Prescott Is a Foodie’s Paradise

This is my second pilgrimage to Prescott, Arizona—land of red rocks, retirees, and, as I’ve now discovered, absurdly good food. Downtown, improbably, is a foodie fever dream. Burned-out Phoenix chefs, weary of cutthroat rents and influencer-palates, have decamped to this high desert haven, setting up shop to serve artisanal fare to the town’s well-heeled retirees—many of whom fled Southern California with their pensions and discerning palates intact.

The result? A culinary street fight. You’ll find cutthroat competition in categories you didn’t know had leagues: barbecue with bark that rivals Austin’s best, Mexican joints that don’t pull punches, ambitious Indian menus, and enough “elevated Americana” to make you rethink the humble meatloaf. There are small-batch pies. Donuts that look like sculpture. Cold brews made with more precision than most marriages.

It’s like someone air-dropped a Brooklyn food court into an Old West postcard and didn’t tell anyone. Prescott may look like a sleepy Southwestern outpost from the outside, but inside it’s a Bohemian buffet of culinary overachievement. Bring an appetite. And a second stomach.