The Salvi Food Tour: A Love Letter Written in Food

I grew up in San Mateo County—the Peninsula, the Bay Area—a place crowded with cultures where my own often felt misunderstood. People assumed "Latino" meant Mexican; if they knew El Salvador at all, it was through headlines about war or the ubiquitous pupusa. That shadow followed me to LA, where even within Latino communities, our story felt flattened. I was neither fully seen nor entirely invisible. That "in-between" shaped how I relate to my motherland and why I felt a burning need to tell its stories.

Raymundo Archila filmming at Popoca | Photo by: Eric Valle

The idea didn’t start with a budget; it started during the pandemic with a private jolt of inspiration after watching Taco Chronicles. I thought: I could do that—but for pupusas. Food has always been my anchor. Growing up, my mom took me to El Salvador every year; even the dishes she never made became memories of comfort. But California has also expanded my palate. I wanted a project that reflected that hybrid complexity.

Ambition arrived long before funding. I envisioned a cinematic series that treated Salvadoran gastronomy with reverence. Without a call from Netflix, I bootstrapped: I borrowed gear, called in favors, and produced short mini-documentaries. They weren't the end goal, but they were a proof of concept—a promise that this project could grow.

Chef Carlos Moran from Bayuncos | Photo by: Eric Valle

The process was uneven and intimate. Editing took years as life intervened: breakups, grief, and deep depression. Imposter syndrome whispered constantly—who am I to tell these stories? Yet, hearing these voices share their craft with such clarity reminded me why I started. Finishing these episodes became an act of survival as much as creation.

What the project revealed is that Salvadoran food is a diverse spectrum. It is fermentation and home brewing, street snacks and fine dining. I filmed "disruptors" who refuse to wait for permission. Chef Carlos Moran’s Putacos—a pupusa-taco hybrid—felt blasphemous to some and perfectly honest to others: a lived metaphor for bicultural life. In Oakland, chef Anthony Salguero at Popoca married ancestral wood-fire to French technique. These creators are building community, challenging gatekeeping, and expanding what "authenticity" means.

Raymundo Archila at the Cadejo Mansion Ribbon Cutting | Photo by Eric Valle

In 2023, I returned to El Salvador for the first time in 15 years to celebrate my mom’s birthday. For once, I was the host. Wandering as a tourist with a DSLR felt surreal. I visited Cadejo Brewing and El Xolo—places I’d only heard about through years of obsessing over them on social media. Seeing the country beyond my childhood memories, beyond my grandma’s house made me realize these were dreams I didn’t know I had.

Since then, I’ve returned to film the Salvi Food Tour in earnest. Being in the motherland now feels like seeing a familiar face through a fresh lens rather than a frozen childhood frame. I am documenting a cultural shift in real time.

My parents did an amazing job teaching me my culture, but they also encouraged me to assimilate. Growing up once-removed from your roots makes identity complex. Language, food, and art are how I have rebuilt my sense of self. No matter what I create, I am ultimately Salvadoran—Americanized, yes, but always carrying that sazón.

Success is a Salvadoran kid ten years from now seeing these stories and knowing our culture can be evolving, complex, and proud. Salvi Food Tour is a love letter to the hyphenated identity. Documenting this "Salvi Renaissance"—messy, brave, and unfolding—has been the most meaningful work I’ve ever done. Like any good home cook, it’s always at the whim of el tanteo.