Black Pork owners Veronica Lopez and Luis Mendiola have created a West Long Beach food space unlike any other. Tomahawk ribeyes on the weekends. Mussels in a warm bath of white wine, cream, and Guajillo chiles. Perfectly fried empanadas—the best in the city. A Latin American interpretation of Italian porchetta. Massive Cuban sandwiches that rival the best in the region. The finest clam chowder west of the 710 (and yes, I mean better than the almighty Chowder Barge).
With a bikini bar on one side and a dive bar on the other that opens at 6AM daily, Black Pork’s DIY-chic, definitively adorable space acts as a dichotomy for its neighbors. Their smoker stands proudly just off the sidewalk of the southern half of Willow Street, west of the 710. The aromatic plumes drive everyone from neighbors across the street to passersby in cars to head toward it, with many a vehicle heading westward busting a U-ey.
And for newcomers, it is likely that the patron next to you is a regular. In my case, a group of friends who have turned the spot “into a weekly ritual. Been through their whole menu and I can tell you this: There’s nothing even mediocre about a single item. Even their brunch is incredible.” It reflects Veronica and Luis’s passion and dedication in a way that doesn’t happen regularly in West Long Beach.
The birth of Black Pork showcases the power of immigrants uplifting our communities—and owning their work.
“We’ve created a community here,” Veronica proudly said. “And I think that’s because people really respect that we don’t really have a single identity. We’re not just ‘international.’ We’re not just Mexican. Or Peruvian or French. We’re just lovers of food. We cook the food we love; the food that moves us.”
They didn’t start out wanting to open a restaurant—not exactly. But after years of working under others, grinding in kitchens from Portland to San Antonio to Long Beach, the husband-and-wife team behind Black Pork knew they were done taking orders. It was time to build something for themselves.
“We were tired,” she says plainly. “Tired of working for other people. We wanted something different—something that was ours.”
Their culinary résumé reads like a migratory roadmap: stints at Palenia, Allegria, and the now-gone Gaucho Grill that once stood on Pine. There were jobs in Oregon, a chapter in Louisiana, time in Mexico. For years, they learned the rhythm of service and the science of flavor. She was already in the industry when they met—he was new to the States, fresh from Jalisco. Long Beach became their common ground, and eventually, their home.
But when it came time to shape their own kitchen, nothing about their concept fit neatly into one box.
What does the name “Black Pork” mean—and how does its symbolism solidify the space’s great aura?
Black Pork is a name born of affection and symbolism. “Pigs are my favorite animal,” Luis said. “They’re good luck in so many cultures. And I was born in the Year of the Pig, so there’s that too.” Sharing his year and love the boar with myself, it was not hard to miss reverence in the way he said it. It was an understanding that pork, when treated right, can be something deeply special. Carnitas. Porchetta. Dry-aged cuts. Beef shank mistaken for pork (which is “not a bad mistake,” Vero said, laughing).
It’s all here, presented with care and a touch of reverence.
Their food knowledge runs deep. Mole? They’ll talk your ear off about the differences between Oaxacan and Puebla styles, about the chilies that only grow in certain regions… The conversation drifts from tortillas—in-house if they had the time and space but relegated to a brand they trust for now—to regional Mexican cuisine, to pasta, to their house-made juices and tea blends, to beef tallow versus seed oils.
“The only oil I use is olive oil,” she says. “Otherwise, it’s pork fat, beef fat—just like I grew up with in Queretaro. Just like Luis grew up with in Veracruz and, later in life, Mexico City.”
Looking at West Long Beach but also beyond…
But behind the deep knowledge is something far more powerful: community. That’s what brought them to West Long Beach—not foot traffic, not trends, not PR. “We were already working here,” she says. “The people knew us. They wanted us to stay—especially after seeing the work we put into it. You should’ve seen it before,” Vero said, laughing. “Just red and white walls, empty. Nothing. We had to clean everything, start over from scratch.”
They cater too. Roasted whole pigs—done cochinita pibil-style—for a private Jewish celebration. Spit-fired meats. Private dinners with handmade pasta. One event had them prepping a porchetta so immaculate it stopped a guest mid-bite. And with this, Luis said, “I simply told them I treat the animal right. Because it’s sacred. It matters.”
Their hours are long—too long, really. Seven days a week. No days off. “We’re killing ourselves,” she admits. “But it’s worth it. We built this.” There’s talk of expanding—maybe Bixby Knolls if the right space opens up.
Before the goodbye, she leans in one last time: “You can tell when someone loves what they do. We really love what we do.”
A look at other offerings off the continent-spanning menu of West Long Beach’s Black Pork.
The Cuban sandwich: Ham | Marinated shredded pork | Arugula | Pickles | Mustard | Cheese | Ciabatta
Mussels: Californian mussels | Guajillo chile | Heavy cream | White wine | Garlic | Lemongrass | Curry | Lemon
Porchetta: Citrus-marinated pork | Chimmichurri | Mashed potatoes | Pork demiglace
Emapanadas: Marinated pork [top] -or- Chorizo con papas [bottom] | House salsa verde | Or request habanero salsa or salsa macha
45-day aged ribeye: Limited quantity | Call ahead to see if available | Black pepper bordelaise
Black Pork is located at 1916 W. Willow St.
awesome articles but this was totally spot on
“Roasted whole pigs—done cochinita pibil-style—for a private Jewish celebration.” A non-orthodox party, presumably.