The Golden Fang

The Golden Fang The Golden Fang is no longer a part of Whiskeytown BBQ Co.. Stay tuned, The Golden Fang will be back. đŸ€˜đŸŒ

07/17/2026

THE WOLF IS BACK
 & Today be prepared to see where the den is


Before there was The Golden Fang, there was a bloodline. A bloodline built on people who didn’t just survive this land
 they listened to it. Farmers. Hunters. Gatherers. Mountain men. Backwoods healers. People who understood the earth carried stories, wisdom, and secrets.

My great-great grandfather Nobels carved his mark into Northern California in 1851 when he cut the Nobels Emigrant Trail. On the other side of my bloodline was my great grandfather Abraham Mansfield
 The King of the Lemurians. A man who wrote the books, searched the mountains for answers beyond the ordinary, and carried stories of hidden worlds, ancient knowledge, and mysteries passed down through generations.

That same fire has always been inside me. The feeling that there is more to this world than what we are handed.

I look around and see everything becoming the same. Same buildings. Same ideas. Same experiences. I kept asking
 where do families go to make memories? Where do kids beg to return? Where does a first date become a lifetime story? Where do people escape the outside world?

I couldn’t find it.

So I created it.

THE GOLDEN FANG.

Not another restaurant. A world. A universe built from my bloodline, my imagination, my battles, and my obsession. A place where history, art, food, science, mystery, and madness collide.

I didn’t want four walls with tables inside. I wanted somewhere alive. The food isn’t here to follow rules. It’s here because imagination was never meant to be controlled.

Built by dreamers, risk takers, and masters of their craft. A tribe of chefs, bartenders, servers, and creators who refuse to be average.

The Wolf is back.To bring back something this world has been missing.Wonder.Soul.Magic.A reason to gather.A place to belong For everyone

THE GOLDEN FANG

THE LEGACY IS COMING SHASTA COUNTY , ARE YOU READY TO GET WILD


07/13/2026

THE LEGACY IS COMING SHASTA COUNTY , ARE YOU READY TO GET WILD



Food with soul just hits diffrent, thats why the King of Creation is coming full force Shasta county, no chains no rules...
07/08/2026

Food with soul just hits diffrent, thats why the King of Creation is coming full force Shasta county, no chains no rules no masters New Menus , New Flavors MORE SOUL, LOVE & ART đŸ€€ (photos of some of fun food through my time, these are not new menu items) SO Get ready for REAL WILD FOOD

WE AREN’T HIRING EVERYONE.We’re building a team for people who refuse to be average.We’re looking for Bartenders. Chefs....
07/06/2026

WE AREN’T HIRING EVERYONE.

We’re building a team for people who refuse to be average.

We’re looking for Bartenders. Chefs. Servers. Dishwashers.

Not because we need bodies.
Because we’re building something unforgettable.

If you clock in just to collect a paycheck, this isn’t your place.

If you’re obsessed with your craft

If you take pride in every plate, every cocktail, every table, every clean kitchen

If you’re always chasing the next level


We want to meet you.

We’re looking for people who want to work alongside the best, learn from the best, and become the best.

Average isn’t our standard.
“Good enough” doesn’t exist here.
Excellence is the minimum.

This is for the ones who stay late to perfect their craft.
The ones who thrive under pressure.
The ones who take pride in hearing a packed dining room and knowing they helped create it.

If that sounds intimidating

This probably isn’t the place for you.

But if reading this lights a fire in your chest


Welcome home.

NOW HIRING
đŸ”„ Bartenders
đŸ”„ Chefs
đŸ”„ Servers
đŸ”„ Dishwashers

The best work with the best.
If you’re built different, let’s talk.

Please send resume to 5309211722 or [email protected]

đŸ”„đŸ”ȘNOT ALL WHO WONDER ARE LOSTđŸ”ȘđŸ”„â€œBlack,Bourbon, Midnight”There’s a story going around in the mountains about a man who co...
06/30/2026

đŸ”„đŸ”ȘNOT ALL WHO WONDER ARE LOSTđŸ”ȘđŸ”„

“Black,Bourbon, Midnight”

There’s a story going around in the mountains about a man who cooked too well.People say he disappeared one summer and came back different.Quieter.
Like he’d found something he wasn’t supposed to.When people asked where he’d been—he only said:“Higher than the pines.”
There is an old belief that the mountains remember.That roots speak underground.
That plants are not silent.That some seasons, if a man disappears long enough into the high country, the mountain notices him.
And sometimes—if she is in the mood—she speaks back.This story begins with a man who left the new world behind.
Not forever.Just long enough.Long enough to stop listening to clocks.Long enough to remember his ancestors had ritualsHe went into the mountains alone.People say he crossed where the trails ended.Past the places with names.
Past the places where maps still pretend to know.
There he found the vines.Ancient wild blackberry vines.Not growing—watching.Roots buried deep in old stone.Fruit black and glossy as if the mountain had made them from midnight instead of sunlight.The old stories warned—never harvest what seems to recognize you.But he gathered.
And somewhere between the first berry and the last—something entered him.Not possession.
Recognition.Like an old memory waking up in blood.He came home changed.His garden knew.
The zucchini grew heavy and alive beneath his hands.The mint stood taller.Nothing in the soil acted ordinary anymore.Then the ritual began.
Home-grown zucchini.Brown sugar.Cinnamon.
Nutmeg Pecans—because old mountain people believed trees hold memory and nuts carry wisdom beneath hard shells.
Then—the opening of the vanilla.Not extract.
Vanilla bean and bourbon together.Dark and warm.Floral and dangerous.The scent climbed through the room like smoke through cedar.
Not sweet.Seductive.Ancient.
Like being invited somewhere beautiful you know you should refuse.
Then white chocolate.Folded quietly into the batter.Hidden.Melting into pale rivers beneath wild blackberry and spice.Little offerings hidden in the loaf.The batter darkened.The berries disappeared into it.The loaf took shape.
Then came the crown.Brown butter.
Rolled oats.Brown sugar.Pecans.Built high like old ridgelines. Wild.Untamed.Then—before the mountain left the kitchen—the final act.Warm lemon vanilla bean glaze.Poured over the crown.
Golden threads running into every crack.Into every oat.Into every hidden place.Mountain people say citrus burned by fire wakes sleeping things.So the lemons were charred.Black at the edges.Gold in the center.The ricotta was whipped with wild blackberry compote until white became violet and violent it became something impossible to name.Dragged across the plate.Like a sigil.
Fresh mint laid down alive.Because all old rituals require something living.Then it was served.People ate.Nobody spoke.Some smiled.Some stared.Some looked unsettled.
One old man finally said—“That ain’t food.”
And the mountain man only smiled.
Because he knew.It wasn’t.It was what happens when old mountain magic recognizes one of its own and follows him home
I’ll forever be the Ritualistic Mountain Man who doesn’t follow rules who doesn’t play it safe and never wants to be civilized to new world beliefs , my soul is as old as the mountains I call home
Some people take the land for granted to busy staring at phones and being spiraled out in society to notice but don’t forget what your ancestors want you to know break free an return to the wild you’ll be amazed what you find are you living life or is life living you
.

The Magic 8 BallLong ago, somewhere between the fence line and the edge of reason, there lived an outlaw cook they said ...
06/27/2026

The Magic 8 Ball

Long ago, somewhere between the fence line and the edge of reason, there lived an outlaw cook they said couldn’t be trusted around gardens, fire, or good ideas.

People whispered.

They said he planted strange things.
Talked to dirt.
Cooked by instinct instead of clocks.
Measured with scars and handfuls.

And every season, under crooked moonlight and bad decisions, one thing grew that nobody could explain

A single Magic 8 Ball.

Round as a full moon. Green as stolen money. Hidden in the rows until the right day.

Old folks warned:

Don’t harvest it.
Don’t open it.
Don’t ask it what’s inside.

So naturally


I did all three.

I cut the Magic 8 Ball clean down the spine.

Inside wasn’t seeds.

Inside was sacred lamb.

Wild and rich and rowdy enough to make kings cuss and cowboys rethink religion.

I loaded it with smoke and swagger. Buried it under rainbow greens tossed in bright citrus so they’d snap like summer lightning. Pulled cucumbers from my own dirt and folded them into cold tzatziki till it tasted like creek water and trouble.

Then came the rest.

Purple sage I raised myself.
Lemon cucumbers grown by my hands glowing like outlaw gold.
Cucumber flowers from the garden that only bloom for people stubborn enough to notice.
Marigolds that dance wild by the plants stolen from the edge of heaven.
Chili crunch for bad decisions.
Black balsamic droplets scattered across the plate like fortune-teller marks.

People gathered.

Quiet at first.

Then somebody asked—

“What’s the recipe?”

I laughed.

Recipe?

Partner
 this ain’t a recipe.

This is garden witchcraft.
This is smoke signals.
This is what happens when a man quits asking permission and starts cooking like legends are still possible.

Every bite changed shape.

Cold became hot.
Sweet became fire.
Flowers turned savage.
The lamb whispered old outlaw secrets.

And at the bottom of the empty plate—

just one message remained:

The Magic 8 Ball rolled once.
Stopped.

Then answered:

FORTUNE FAVORS THE WILD.
KEEP COOKING LIKE THEY SAID YOU SHOULDN’T

THE WHISPERING ORCHARDSome men chase money.Some men chase fame.I’ve spent my life chasing whispers through orchards, for...
06/11/2026

THE WHISPERING ORCHARD

Some men chase money.

Some men chase fame.

I’ve spent my life chasing whispers through orchards, forests, gardens, and forgotten places most people never knew existed.

Deep in the backwoods of old Shasta, where gold miners once searched these hills for treasure, stands a hidden grove of ancient Black Mission fig trees. Forgotten by time. Protected by the wild.

Most people would walk right past them.

The trees know better.

Every season they call.

Every season I answer.

The figs scattered across this pie were hand-foraged from that secret grove, harvested one by one from trees older than most stories still being told.

Some were left raw and wild.

Others were kissed by fire until they surrendered into dark jammy sweetness.

Back home, the chocolate mint growing in my garden had its own story to tell. I planted it. I raised it. I listened to it.

The nectarines came from local soil.

The honey came from the hive.

The inspiration came from the land itself.

I merely translated the language.

The foundation is an impossibly fluffy dough brushed with rich makuna honey and dressed in crushed pistachios and freeze-dried raspberries, creating a crust that glitters like outlaw treasure hidden beneath a blood-red sunset.

A cloud of whipped honey goat cheese and mascarpone drifts beneath layers of orchard fruit.

Black Mission figs.

Local nectarines.

Crisped prosciutto.

Fresh chocolate mint.

A hive-to-table chunk of raw honeycomb.

Candied praline pecans.

Every ingredient carrying its own voice.

Every layer carrying its own story.

Sweetness.

Smoke.

Cream.

Crunch.

Wildness.

Memory.

I wasn’t taught this by a chef.

I wasn’t handed a blueprint.

I have no masters but myself.

The trees speak.

The bees work.

The earth provides.

And I turn their stories into something you can taste

THE PLATE THAT GREW UP WILDI’m not a chef.I’m that man they talk about when they don’t know how to explain it right.Out ...
06/10/2026

THE PLATE THAT GREW UP WILD

I’m not a chef.

I’m that man they talk about when they don’t know how to explain it right.

Out in the dirt. Out in the heat. Talking to plants like they answer back if you stand still long enough.

Some people pray in churches.

I pray in the garden.

And the food answers me.

Not gently.

Not politely.

It comes back loud.

I don’t build meals.

I pull them out of the ground and drag them through fire until they tell the truth.

Organic sprouted quinoa sitting heavy like earth that finally stopped running.

Curry chicken cutting through it like a fast life you can’t slow down once you’re in it.

Homegrown Thai basil hitting sharp and green like something spiritual trying to break through your chest.

Homegrown Japanese eggplant (Nasu Dengaku Style) burned black like it survived something it shouldn’t have, then glazed in miso, soy, and brown sugar until it looks like trouble dressed in silk.

Homegrown banana pepper laid on top like a crooked grin you don’t fully trust but can’t ignore.

Homegrown green onions scattered like the land couldn’t even wait for me to finish before it started throwing itself on the plate.

Furikake falling over everything like ash from something that used to be alive and still matters.

Peach reduction dripping slow and sweet like temptation that doesn’t ask permission.

Chili onion crunch snapping through it like little hits of chaos you can’t fully control.

This ain’t farm-to-table.

This is dirt-to-fire conversion under pressure.

I don’t follow recipes.

I follow instinct, smoke, heat, and whatever the hell the food tells me it wants to become.

And this plate?

This one didn’t get cooked.

It got summoned.

The day I start asking permission is the day I put down my knives.Until then, I’ll keep raising hell in the kitchen.I wa...
06/08/2026

The day I start asking permission is the day I put down my knives.

Until then, I’ll keep raising hell in the kitchen.

I wasn’t built to follow recipes.

I was built to break them.

Most chefs chase stars.

I’d rather leave scars.

I don’t cook for approval.

I cook to remind people what food is supposed to feel like.

The food industry told me to stay in my lane.

So I built my own damn road.

Some men leave footprints.

Others leave a trail of fire.

I’m here for the fire.

I don’t care what’s popular.

I care what’s unforgettable.

Every plate I build is a crime scene of flavor.

Fire-blistered baby reds buried beneath charred steak tips dripping in a blackened fig, rosemary, and burnt balsamic glaze. Roasted garlic melted to velvet. Fresh burrata spilling across the plate. Cool garden grown cucumber tzatziki cutting through the smoke. Applewood bacon scattered like outlaw gold. Summer citrus flashing through the darkness. Wild sage and hand-grown green onions pulled from the earth and thrown straight into the fight.

Rich.

Smoky.

Bright.

Savage.

Built without rules.

Built without limits.

Built for the ones who are tired of eating the same safe bu****it everyone else keeps serving.

Golden Fang.

Leave a trail of fire. đŸ”„âš”ïžđŸș

THORN & TIMBER VENISON (Appetizer)Wild rainbow microgreens set the stage, fresh and vibrant beneath warm tomato-biselook...
06/01/2026

THORN & TIMBER VENISON (Appetizer)

Wild rainbow microgreens set the stage, fresh and vibrant beneath warm tomato-biselook cheese baked until rich, velvety, and impossible to ignore.

Crispy fried wild venison crowns the plate, bringing the untamed spirit of the backcountry to every bite.

Roasted garlic softens into sweet, buttery depth, while blistered blackberries burst with a dark sweetness that dances against the savory richness.

Crushed pistachios scatter across the plate like outlaw treasure, adding crunch and character with every forkful.

A slow ribbon of orange blossom balsamic drapes over it all, weaving sweet, floral notes through smoke, earth, and fire.

Finished with hand-plucked sage, bold and aromatic, carrying the scent of the wild hills where this story begins.

Thorn & Timber Venison where the wild never learned to behave.

Served with warm Sourdough Crostini’s

Address

Redding, CA
96001

Telephone

+15306057603

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when The Golden Fang posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The Business

Send a message to The Golden Fang:

Shortcuts

Share

Category