February 24, 2014
Before I left for Paris, I lived a few blocks away from Huckleberry. Somehow, though, I failed to visit until just before I moved away. I’ve been trying to make up for my negligence by visiting nearly every weekend since being back, getting runny fried egg and gruyère sandwiches or duck hash, and trying to save enough room to have a piece of rich salted caramel shortbread for dessert.
It’s a deservedly popular spot, and doesn’t take reservations, so be conscious of the wait if you’d like to eat in. Or, you can be like me and go at an off-time like 2pm. Or! You can get everything to-go and drive the mile or so to the beach and consume your comestibles while wiggling your toes in the sand.
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.