The Brief

Billionaire entrepreneur Jared Isaacman's confirmation as the new head of NASA closes a turbulent chapter that began over a year ago.

The Senate voted 67-30 on Wednesday to confirm Isaacman along bipartisan lines. All 30 senators who voted against him were Democrats.

The 42-year-old e-commerce mogul has flown to space twice on private missions — both in partnership with Elon Musk's SpaceX — and in 2024 became the first civilian to walk in space. Isaacman has no federal government experience.

Isaacman was among President Donald Trump's first picks for his second administration: Trump announced his nomination in December 2024, well before his inauguration, and formalized it after taking office in January.

"Jared's passion for Space, astronaut experience, unlocking the mysteries of the universe, and advancing the new Space economy, make him ideally suited to lead NASA into a bold new Era," Trump wrote on Truth Social at the time.

Isaacman made it as far as a three-hour Senate subcommittee hearing in April, where he downplayed his connections to Musk but declined to answer when asked whether Musk was in the room when Trump offered him the role. Isaacman also expressed support for lunar and Mars missions, saying he believed NASA had the budget to do both.

While NASA is focused on its Artemis mission to return Americans to the moon for the first time since the early 1970s, the second Trump administration has concerned some with its seeming preoccupation with Mars exploration — a riskier and more divisive concept that just so happens to be a longtime dream of Trump's onetime ally, Musk.

But Isaacman didn't get the chance to answer questions about any of that in front of the full Senate, because Trump withdrew his nomination in late May — the same week Musk left his role in the administration.

Trump said the decision followed a "thorough review" of Isaacman's "prior associations," and later explicitly blamed his donations to Democratic causes. Public filings show that Isaacman has contributed to candidates and political action committees of both parties over the years, but since 2016 has supported more Democrats.

Isaacman has described himself as "relatively apolitical" and a "right-leaning moderate," and noted that his campaign donations were public long before Trump nominated him — suggesting that wasn't the only reason for the reversal. In June, Isaacman said being considered to lead NASA was "truly the honor of a lifetime."

"Even knowing the outcome, I would do it all over again," Isaacman wrote in a letter to investors.

And that's what ended up happening — only the second time, it worked.

Isaacman takes the helm at a turbulent time for NASA

In early November, Trump nominated Isaacman again, without acknowledging the turmoil that had unfolded along the way.

At his confirmation hearing in early December, Isaacman once again denied that his connections to Musk posed a conflict of interest. The nominee explained that his spaceflights were operated by SpaceX because the company is the only option for sending Americans to space since NASA retired its space shuttle program in 2011.

"In that respect, my relationship [to Musk] is no different than that of NASA," he said, adding that "there are no pictures of us at dinner, at a bar, on an airplane, or on a yacht because they don't exist."

Isaacman takes the helm of an agency that has been grappling with a lack of permanent leadership, downsizing, competitive pressure (particularly from China) and significant funding cuts — with threats of more to come.

The administration's 2026 budget proposes a historic 24% cut to overall NASA funding, which would slash its workforce by about a third and spell the end of 41 science projects.

In recent months, protesters have descended on Capitol Hill to lobby against the proposed budget cuts. Among them was beloved "Science Guy" Bill Nye, the CEO of the nonprofit Planetary Society, who also attended Isaacman's December hearing in a show of support for the nominee. The House and Senate both reject the deepest proposed cuts, but differ in how much funding they think its science budget should get.

A 62-page draft agenda named "Project Athena," which Isaacman defended after it leaked in May, offers clues as to how Isaacman seeks to run NASA: primarily, more like a business.

Its priorities include reorganization "aimed at reducing layers of bureaucracy," putting more astronauts in space more often, playing a larger role in certifying commercial space missions and partnering with industries like biotech and pharma to "figure out how to extract more value from space than we put in."

Jared Isaacman — pictured before he led the first all-civilian spaceflight in 2021 — has worked closely with Elon Musk's company SpaceX.

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Isaacman's background is in e-commerce and private spaceflight

Isaacman traces his interest in space back to his childhood, when he was inspired by a picture book in his school library.

"I told my kindergarten teacher I was going to go to space someday," he recalled in 2021.

But first, he made it as an entrepreneur. He founded the payment processing firm now known as Shift4 Payments as a teenager out of his parents' New Jersey basement in 1991. The company, which went public in 2020, says it processes payments for 1 in 3 restaurants and 40% of hotels across the U.S.

Isaacman dropped out of high school to pursue his business, but later earned his GED and a bachelor's degree in aeronautics from Embry‑Riddle Aeronautical University. He is a licensed pilot with over 7,000 flight hours, according to his Polaris bio.

He also co-founded a civilian aerobatic display team called the Black Diamond Jet Team, as well as Draken International, which provides tactical fighter aircraft to customers including the military and defense industries. He sold a majority share of it to the investment firm Blackstone Group in 2019 for a reported nine-figure sum.

Forbes values Isaacman's current net worth at $1.2 billion. That fortune has allowed him to pursue his astronaut ambitions, as well as support STEM-related causes (he and his wife have pledged to donate the majority of their wealth to charity).

Isaacman funded and commanded the first all-civilian orbital flight in 2021 — which raised over $240 million for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital — as well as the 2024 Polaris Dawn mission, in which he and crewmate Sarah Gillis became the first civilians to conduct a spacewalk.

Upon his return, Isaacman told NPR's All Things Considered that while Earth looked beautiful from afar, "looking out into the darkness of space, it was a very unwelcoming feeling that this is a threatening environment for humans."

"We certainly didn't evolve to be here, and if we want to be here, we're going to have to work really hard in order to kind of open up this last frontier," he added. "That was kind of one of the big takeaways I had."
Copyright 2025 NPR

On a beautiful summer day in July, seven-year-old Penelope is turning into a mermaid.

"I like playing mermaid," she says, with her feet dangling in the swimming pool at Beauvoir Summer Camp in Washington, D.C.

"Like, I'm a human, and then I turn into a mermaid and I use one of the pool noodles as a dolphin, and I play with my friends," she says.

It's Friday, which means free swim, and the kids are splashing around on blue kickboards and sinking miniature torpedo toys. In the kiddie pool, the littlest campers jump in and show off their twists and turns with screeches of delight.

Penelope and her best friend Sam, also 7, say pool time is their favorite activity at this camp. NPR is only using the kids' first names because they are minors.

The pool was empty during the last free swim. Campers spent the day indoors to avoid hazardous air quality from wildfire smoke. And, earlier in the summer, the heat forced them to cut down their outside play time, says Drew Mackay, the director of auxiliary and summer programs at Beauvoir School.

This summer has brought no shortage of extreme weather and wildfires across the country. In northern Minnesota and Canada, fires devastated communities and caused dangerous smoke to blanket large swaths of the Midwest and Northeastern U.S. Deadly floods prompted disaster declarations in parts of Texas. And an extreme heat wave in July was dubbed the "new normal" for July Fourth celebrations.

As the climate warms due in large part to the burning of fossil fuels, research shows that heat waves, droughts, hurricanes, and floods have become more intense and more frequent.

Families are feeling it. Further north in Pennsylvania, Lauren Smith and her kids have had a summer full of dangerous weather. First, it was the extreme heat that disrupted the normal activities at a soccer camp, with temperatures reaching almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit on a big, treeless field. Then, wildfire smoke kept the family in the house. When the nonstop rain hit, it was almost a blessing.

"The kids are going crazy in the house — that's it, we're going for a walk," she remembers thinking. "Then, they're like, 'It's starting to rain.' I'm like, 'Doesn't matter. It's an adventure.' "

Smith added that, surprisingly, her kids have enjoyed helping her declutter the house. They also took up baking and painting acorns. But on the few days of sunny bliss, she can't get them back inside, she said. "The summer is just like a waiting game — just waiting to do some stuff outside," Smith says.

This generation of school-aged kids has already dealt with the isolation of COVID-19, the global pandemic that forced students to work from home. Now, they're up against extreme weather.

Throughout the summer months, parents scramble to get kids out of the house. But with weather conditions that make outdoor fun not just impossible, but dangerous, parents, summer camp leaders and school-aged kids told NPR how they're experiencing the effects of the changing climate.

"It's changed my summer a lot," Penelope, the mermaid, says. She describes climate change as "the areas around you are just, like, changing all around you all the time."

Summer camps confront 'a new reality'

For many kids, summer is an around three-month break from school routines and homework.

A 2024 Gallup survey found that 55% of U.S. parents reported their school-aged kids attend at least one structured summer program. Henry DeHart, the CEO of the American Camp Association, which provides resources and accreditations to hundreds of camps across the country, says the skills kids learn at camp — independence, problem-solving, and teamwork — will equip them for the future, especially in an increasingly AI-centric world.

"Kids need camp now more than ever," DeHart says.

While dealing with the whims of weather is nothing new for camps, and accredited ones are required to have thorough safety plans, DeHart says the frequency of these extreme weather events is noticeable.

In the past few decades, he says, "A camp might have had three or four or five days with the heat index over 105 [Fahrenheit]". Now they may have eight or 10."

The impacts on specific camps across the country are varied. In Ohio, Ellen Watkins directs Miakonda Day Camp on a 160-acre site for Scouting groups. When wildfire smoke filled the air, they were able to move inside and provided masks.

While inside, they did swim exercises on dry land and pulled out an inflatable archery set. She said she got many comments from parents thanking them for finding a way to keep the camp running.

"Was it stressful to have campers inside of buildings all day when they would rather be outside? Yes. Did it stress our program? No, we were fine," Watkins said.

But for some camps, switching up activities to deal with the smoke wasn't an option. That was the case in Ely, Minn., at Camp Widjiwagan. The camp, which hosts over 700 kids each summer and leads programs across North America, evacuated in July.

The camp drew considerable attention after a haunting photo showing 19 of its canoes under water was widely seen online. Ben Hoffman, the camp's executive director, said they decided to submerge the historic canoes that were too fragile to move to safety.

"This is a pivotal moment," Hoffman said. "We have never sunk canoes at camp."

Camp Widjiwagan submerged some of their canoes in lake waters to protect them from the wildfires.

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Eleanor Pitts, a 17-year-old camper at Widjiwagan, went on the camp's 26 day backpacking trip in Willmore Wilderness Park in Alberta, Canada, starting in June with four other girls and a counselor.

"It was an experience like no other," Pitts, who has attended the camp for seven summers, said. "We become the closest group of people. They were genuinely my family by the end."

The last day of the trip was supposed to be a homecoming back at the base camp in Ely with a huge celebration of hot dogs and watermelon and campfire skits. Her group found out the day before that the wildfire smoke would force them to miss that last day. " 'Wait, so this is our last night?' " Pitts said she and her fellow campers asked their counselor. "And we all just started crying."

Pitts said it brought the reality of climate change right before her eyes. Beyond the wildfires, throughout the trip, her counselor pointed out flooded rivers in Canada because of extreme heat melting snow runoff.

"Going forward, trips are just going to be different because of this climate change situation," Pitts said. "It hasn't affected me until I'm seeing it right now and I'm just like: now it's too late."

In D.C., at Beauvoir Summer Camp, summer programs director Mackay said adapting to extreme weather is now part of the summer camp job. "For us, it's a new reality," he said.

The kids, on the other hand, are just worried about getting as much pool time as possible.
Copyright 2026 NPR

An advisory council packed with allies of President Trump voted on Friday to weaken federal oversight of construction projects affecting historic sites.

Critics, in anticipation of the vote, told NPR that the move would not only clear a path for President Trump's controversial projects in D.C., but also endanger the preservation of historic and cultural places across the United States.

"Every American who has any place in their heart that is historic or culturally significant to them should be concerned about this attempt to gut historic preservation protections," said Greg Werkheiser, founding partner at the law firm Cultural Heritage Partners.

The National Register of Historic Places contains over 100,000 properties, encompassing more than 1.8 million buildings, structures, sites, objects and districts. They take many forms, from a house to a burial ground, a shipwreck to a landscape, a single tree to an entire neighborhood.

"It's the thing that defines America," Werkheiser said. "The places that you go where your family has an attachment over generations … There are millions of these sites in this country, and all of them are made less protected by this effort by the Trump administration."

The White House and the Department of the Interior did not respond to NPR's request for comment.

Part of the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966, known as Section 106, requires federal agencies to evaluate how new construction projects would affect historic places.

Under the Section 106 review process, the federal agency overseeing a project must invite interested parties — like preservation groups and local and tribal governments — to weigh in. Currently, agencies are required to consider whether the project would cause "adverse effects" to a historic property and, if so, explore ways to "avoid, minimize, or mitigate" those harms.

The Advisory Council on Historic Preservation, the federal agency responsible for overseeing the Section 106 review process, is packed with Trump appointees. And now, 60 years after the law took effect, the council wants to water it down drastically.

Ashley Fry, the council's director of external engagement, confirmed to NPR on Friday night that members voted to advance proposed changes to Section 106. The outcome was widely expected.

"Because President Trump controls 21 of the 24 members of the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation, it's very likely that they will proceed with doing what the administration wants for them to do," Sara Bronin, who served as the Senate-confirmed chair of the advisory council under President Biden, said Thursday.

Bronin is the most recent chair of the council, as that position is currently vacant. President Trump has yet to nominate a new one, instead appointing its vice chair, Travis Voyles, to serve in an acting capacity.

Last Friday, Voyles sent an email to council members asking them to vote on proposed revisions to the wording of Section 106. According to draft language obtained by NPR, those changes include redefining what kinds of properties can be considered historic in the first place, making public comment on new projects optional and removing the requirement to consult with Native American tribes.

"What it means is that the federal government, in its own discretion, can decide whether — if ever — to tell an American community that it's about to do a major project that could harm or destroy a historic resource," Werkheiser said. "The public will be completely cut out of any conversation around the future of places that matter to them in this country."

The changes do not take effect immediately after Friday's vote. They need to clear several more steps of the federal rulemaking process, including a roughly 30-day public comment period.

Werkheiser called the vote a "foregone conclusion," but said it sets the stage for a legal fight later.

"As sure as the sun rises and sets over Washington, D.C., there will be litigation in an attempt to stop this absurd gutting of protections of American history," he said.

The National Trust for Historic Preservation says "significant cultural landscape features" like the Grand Canyon would no longer be considered historic properties under the proposed new language.

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Why does the Trump administration want these changes?

After World War II, an era of urban renewal and federal highway construction destroyed high-profile buildings like New York City's Penn Station and devastated many historically Black neighborhoods.

The advisory council's memo describes that period as "one of the greatest, yet most destructive building streaks in American history." It prompted public outrage and resulted in Congress passing the National Historic Preservation Act in 1966.

"Small wonder, then, that Congress enacted a requirement that all Federal agencies take into account historic preservation concerns in future Federal actions," the memo reads. "Consideration, however, was not the same thing as a mandate that historic preservation concerns trump all others."

The memo says the current regulations under Section 106 "create confusion and uncertainty for both the public and regulated entities and contribute to agency delays." It cites a 2019 study that found consultation can take nearly seven years in extreme cases.

And it proposes revisions that it says would help "agencies strike a more appropriate balance between evaluating effects on historic properties and advancing critical federal projects."

The changes would limit the type and number of historic properties that will receive protection, ruling out "significant landscape features" like the Grand Canyon. Bronin says it would also change the type of actions that will be reviewed in the first place, with an "alarming number of exemptions," including for federally funded projects carried out by local authorities.

"Things like state highway widening, which in the past have been highly destructive of historic places, including not only whole neighborhoods but also burial sites … won't [undergo Section 106 review] under the new rules," she said.

The new wording would also narrow what is considered an "adverse effect" to anything that is directly and foreseeably tied to the project (as opposed to indirect or cumulative effects). And it allows agencies to condense much of the process into a written report, which they would then share with third parties for review instead of consulting them along the way.

"This change in consultation will have the effect of not surfacing the location, significance and effects on historic sites, meaning that they could have the potential to be destroyed at scale," she said.

The new wording would also remove requirements for public comment, eliminating the phrase: "views of the public are essential to informed Federal decisionmaking."

That stands out to Charles Birnbaum, the founding president and CEO of The Cultural Landscape Foundation, an education and advocacy organization based in D.C. He told NPR over email that he sees similarities between the revised law and the reason it exists in the first place.

"Consent of the governed is being replaced with my way or the highway," he wrote. "This is the same haughty, retrograde, and myopic attitude that resulted in urban renewal, which decimated cities with highways and destroyed countless neighborhoods nationwide, especially underserved communities."

The Cultural Landscape Foundation has already sued over the administration's repainting of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, saying the National Park Service improperly used — by its own words — a "streamlined" Section 106 review. A judge has not yet ruled in the case, as the pool saga continues to unfold.

Trump's building projects in D.C., like the White House ballroom construction pictured on Wednesday, have prompted pushback and lawsuits from historic preservation groups.

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What happens next? 

Simplifying the Section 106 review process could help to fast-track some of the Trump administration's renovation projects in D.C.

The requirement for third-party consultation — which many historic and cultural preservation groups say is happening too fast or not at all — has been one of the few hurdles in the already fast-moving approval process for Trump's arch.

Bronin says under the proposed new language, near-constant construction noise near Arlington National Cemetery would not be considered an adverse effect, and the 250-foot arch's disruption of historic views would not be considered under the review process.

"Although I would encourage listeners to not simply focus on D.C.'s iconic landmarks, because this proposal would have far-reaching effects, the proposal for the arch in front of Arlington Cemetery is an excellent example of what's at stake with these changes," Bronin said.

The National Trust for Historic Preservation, the National Association of Tribal Historic Preservation Officers and the National Conference of State Historic Preservation Officers have all issued statements opposing the Section 106 changes, taking issue both with the substance and the brief voting timeline. They each have representatives on the advisory council board.

Elizabeth Merrit, deputy general counsel for the National Trust for Historic Preservation, wrote in an open letter that she would vote against the proposed changes, calling them "likely to cause widespread chaos and confusion, and … curtail the consultation process that has led to thousands of win-win outcomes around the country."

Werkheiser agreed that the proposal would be "terrible for developers," who want predictability and information early on to avoid delays and issues down the road. He said that's why the existing Section 106 process generally works so well. Trying to speed it up by even a few days, he said, would be "a losing trade for America in the long-term."

"Folks who complain about the relatively little time it takes to pause in front of a massive development project and say, 'Are we destroying something that can never be replaced?' I think those folks need to ask themselves, what legacy are they handing to their children and their grandchildren?" he said.

Both Werkheiser and Bronin encouraged people who oppose these changes to speak up not only during the public comment period, but to their legislators directly.

"As chair, I saw the topic of historic preservation as a bipartisan issue, and one that unites people who care about their communities, whether they're in red states or blue states," Bronin said. "I think that the public comment on the regulations will really help to send a powerful message that we care about our historic places and we don't want them to be destroyed."

Congress could potentially take action, including passing legislation to strengthen Section 106.

Democrats on the Senate Natural Resources Committee released a statement this week opposing the changes. They urged the council to "go back to the drawing board and work directly with Tribes and states on a new proposal that actually improves the consultation process without undermining the rights and voices of those most directly affected."
Copyright 2026 NPR

When the full moon rises over Death Valley tomorrow night, 98 endurance athletes will begin their 135-mile run across the scorching desert before going over two mountain ranges and finishing up a third at Mount Whitney Portal.

Southern California has always supplied a good portion of the runners taking on the challenge of the Badwater 135 ultramarathon, and this year’s crop of locals includes Danny Westergaard, 67, holder of the longest streak of finishes. He’s completed the race 18 consecutive years. Whether he’d finished his 19th is a big question.

And even as the field of runners in this invitational race gets more and more competitive every year, Westergaard keeps getting asked back.

Danny Westergaard finishing his first Badwater Ultramarathon in 2007, placing 12th.

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'It's a masochist thing'

“I'm foolish enough to keep signing up as long as I can get in, and as long as I'm able to make the cutoffs ... every year I'm thankful that I get in,” he said.

He used to run every day when he was younger and could recover faster. Nowadays, he runs about every other day.

“Typically, I'll do, like, maybe 10 miles, but at a slow pace, and then on the weekend I'll try to do something longer,” he said.

His last race was 227 miles of a 250-mile race. He missed one of the cutoffs, which are landmarks the runners must pass in a certain amount of time in order to continue on. Cutoffs will be an issue this year at Badwater.

Danny Westergaard on a Palos Verdes Estates running trail.

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The race got harder this year

Despite his 18 consecutive Badwater finishes, Westergaard has his work cut out for him to extend his streak. That’s because the long-time 48-hour deadline to cross the finish line has shrunk to just 45 hours.

“It's a definite concern, the 45 hours,” Westergaard said. His first time running Badwater, he finished 12th in 32 hours and 22 minutes. Last year, it took 45 hours and 29 minutes.

There is an additional cutoff imposed by the National Park Service, which operates Death Valley National Park. Runners must pass the 2,000-foot elevation sign on the run up to Towne Pass — at about the 50-mile mark of the race — within 14 hours of starting or they’re out. So no matter the heat, participants have got to persevere.

Every runner at Badwater 135 takes along a wooden stake that, if they have to leave the course for any reason, they can put down to mark the place where to resume the race. Danny Westergaard’s stakes from his 18 past Badwater finishes,

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“And especially if you have a bad spell in there, which a lot of people do at some point, all your downtime, the clock never stops. So if you're sitting, you know, sick trying to recuperate, the clock is still ticking. So you have to find a way to keep moving,” he said.

Westergaard is starting with the first wave of somewhat slower runners at 8 p.m. tomorrow so he has more time to get past the 50-mile cutoff. Other, faster runners start in waves at 9 and 10 p.m. Temperatures are in the high 90s at night before spiking up to well over 115 degrees in the daytime.

And once he makes it out of the desert, there is the final 13-mile steep slog up the mountain to Whitney Portal and the finish line. Some runners can only power hike the road as they near the end of the race.

Beyond the physical and mental challenge, the logistics of getting yourself and your crew safely across the desert heat and mountain climbs makes Badwater 135 an especially difficult race.

How to conquer Badwater 135

Westergaard is a retired aerospace engineer from Palos Verdes Estates — super organized guy — and after 18 consecutive finishes, he and his crew chief Jennifer Drain are dialed in.

He's also got an experienced crew including his daughters Madison and Meagan. They follow him in a rental van as he runs, and they can also run with him as pacers.

The first wave of runners leaves Badwater Basin during the Badwater 135 ultra-marathon race on July 15, 2013 in Death Valley National Park.

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The van stops every mile or so and it's like a Formula 1 pit crew, offering ice, food, energy gels, electrolyte drinks, a fresh shirt, or anti-chafing cream to put down the shorts or any place else that might rub raw in the heat. And then there is his own special recipe made from a sports energy drink powder.

“We'll do a paste, like a pancake batter. And we put it in these 5-ounce flasks, And I'll just take a shot of it. It's great calories and great carbs and protein,” Westergaard said.

He also eats real foods during the race — fish, fruit, watermelon, veggie roll-ups with hummus, sweet potatoes. The crew also has to eat so that has to be purchased in advance and put on ice.

And yes, there is ice, at least 100 pounds of it.

A competitor passes the unofficial thermometer at Furnace Creek Visitor Center during the Badwater 135 ultra-marathon race on July 15, 2013 in Death Valley National Park.

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“We'll bring one big cooler just full of ice 'cause ice is king out there. It's like gold. It's so valuable,” he said.

They also pack blister supplies, extra shoes, headlamps and safety vests — the list goes on and on. All in all, costs for the race can run up to thousands of dollars.

For the past month, Westergaard has been heat training, not just while running on the roads, but baking in his gym’s sauna, for hours at a time.

 “That's a masochist thing, but the harder the training, the easier the race,” he said. “So the more torture you can put yourself in, and simulate race conditions during training, then the more acclimated and prepared you'll be for the race.”

It’s been eight years since Jonathan Gold died, 10 years since City of Gold was released in theaters, and nearly two decades since the he became the first food critic to win a Pulitzer Prize for criticism.

“Since he died, there have been times when major things have happened either globally or to our city — the pandemic, ICE raids, the L.A. fires,” Laura Gabbert, who directed City of Gold, said.

“The first thing I always think of is, ‘How would Jonathan be writing about this?’ Because you know he would, and I miss his voice,” she said.

Gabbert got to know Gold’s voice well. She began reading Gold’s columns about food and restaurants in the LA Weekly in the 1990s when she moved here.

“It changed how I explored the city. I saw it in a whole new light through his writing,” she said.

Years later, Gabbert’s and Gold’s kids attended the same L.A. school and she’d see him a few times a week. She is a documentary filmmaker whose films take on social issues such as aging, the environment, and AIDS. She pitched a documentary.

Jonathan Gold during the production of the 2015 documentary "City of Gold."

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“He said no to me three different times,” she said.

Gabbert refined her pitch. She said she wanted to make a film about L.A. through his eyes. He said yes. City of Gold premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in 2015 and was released in theaters the year after. It remains an essential document to understand the people and circumstances that contributed to L.A.’s current rich food scene.

Laura Gabbert, left, during production of "City of Gold," with Jonathan Gold.

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He transformed food writing

Gold was born and raised in L.A. The film includes Gold’s descriptions of the L.A. Jewish communities he grew up in, a UCLA commencement speech after his Pulitzer win during which he describes himself as a failed cellist, and interviews with the immigrant founders of L.A. restaurants such as Meals by Genet and Guelaguetza.

“I think that they felt seen and felt acknowledged and felt that their food was important,” Gabbert said of those restaurant owners.

Gold devoted much of his food writing to giving context to what is on the plate: where did the people who made the food grow up, where their recipes came from, how the location of their restaurants impacted the dishes?

“I don't think it's hyperbole to say that Jonathan fundamentally changed food writing,” Gabbert said.

Jonathan Gold during the production of "City of Gold."

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City of Gold explains that Gold mastered a style of writing in which he brought the reader in by speaking directly to them, as in this 2016 review of a Koreatown restaurant: "When you first sip sullungtang, you may recoil at its blandness until somebody remembers to tell you that you are supposed to add sea salt and chopped scallions from canisters on the table," he wrote.

“He democratized it in many ways long before Anthony Bourdain and all the Netflix food TV shows and long, long time before all the influencers out there,” she said.

Gabbert said Gold’s writing taught people to be more adventurous, to have more empathy, to go out and explore L.A. outside of their comfort zones — all traits we could use a lot more of today.