VG feels like a flashback — the smell of baking, smiling servers, coffee, a worn picnic table a few blocks from the beach and a Saturday-morning line that tells you the neighborhood already knows what you’re about to learn.
The Buttermilk Bars. The plain glazed. Every time. The nostalgia is the glaze on top, not the excuse for mediocre food.
Very little. The coffee is okay rather than extraordinary, and there is usually a line. Neither one would keep me away.
Absolutely. This is exactly the kind of local place where the product earns the ritual around it.
I don’t need a second chance. I’d go back tomorrow.
Anyone already in Cardiff or Encinitas. If you’re coming from much farther away, understand that part of the magic is that it’s a local thing. People get it.
Go early Saturday morning. Order the Buttermilk Bars, a glazed and a cup of coffee. With those two puppies rolling around in your piehole, you’ll be happy as a slam dunk.
THE LAST WORDGO — ORDER THE BUTTERMILK BARS.