Sometimes they come with questions about housing. Sometimes they need help understanding Social Security. Sometimes they have just come to the U.S.from the Philippines and do not even know where to begin.
Anastacia Diaz, known to many as Ate Tess, does not always know the answers. But she invariably knows someone who does.
“I am the bridge,” Diaz said.
Diaz came to San Francisco from the Philippines in 2000 and went almost immediately to work at the Filipino restaurant at Mission and Fifth, which was then run by her brother. Her sister, who was also part of the business, has since died, and her brother returned to the Philippines. Diaz stayed and continued to run the place — cooking, serving, cleaning, coordinating catering orders and buying supplies largely on her own.
The restaurant sits on the ground floor of the Mint Mall, an affordable housing complex at Mission and Fifth Streets that became a hub for Filipino immigrants beginning in the 1980s. When Ate Tess took over the business, she renamed it “JT Restaurant,” combining the first initial of her name, Tess, with that of her husband, Juan, who has overseen maintenance at the Mint Mall for almost 30 years.
Diaz grew up in Laguna, a province south of the country’s capital, Manila, and came of age around food entrepreneurs. Before coming to San Francisco, she ran a meat business in Laguna, following in the footsteps of her father.
Helping people, she said, was part of who she was.
“In the Philippines, this is what I am,” Diaz said. “If somebody needs help, I help them.”
Sometimes, she said, people come in “looking for the restaurant, but not really the restaurant.”
“They are looking for me,” Diaz said.
If someone asks whether they qualify for Social Security, she will point them to the right place, explain what they should ask, and, when needed, call ahead to get them an appointment.
“I will bring you to the person that can help you,” she said.
Diaz keeps information from local organizations at the restaurant. If someone is looking for an apartment, she may call a contact before sending them over. If someone needs services, she tries to make sure they know when to show up for an appointment and what to say.
Her advice can be blunt, but Diaz said it comes from care.
“Don’t get mad,” she tells people. “I will tell you something, but this came from my heart.”
The interior of the restaurant is its own archive of relationships. One table, Diaz said, was given to her by a former customer from the Philippines who studied at Golden Gate University and later returned home. The woman sold many of her belongings, but left the table with Diaz.
When she first came to San Francisco, she said, some customers urged her to go back to school because she could earn more money as a nurse.
“If I do that, you won’t have food,” Diaz recalled telling them, laughing.
They changed their minds.
Her schedule is relentless. Diaz cooks as many as 12 dishes a day, depending on orders and demand. She opens six days a week, though Saturdays are often shortened so she can prepare for church volunteering and buy supplies for the restaurant.
She insists on buying all meat orders in person rather than over the phone, so she can inspect each cut for quality, as she was trained to do back in the Philippines.
Sundays the restaurant is officially closed, but even then she may take catering orders.
Before the pandemic, Diaz said, catering orders came from offices and institutions around the Bay Area, including Salesforce, PG&E, immigration offices, UC Berkeley, UC Law San Francisco and Golden Gate University. Now, with fewer workers in local offices, the orders can be smaller: 100 lumpia, 200 lumpia, a tray of beef stew.
Still, she accepts them.
Diaz often wears long sleeves, even when it is hot. Her arms bear scars from years of cooking over large pots. When food boils, she said, it sometimes splashes onto her skin.
“I know it’s not an easy job,” she said. “But I like it.”
If a customer requests a delivery and there is no one to drive her, Diaz puts a sign on the door saying she will be back in 25 minutes and takes a taxi. Some of the drivers know her schedule. Her husband helps when he can, especially with buying supplies, but Diaz is usually the only one behind the counter and in the kitchen.
That web of relationships has brought public recognition. When Mayor Daniel Lurie visited the restaurant earlier this year, Diaz said, it brought new attention to a business that many people might otherwise pass by. She’s seen an uptick in orders ever since. Customers began telling her they had seen her with the mayor and felt proud.
The recognition means a lot to her. But so do the decades of much quieter work that led up to it: cooking for office workers and students, feeding church volunteers, helping newcomers and making connections on behalf of people who do not know where else to go.
“I am happy,” she said, “even though people told me that nursing would make me a lot more money.”
