Over the past week, I've watched something happen that I've now seen happen several times before. A beloved figure in San Diego's food community dies unexpectedly. Friends and family are devastated. A GoFundMe is launched to help with funeral expenses, support surviving family members, or simply help loved ones survive a tragedy they never saw coming. The community expresses shock. Tributes pour in. Stories are shared. Photos are reposted.
And then something else happens. Or rather, it doesn't. The people with the largest platforms in San Diego food media and hospitality, and the local media itself, largely stay silent.
This week it was Jesús "Jesse" Verduzco, the longtime owner of JV's Mexican Food, who was killed in a wrong-way crash. For more than three decades, Jesse operated one of San Diego's most beloved neighborhood taco shops. Thousands of locals have memories tied to JV's. Generations of University of San Diego students practically lived on his burritos. He wasn't just a restaurant owner. He was part of the fabric of the community.
His family launched a GoFundMe after his death. Through a single article and social media post, SanDiegoVille readers have already helped raise more than $11,000 through a trackable link since the campaign was launched.
That isn't meant as a boast. It's a question. What might happen if everyone with influence did the same? What if the accounts with 50,000 followers participated? What about the publications with hundreds of thousands? How much difference could they make? I've wondered the same thing before.
When chef Anthony Sinsay died in 2021 at just 37 years old after battling a rare form of cancer, a GoFundMe was launched for his wife and children. Anthony wasn't some anonymous figure. He was one of the most respected chefs in San Diego. He cooked at James Beard events. He led kitchens across the city. He spent years supporting charitable causes and promoting local food producers.
Yet when his family needed help, where was the collective effort from the people and organizations that had spent years benefiting from his talent, his reputation, and his willingness to participate in the local food scene? Where was his longtime employer, celebrity chef Brian Malarkey, a television personality with a large social following of his own? Anthony gave years of his limited life to build Malarkey's culinary empire, but the Food Network star couldn't bother to even acknowledge his passing or share his fundraiser on his vast social media accounts.
I wondered the same thing recently when Brandon Zanavich, founder of The Friendly, passed away unexpectedly. And again when Qwente Bryant was killed earlier this year in a hit-and-run after finishing a shift at Tavern at the Beach. Even going back to Nathan "Nate" Soroko, an icon within San Diego's hospitality industry and craft beer community that passed away suddenly in 2021.
In each case, families and friends found themselves relying largely on ordinary people -customers, neighbors, coworkers, and members of the community - to spread the word and provide support. Those ordinary people always seem to show up. The larger platforms often don't.
And perhaps that's the most revealing part. The people with the least reach often prove the most generous with it. A bartender shares the fundraiser. A server donates twenty dollars. A line cook reposts the link. A customer who never met the person sends fifty bucks because they ate there once and it meant something to them. Again and again, it is ordinary people who carry extraordinary burdens for one another.
This isn't really about one publication, one influencer, or one celebrity chef. It's about a culture. San Diego's food industry has become exceptionally good at promotion. We celebrate openings. We celebrate awards. We celebrate chef dinners, cocktail releases, influencer events, media previews, rankings, and personalities. We spend countless hours building brands.
In many ways, the modern food world has become a machine for converting community into content. Every meal is a photo. Every opening is an event. Every chef is a personality. Every restaurant is a story. Yet when the story becomes inconveniently human - when it involves grief, medical bills, funeral expenses, or children left behind - the enthusiasm often fades.
But brands are not communities. A brand asks, "How can this help me?" A community asks, "How can I help?" The difference sounds simple. In practice, it is enormous.
Communities reveal themselves when something goes wrong. When somebody gets sick. When somebody loses a spouse. When somebody dies unexpectedly. When a family needs help. Those moments are when influence becomes meaningful.
It's easy to publish a list of San Diego's best restaurants. The harder question is what obligation we owe the people behind those restaurants when life falls apart.
I am not suggesting that anyone should be obligated to donate money. Nobody owes anyone a contribution. But sharing a fundraiser costs nothing. Posting a link costs nothing.
In fact, sharing a fundraiser may be one of the highest-impact things a local influencer can do. No camera crew is required. No sponsorship agreement needs to be negotiated. No content calendar needs to be built. It takes less time than posting a cocktail photo.
Using a platform that was built, in large part, through the support of the local hospitality industry to help members of that industry during moments of crisis costs nothing. And yet it happens far less often than it should.
The irony is that many of the people with the largest audiences in San Diego food culture possess the ability to make a measurable difference almost instantly.
A single Instagram story viewed by tens of thousands of followers can generate donations. A newsletter mention can generate donations. A simple post saying, "If you can help, please do," can generate donations.
The impact is real. I've seen it repeatedly. What is often overlooked is that attention itself has become a form of currency. Some people have tens of thousands of dollars. Others have tens of thousands of followers. Both can be used to help people. Which is why the silence can feel so disappointing.
The hospitality industry often describes itself as a family. Maybe it is. But families are tested by sacrifice, not celebration. Anyone can show up when there are free cocktails, ribbon cuttings, media dinners, and opening parties. The harder question is who shows up when there is nothing to gain personally.
But families don't just show up for ribbon cuttings. They show up for funerals. They show up for widows. They show up for children left behind. They show up when there is nothing to gain.
The reality is that everyone with a platform eventually has to decide what that platform is for. Is it merely a tool for self-promotion and audience growth? Or is it occasionally a tool for helping people who need it?
That's not a question directed at any one individual. It's a question for all of us. Myself included.
And perhaps the most uncomfortable possibility is that silence is itself an answer. Every time a tragedy occurs, every platform makes a choice. Not necessarily between helping and not helping, but between what deserves attention and what does not. Those choices reveal priorities more honestly than any mission statement ever could.
Because the true value of influence isn't measured by how many people see what we post, how many followers we accumulate, or how effectively we build our personal brands. It's measured by what we're willing to do with that attention when someone needs us most. And if influence cannot be used to help people in moments like these, then it is fair to ask what it is really for.
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Originally published on June 7, 2026.
