its inventory.
While the family behind Villa Azteca finds ways to remain open amidst this global crisis, Adilenny suggests ways the community can support their effort and their staff.
“The biggest way people can help now is just order from us if you can,” Adilenny says. “Because getting orders is what keeps us open.”
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On one of the bumpy dirt roads that criss-crosses over the ALBA land, a controlled burn sends soft billows of grey smoke into the air. Two plots away, workers sit on the back of their pickup taking a break from planting, while Mackenzie Leek greets her nextdoor farming neighbor. They talk about equipment and he helps her load the wheelbarrow into the bed of her Toyota Tacoma.
“Not much has changed for them,” says Leek of her neighbors and their working conditions. She explains that though there are now new workplace rules, sometimes it’s impossible on a farm to keep six feet away, or bring a clean mask to work when there are none to buy.
She has options at least. She knows she can make an extra profit, even if it’s for the short term. Many of the neighboring farmers around her, who are undocumented immigrants, don’t have the choice of starting a public facing business.
With few lucrative economic prospects, and few other businesses open and hiring, farming to supply wholesale buyers is their only feasible option to make a living. That means, explains Leek, they can’t stop working or choose to stay home safe. “What else can they do? They have families,” she says.
She can commiserate as a one-woman farm—she is both the boss calling the shots and 90 percent of the time, the only worker. While the pandemic has forced business owners to make decisions, often without any planning, she hasn’t lost perspective. Hardwork puts food on the table, no matter who is making a profit.
She points to her neighbors from her plot. “They’re here from when the sun goes up and don’t leave sometimes until the sun is way down.”
