ediblesf.com | 25 Renfro's greenhouse full of growing produce Above: Working kitchen near projects. Below: Feed The People Collective menu. and address local food inequity. The 280 Project has become a global magnet for aspiring winemakers, some from as far as international waters. Rita Manzana, the program's director, manages a waiting list that the program's current budget cannot accommodate. "This year I had to turn away folks... I just had a couple of people apply from Mexico, Europe, and India," Manzana says, her voice tinged with regret. "There aren't a lot of programs like this in their country. And if there are, there's usually a barrier to entry, like you need disposable income." What makes the program unique isn't just its accessibility, but the comprehensive network Renfro and Manzana have cultivated—connections spanning from UC Davis viticulture academics to Napa winemakers, local restaurateurs, and sommeliers. "We're just an incubator for what other career paths in wine are available to you," Manzana explains. "Whether you're interested in winemaking, distribution, publications, science, or technology emerging in this space—how do we make those connections for folks? This program is more exploratory as we're the bridge regarding access and resources." What they've built with so little tells a story of what's possible. A vineyard by the freeway. A 24/7 accessible organic garden with free produce. A growing waiting list that spans internationally. The revolution is obviously working. It's just underfunded. As the program continues to evolve, Renfro's vision extends beyond the current vineyard and apprenticeship program. The successes of both the 280 Project and Feed The People Collective have proven that his approach works and should be a replicable model. "I want this place to be a hub for anybody who wants to figure out how to do this kind of work in their hometowns," he says, "Come learn the model, or fly me out and I'll help you do it." As we finish our tour, Renfro examines a flourishing vine despite its challenging urban environment. He gently prunes a cutting, explaining how resilient these hybrid varieties are. The metaphor isn't lost on me. I part ways with him with a promise to revisit. Standing at the fence between Alemany Farm, the projects, and the highway, there's nothing subtle about this divide. One side: concrete, chainlink, and the daily architecture of getting by. On the other, an agricultural idyll. Renfro saw it and built a bridge. A man who looked at an industry designed to exclude him and said: I'm coming in anyway, and I'm bringing everyone with me. In his quiet persistence, Renfro reminds us that sometimes revolution isn't loud. Sometimes it's an insistent, stubborn quiet that things can be different from what they already are.
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