All Together Now

DAKOTA KIM: You work with your mom to run Anajak—and, until recently, with your dad, too. What is that like?

JUSTIN PICHETRUNGSI: Everyone wants to talk to me about how I was the second-generation operator who took over a mom-and-pop spot. Truth is, it’s not as romantic as it sounds. It’s as hard as opening up my own spot—but imagine that, on top of that, your partners are the most critical people in your entire life.

DK: Folks across L.A. and Sherman Oaks have known your parents for a long time and rely on you to be a place where they can gather, have a sense of community. What do you remember of growing up in the restaurant as a kid?

JP: Before taking over, I thought: When my parents are no longer here, what will happen to the restaurant? I grew up here. So many generations have come through here. I didn’t want to let go of those things, that smell of grease on my dad’s white collared shirt he’d wear every day. I’d give him a hug when he’d come home at night, and that smell is so iconic to me.

DK: We second-generationers aren’t known for being grateful, but I think we really are. We just struggle with that cultural divide in expressing our gratitude, because I think a part of us feels so guilty that we didn’t struggle in the same way, and a part of us resents that we feel guilty and wants to be free of it. The guilt, the guilt!

JP: Mom and Dad, they’re working tirelessly for the restaurant. Dad’s at home. He can’t work anymore, but he’s still helping me make calls. He found a plumber for us recently. Mom, she’s working tirelessly on the books. She does the front of house, being the owner and talking to people. She’s great at that. The reason I came back to help—well, one, I love restaurants and I love Anajak—but I wanted to relieve my parents.

DK: So, what are the particular struggles between you and your folks?

JP: My mom and dad feel like I changed so much of the restaurant.

DK: And they resent that?

JP: Part of them understands, part of them enjoys that, part of them says it’s crazy how I created a following around it. But then, the way that it’s operated—they still want that to be the same.

DK: What else unnerves them about what you’re doing at the restaurant?

JP: My mom says simple things like, “You have other people making the sauces—you need to be making the sauces.” And it goes further, into the creation of a new sauce. She says, “You let other people create the new sauce?” I say, “Yes, because it’s still our sauce.” We’re still editing it, buying ingredients for it, composing the dish, but if other people want to have a little ownership into the end product, that actually helps in many ways.

DK: But her feeling is you guys need to have ownership over everything?

JP: I mean, I understand. There’s a fear of losing something, and after so many years, the cooks already know how to make stuff. It’s not like the recipes for penang and green curry aren’t available.

DK: My mom is like that too—she wouldn’t share our teriyaki sauce recipe with anyone else at our restaurant. It was top-secret. She used pineapple juice and peels, or something.

JP: You’ve said too much already!

DK: Let somebody else make it, Mom! So, are you an only?

JP: I have a younger sister and an older brother.

DK: What’s their participation in the restaurant?

JP: They’re smart—they come as diners.

DK: They weaseled their way out of it! Do you ever call them to vent, because they’re the only people who understand your parents?

JP: Yeah, of course.

DK: Do you think all that struggle is why they’re so tough on you?

JP: My folks were really, really hard with me and really, really hard for me at the same time.

DK: I feel that. Like, so loyal, but also your worst critic.

JP: Like when I change the menu, my mom will say, “Tacos, what do you mean tacos? So suddenly we’re a Mexican restaurant?” And then she’ll be like, “You’re serving bluefin; now we’re a Japanese restaurant?” We’ll put ginger in a sauce, and she’s like, “Wait, we’re a Chinese restaurant now?” She’s the guardian of tradition.

DK: That often falls on the woman, on the mother, to keep the small cultural things alive, that aren’t really small.

JP: She’s like, “You never pray, your dad prayed all the time and set the offerings.” They’re Buddhist. I’m like, “Mom, that’s 45 minutes out of the day. And what are you praying for?”

DK: Prosperity?

JP: I say I could spend 45 minutes actually making money. She says I don’t have the same culture. I say I’m still a Buddhist, but I think maybe when I get a sous chef then I’ll be more of one.

DK: I have regrets about not carrying on my parents’ legacy—in a lot of ways, they were very creative and intelligent business owners, and my mom is an incredible chef. On the flip side, you studied to be an artist—do you have any regrets that you’re no longer making art full-time?

JP: My friends are like, “I guess you’re not coming back to art anymore.” I was teaching at Art Center for the first couple years, but my mind was exploding. I hate compartmentalizing. I still think like a visual artist and like a painter in the end.

DK: You’re enacting praxis—food like yours is art, but it’s functional.

JP: Running a business can also be an art. I’m not saying I’m doing it that way—far from it. But friends who are really good restaurateurs—they’re doing it to the level of an art. They make it look good and look fun, and I really aspire to that.

DK: Do you ever go into the walk-in fridge and scream?

JP: We don’t have a walk-in. I can scream into the wine fridge.

DK: There’s a tenderness about running a family business, too, at least when you have a brief moment to step back and look at it all. How do you want to preserve Anajak’s legacy?

JP: When I was in film school, I was studying film and photography, shooting a lot of pictures of chefs around town. I have pictures of all the people we know and love. Maynard cooking with Corey on the line at Bestia. Evan Funke cooking at Bucato. Chef Kaz for Kotoratu. I collected all these pictures and put together a book of chef portraits around town—these Mexican ladies at taco stands, ladies at dumpling shops in the San Gabriel Valley. It’s this kaleidoscopic, Cubist look at L.A. dining, and the book began and ended with my parents.

DK: I do find talking about some of this stuff about my parents painful. Do you?

JP: It’s not painful to talk about it. It’s painful to go through it. It’s helpful to talk about it.

DK: Consider this your free therapy session.

JP: Ha—thank you. I appreciate that.