Pop-ups are an invaluable tool for building a healthy restaurant scene.
But what happens when they start to become the restaurant scene?
It’s a late Sunday morning, and I’m tucked into the corner of a dim, stylized dive bar, the ear-splitting brass of amplified cumbia rattling my brain as I awkwardly divvy up a cochinita pibil breakfast torta with a cheap plastic knife. When I finally hack off a chunk and take a bite, it’s fantastic — crafted with more care and finesse than any other I’ve tasted this year.
What surprises me isn’t the torta. What surprises me is that finding excellent food in an environment like this has become entirely routine.
Today's era of pop-ups, takeovers and ghost kitchens cultivates a kind of subversive guerrilla charm. “Stodgy culinary craftsmen of yore upstaged by rebellious, nomadic young gunslingers” is a potent narrative, and the bleeding edge cognoscenti delve deeper and deeper in search of virgin territory to plant their flags.
What started as a noble mission to destigmatize alternative restaurant formats became a social media-driven movement to restyle their rougher elements as virtues. Accepting paper plates and an overturned milk crate for a chair is one thing. Actively seeking them out is another entirely. In doing so, have we inadvertently turned a stepping stone into a destination?
Because Requinto is absolutely a destination.
But what happens when they start to become the restaurant scene?
It’s a late Sunday morning, and I’m tucked into the corner of a dim, stylized dive bar, the ear-splitting brass of amplified cumbia rattling my brain as I awkwardly divvy up a cochinita pibil breakfast torta with a cheap plastic knife. When I finally hack off a chunk and take a bite, it’s fantastic — crafted with more care and finesse than any other I’ve tasted this year.
What surprises me isn’t the torta. What surprises me is that finding excellent food in an environment like this has become entirely routine.
It wasn’t always this way. Pop-ups first pierced the public consciousness as low-stakes laboratories where developing talents could experiment before putting down roots. Overlooking the rough edges was part of building the community. But somewhere along the line, something changed. Pop-ups became not just functional but desirable. And the floodgates opened.
Today's era of pop-ups, takeovers and ghost kitchens cultivates a kind of subversive guerrilla charm. “Stodgy culinary craftsmen of yore upstaged by rebellious, nomadic young gunslingers” is a potent narrative, and the bleeding edge cognoscenti delve deeper and deeper in search of virgin territory to plant their flags.
What started as a noble mission to destigmatize alternative restaurant formats became a social media-driven movement to restyle their rougher elements as virtues. Accepting paper plates and an overturned milk crate for a chair is one thing. Actively seeking them out is another entirely. In doing so, have we inadvertently turned a stepping stone into a destination?
Because Requinto is absolutely a destination.
Served half-submerged in chipotle broth, Requinto's flautas take on a delightful texture as they soak up the liquid.
Dominic Armato
Guerrero-style or guerrilla-style?
Erick Pineda took up residence in Linger Longer Lounge's kitchen in November 2022 and has been slinging weekend brunch under the name Requinto there ever since.This wasn’t always the plan. A musician who kicked off his culinary career at Mr. Submarine and Domino’s Pizza, Pineda bounced between local clubs and kitchens from DeSoto Central Market to Centrico to Ollie Vaughn’s, eventually developing his own signature menu and style while gigging and recording on the side.
Requinto is Pineda’s way of circling back to his roots. A born and raised local boy whose parents hail from Guerrero, Mexico, Pineda found himself compelled to represent the flavors he grew up with. The result? A modern riff on the cuisine of Mexico’s southern coastal state, skillfully executed and served with plastic utensils in a dark, gritty hipster bar.
It's tempting to argue that there could be no home more apropos for a chef who moonlights as a psychedelic rock guitarist. Linger Longer Lounge’s fuzzy '70s vinyl aesthetic is a little too cultivated to call the place a dive, but it's a venue with genuine cred. And while it’s hardly a food-first establishment, it’s fitting that Pineda cooks in a place where he could seamlessly serve up some tacos and tortas in between sets.
I don’t mean to tromp on the grungy underground vibe Requinto has going. Chilaquiles with a side of sticky floors and obscene graffiti don’t bother me one bit. What gives me pause, though, is the feeling that Pineda’s stuff deserves more attention than it’s likely to get from appearing six hours a week in a downscale hipster bar.
Pay attention, you guys. The food at Requinto is really, really good. 
Either way, you could spend a weekend afternoon drinking beer and shooting pool and never even notice that the place is serving killer food. Ask at the bar, however, and they’ll hand you a tight menu of eight dishes that are every bit as flavorful and refined as some of the city’s most popular Mexican joints.
Though Pineda's offerings rotate every couple of months — keeping some dishes, dropping others, tweaking the rest — his Guerrero-style white pozole has headlined the menu since day one. I make a point of urging talented chefs to press ever forward, but I also wouldn’t mind if this particular dish never leaves.
Place an order at the bar, get a picture of an '80s pro wrestling star in return (in lieu of a number), and within minutes, somebody will drop a bowl of piping hot soup and a plate of condiments in front of you.
Pineda’s pozole is a thing of beauty. It’s a cloudy, almost milky broth heavy with dried herbs and loaded with tender stewed pork, hominy and chunks of fresh avocado. It’s salty — not just unabashedly but assertively so — and its mellow, meaty baseline lights up like lightning when you add a bit of fresh serrano, crush some toasted chile arbol over the top and add a healthy spritz of lime.
Chilaquiles might hold more sway with the basic brunch crowd, but they’re no less excellent.
This dish is always a balancing act — too wet and it comes out sloppy; too dry and it’s little more than overtopped chips and salsa. Pineda’s version deftly walks the line, nailing a chewy-crisp texture that leans slightly crisp, with some bonus toasted edges courtesy of a trip under the broiler. Whether red or green, the salsa sings and those beamy, sunny eggs on top are fringed by a whisper-thin halo of crispy edges.
Of course, that isn’t the only way you can take your chilaquiles.
The importance of texture
Pineda recently has featured a torta de chilaquiles on Requinto’s menu, which is exactly as bonkers as it sounds.
Also known as a tecolota, this is, quite literally, a bolillo torta stuffed with salsa-drenched chilaquiles. No matter how much the idea appeals to you, I’m betting it will exceed expectations.
Pineda’s most recent riff on the form combines chilaquiles with a slab of crisp chicken milanesa, smeared with beans and crema and served with onions, herbs and a cup of stinging salsa arbol. Here’s a Frankenfood that works — an unholy union that looks like a gimmick but eats like a dream, with densely layered flavors packaged into a chaotic textural bundle.
I appreciate the ways Pineda plays with texture. It’s a little thing, but I love that his crunchy pork flautas ahogadas arrive neither drowned nor dry but instead half-submerged in a bowl of chipotle broth. The lower half gets a little soft and pliable by the time you dig in, while the portion above the waterline retains its robust crunch. Pick up a flauta in one hand, then dunk and crunch while you spoon and slurp that smoky chipotle broth with the other. Repeat until you curse the fact that there are no more left.
Speaking of which, you might as well preempt frustration by doubling up on the street corn empanadas from the get-go. A plate features three, and they won’t be enough. Stuffed with corn, potato and gooey, molten cheese, these plump little turnovers are buried under micro cilantro and cotija cheese and served with a sharp salsa verde. Blissfully blistered with a crisp and delicate flake, they are dangerously delicious and inevitably gone within 30 seconds of hitting the table.
Requinto currently is serving cochinita pibil — ruddy achiote-braised pork topped with slivered onions and habanero peppers. The vegetables are pickled, which adds a nice tart punch and takes a bit of the edge off the chile fire. Frankly, though, the real magic lies in the taco’s foundation.
I can't decide whether it's thrilling or annoying that this bar kitchen pop-up has better masa than most full-fledged Mexican restaurants around town.
Pineda sources the masa harina from LA-based small-batch purveyor Masienda, and his tortillas bear the sweet, floral scent that gets beaten out of industrial products. It’s a good reminder that the tortilla is every bit as important as what’s folded inside.
Masienda also figures prominently at Requinto’s occasional evening pop-ups and takeovers at other kitchens and clubs around town. Pineda has developed corn dogs encased not in traditional fashion but instead in a Mexican masa-based batter. They’re kind of brilliant.
I’ve tasted both yellow and blue corn varieties, and I don’t want to oversell what is, in essence, still a corn dog. But switching to nixtamalized corn and replacing yellow mustard with condiments such as chipotle crema, Valentina ketchup and salsa arbol is a flex that seems so obvious in retrospect that you have to wonder why you’ve never seen it before.
Why, for that matter, haven’t I seen a lot of this food before?
6522 N. 16th St.
602-694-0342
instagram.com/requinto_phx
11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Saturday and Sunday; Irregular events in other locations as announced.
All dishes $10-$15.
Pay attention, you guys. The food at Requinto is really, really good.
Pineda's signature Guerrero-style pozole is a clean and salty pork broth loaded with meat and hominy and served with a plate of sharp condiments.
Dominic Armato
Brunch with punch
The lounge is lively on the days without a DJ and a party on the days with, though one can always retreat across the courtyard to hang out with the pool table and pinball machines if the music gets a little too deafening.Either way, you could spend a weekend afternoon drinking beer and shooting pool and never even notice that the place is serving killer food. Ask at the bar, however, and they’ll hand you a tight menu of eight dishes that are every bit as flavorful and refined as some of the city’s most popular Mexican joints.
Though Pineda's offerings rotate every couple of months — keeping some dishes, dropping others, tweaking the rest — his Guerrero-style white pozole has headlined the menu since day one. I make a point of urging talented chefs to press ever forward, but I also wouldn’t mind if this particular dish never leaves.
Place an order at the bar, get a picture of an '80s pro wrestling star in return (in lieu of a number), and within minutes, somebody will drop a bowl of piping hot soup and a plate of condiments in front of you.
Pineda’s pozole is a thing of beauty. It’s a cloudy, almost milky broth heavy with dried herbs and loaded with tender stewed pork, hominy and chunks of fresh avocado. It’s salty — not just unabashedly but assertively so — and its mellow, meaty baseline lights up like lightning when you add a bit of fresh serrano, crush some toasted chile arbol over the top and add a healthy spritz of lime.
Chilaquiles might hold more sway with the basic brunch crowd, but they’re no less excellent.
This dish is always a balancing act — too wet and it comes out sloppy; too dry and it’s little more than overtopped chips and salsa. Pineda’s version deftly walks the line, nailing a chewy-crisp texture that leans slightly crisp, with some bonus toasted edges courtesy of a trip under the broiler. Whether red or green, the salsa sings and those beamy, sunny eggs on top are fringed by a whisper-thin halo of crispy edges.
Of course, that isn’t the only way you can take your chilaquiles.
The importance of texture
Pineda recently has featured a torta de chilaquiles on Requinto’s menu, which is exactly as bonkers as it sounds.Also known as a tecolota, this is, quite literally, a bolillo torta stuffed with salsa-drenched chilaquiles. No matter how much the idea appeals to you, I’m betting it will exceed expectations.
Pineda’s most recent riff on the form combines chilaquiles with a slab of crisp chicken milanesa, smeared with beans and crema and served with onions, herbs and a cup of stinging salsa arbol. Here’s a Frankenfood that works — an unholy union that looks like a gimmick but eats like a dream, with densely layered flavors packaged into a chaotic textural bundle.
I appreciate the ways Pineda plays with texture. It’s a little thing, but I love that his crunchy pork flautas ahogadas arrive neither drowned nor dry but instead half-submerged in a bowl of chipotle broth. The lower half gets a little soft and pliable by the time you dig in, while the portion above the waterline retains its robust crunch. Pick up a flauta in one hand, then dunk and crunch while you spoon and slurp that smoky chipotle broth with the other. Repeat until you curse the fact that there are no more left.
Speaking of which, you might as well preempt frustration by doubling up on the street corn empanadas from the get-go. A plate features three, and they won’t be enough. Stuffed with corn, potato and gooey, molten cheese, these plump little turnovers are buried under micro cilantro and cotija cheese and served with a sharp salsa verde. Blissfully blistered with a crisp and delicate flake, they are dangerously delicious and inevitably gone within 30 seconds of hitting the table.
Cochinita pibil sits atop tortillas made with masa from Masienda, a purveyor of small-batch Mexican masa.
Dominic Armato
Better masa, better menu
Yes, there are tacos, and yes, they’re very good.Requinto currently is serving cochinita pibil — ruddy achiote-braised pork topped with slivered onions and habanero peppers. The vegetables are pickled, which adds a nice tart punch and takes a bit of the edge off the chile fire. Frankly, though, the real magic lies in the taco’s foundation.
I can't decide whether it's thrilling or annoying that this bar kitchen pop-up has better masa than most full-fledged Mexican restaurants around town.
Pineda sources the masa harina from LA-based small-batch purveyor Masienda, and his tortillas bear the sweet, floral scent that gets beaten out of industrial products. It’s a good reminder that the tortilla is every bit as important as what’s folded inside.
Masienda also figures prominently at Requinto’s occasional evening pop-ups and takeovers at other kitchens and clubs around town. Pineda has developed corn dogs encased not in traditional fashion but instead in a Mexican masa-based batter. They’re kind of brilliant.
I’ve tasted both yellow and blue corn varieties, and I don’t want to oversell what is, in essence, still a corn dog. But switching to nixtamalized corn and replacing yellow mustard with condiments such as chipotle crema, Valentina ketchup and salsa arbol is a flex that seems so obvious in retrospect that you have to wonder why you’ve never seen it before.
Why, for that matter, haven’t I seen a lot of this food before?
The fuzzy '70s vibe of Linger Longer Lounge would seem an unlikely home for Requinto's cumbia brunch, but it's a partnership that works.
Dominic Armato
The pop-up problem
That’s partly on me. I’m late to Pineda’s party, and it pisses me off. (Being tardy, not the party.) Requinto is hardly invisible. Among those who keep their ear to the ground, it has a reputation. But I can’t shake the feeling that in any other era, it would have already turned into a splashy, full-fledged restaurant with mainstream visibility. So why hasn’t it?
Complicated question, it turns out.
Pineda wants to grow, and like many other similarly situated folks, he’s of two minds on the subject. He appreciates that his residency at Linger Longer Lounge grants him the flexibility to juggle kitchen, music and family, and he’s grateful for the time and space he’s had to develop what he hopes will become a battle-tested menu in a more traditional setting.
But he has sought backing for a while, and others mirror the feeling that opportunities seem scarce. The cynics will say that restaurants are a dying business and there’s no money to go around. But after watching moneyed interests dump truckloads of cash into trendy hotspots and imported concepts over the past couple of years, I find myself questioning whether the issue is one of availability or allocation.
How many Requintos are out there? How many chefs like Pineda are holed up somewhere, dreaming of bigger things but limited to an audience with the savvy and flexibility to track down irregular offerings via Instagram and TikTok? If this is what the emerging Phoenix restaurant scene is now, that’s undeniably cool, but is it actually any good for anybody?
I worry that some of our best talent has become mired in a kind of pop-up limbo — beloved by the fooderati, successful enough to sustain themselves, but lacking the mainstream visibility and financial backing they deserve.
Or maybe I’m trying to foist outmoded notions on a new and different world. To be honest, I’m not sure. But here’s what I do know: I’ve eaten more delicious food from a cheap plastic bowl on a graffiti-scrawled table at Requinto than I’ve gotten from most of the bland, overhyped, imported multimillion-dollar restaurants that opened around town this year.
It’s as though the Phoenix restaurant industry has forgotten one of the bedrock tenets of good eating: shop local.
Complicated question, it turns out.
Pineda wants to grow, and like many other similarly situated folks, he’s of two minds on the subject. He appreciates that his residency at Linger Longer Lounge grants him the flexibility to juggle kitchen, music and family, and he’s grateful for the time and space he’s had to develop what he hopes will become a battle-tested menu in a more traditional setting.
But he has sought backing for a while, and others mirror the feeling that opportunities seem scarce. The cynics will say that restaurants are a dying business and there’s no money to go around. But after watching moneyed interests dump truckloads of cash into trendy hotspots and imported concepts over the past couple of years, I find myself questioning whether the issue is one of availability or allocation.
How many Requintos are out there? How many chefs like Pineda are holed up somewhere, dreaming of bigger things but limited to an audience with the savvy and flexibility to track down irregular offerings via Instagram and TikTok? If this is what the emerging Phoenix restaurant scene is now, that’s undeniably cool, but is it actually any good for anybody?
I worry that some of our best talent has become mired in a kind of pop-up limbo — beloved by the fooderati, successful enough to sustain themselves, but lacking the mainstream visibility and financial backing they deserve.
Or maybe I’m trying to foist outmoded notions on a new and different world. To be honest, I’m not sure. But here’s what I do know: I’ve eaten more delicious food from a cheap plastic bowl on a graffiti-scrawled table at Requinto than I’ve gotten from most of the bland, overhyped, imported multimillion-dollar restaurants that opened around town this year.
It’s as though the Phoenix restaurant industry has forgotten one of the bedrock tenets of good eating: shop local.
Requinto
Linger Longer Lounge6522 N. 16th St.
602-694-0342
instagram.com/requinto_phx
11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Saturday and Sunday; Irregular events in other locations as announced.
All dishes $10-$15.
