VACAVILLE, Calif. (AP) — Kamiali Abdulsalam, Kami for short, has already been in the kitchen for several hours baking a batch of 100 sugar cookies when he pulls out chilled dough for another round — which will be cut into the shapes of snowflakes, trees and holiday presents to later be topped with red and green sprinkles.
Mere feet away across the small countertop at the restaurant inside California State Prison Solano is Michael Wilson, a skilled left-hander who finely chops onions for pico de gallo. He was recently promoted from dishwashing duties to a creative role that involves perfecting a balsamic vinaigrette dressing and assembling salads, among other tasks, to feed each other, as well as prison staff and special guests.
Both men are part of the prison’s Delancey Street Honors Unit, a unique program that launched a decade ago and provides them with opportunity and purpose, and also a variety of skills training. The restaurant initiative began more recently with a diverse representation from a group of some 80 men who live in one housing unit. The No. 1 prerequisite to participate: No violence or threats of it.
A restaurant program that recognizes humanity
The participants are among Solano’s most serious offenders in a state with the second-highest prison population. For many, it’s unlikely they will ever be paroled.
They must apply for the program and agree to follow all rules. State prison officials say there hasn’t been a single fight among the unit’s residents in their 10 years living together.
“I have life without the possibility of parole, so I felt hopeless for a very long time,” Abdulsalam said. “But now, I’m in a position where the same people who would not shake your hand a couple years ago are paying to eat the food that I cook. That amount of validation to our humanity is worth more than I can ask for.”
Another day brought similar gratitude when chef Miguel Buenrostro and line cook Brandon Perreira high-fived to celebrate a busy and successful lunch run plating Reuben sandwiches, burgers, fries and Delancey’s famous fried chicken sandwiches.
They serve between 20 to 50 meals per day, and are paid $1 per hour — one of Solano’s higher-paying jobs. It takes teamwork and focus in each phase of running the restaurant. Once a month, the prison population has a chance to purchase food, an incentive to do well.
“We just worked great as a team, everything went right,” Perreira said. “Chef Miguel did a great job. And the customer satisfaction? To see a smile on the customer — it’s big for us.”
A shared sense of purpose
Delancey Street is named after a renowned San Francisco restaurant and program with a shared mission to give opportunities to those who have served time in prison, been homeless or struggled with drug and alcohol abuse. Some of the men behind bars at Solano have little shot at getting out, yet they cherish this experience for the sense of camaraderie it fosters.
“This program is beautiful,” Buenrostro said. “It gives us the confidence to do better and be a great person.”
Tobias Gomez knows he could be one of these men if he had received the sentence of 25 years to life for his third serious felony. Incarcerated from age 18 to 24, Gomez was on his way back at 28, thankful every day that a caring judge instead assigned him to the Delancey Street program in San Francisco. And after a decade of learning the restaurant business and helping run the foundation under President and CEO Mimi Silbert, she asked him to oversee operations opening the new Solano location.
Gomez arrived in 2022 and initially taught just five men, challenging them to then lead each other. Many here struggle to find motivation, he said.
“They’re lifers without the possibility of parole. They won’t have a release date, so there’s no real incentive for them to want to turn their life around, but Delancey Street has given them an opportunity to live a decent life regardless of where they’re at.”
Phillip White is certain he would have ended his own life last year if not for his commitment to the program and support he receives working in the restaurant. His wife of 10 years, Tanisha, died of heart failure in the prison’s parking lot in 2024, immediately after visiting him.
“She believed in this program. She believed in me, how much this program changed my life. So everything I give back, it’s also in memory of her, because I didn’t want her to also die in vain,” White said. “This program saved my life. Had I not been in here when my wife died, I probably would have relapsed. I probably would have taken my own life. My wife had a very good spirit.”
Cultivating optimism after decades in prison
At 57, Shaylor Watson has spent more than half of his life in prison. He has been on his own since age 10, when he ran away from home, where his mother was addicted to drugs. When Watson was 17, he killed someone and at 18, another person.
Over the past three years, he worked his way up to become one of the restaurant’s managers — his first formal job as an adult.
“This program allowed me to come out of my shell. It taught me how to communicate and how to believe in myself, because Delancey believed in me,” Watson said.
He has turned the familiar acronym LWOP — life without parole — into “life with optimistic progress.”
The program has made a special brotherhood possible, one that’s hard to find inside the prison walls.
Finding community in prison
Delancey Street helps men become well-rounded and learn the restaurant trade as part of that growth. Some of them take a crocheting class and worked all year on scarves, beanies and teddy bears that were then given to victims of domestic violence. The Delancey Street choir is planning to sing carols around each prison building on Christmas Day.
At any moment, manager Joseph Carrington might call for everybody to start singing “Feliz Navidad” in the busy kitchen.
They dance through some of it, too, performing their signature shimmy move, to celebrate another great meal run.
Conrad Johnson, who has been part of Delancey Street for nearly four years, underscored the importance of the program and its people, who were there for him through the deaths of his grandmother and sister.
“At Delancey we help each other cope with things in a healthy and positive way, because that’s what it’s all about — understanding that life does not revolve around prison politics and being in prison,” Johnson said. “I have a thing where I say, ‘I’m a person in prison, I’m not a prison person.’ That’s how I live my life in here.”
By JANIE McCAULEY
Associated Press
