July 5, 2012
There’s a bakery and restaurant in Santa Monica called Huckleberry. It has crushing lines most mornings, but they’re worth braving for the fresh-baked goodies coming out of their kitchen. I only discovered Huckleberry about a month before I moved out here, and thank goodness — I ate their flatbreads, absolutely drenched in olive oil, nearly every day before I left. My thighs are thankful that Huckleberry doesn’t exist here, but my mouth isn’t.