Martha's Hermosa Beach

 

On a blindingly sunny Saturday morning, Mr. Picky, Murphy the Doodle (aka Mr. Doodle, aka Furry Food Inspector), and I set out for Hermosa Beach on a noble quest: brunch at Martha’s, the brunch mothership of Hermosa.

When we arrived, the line looked like it could qualify as its own marathon event, wrapping nearly around the block. We slapped our name on the list and did what any sane, hungry people would do—we took a 30-minute boardwalk stroll, mostly to distract ourselves from fainting at the smell of bacon wafting through the air.

At last, we scored a shady table big enough for the three of us—yes, Murphy too, because obviously this dog wasn’t about to be left out of a breakfast party.

Ordering was the real struggle. The menu read like a love letter to food: pancakes, burgers, omelets, burritos—basically a catalog of “yes, please.”

Mr. Picky ordered what he swears was the best Arnold Palmer of his life. He announced this with such conviction that I thought he might propose to it. He refilled it twice (but who’s counting… besides the waitress, probably).

I went straight for the Breakfast Burrito of Doom—a tortilla so stuffed with eggs, cheese, bacon, sausage, potatoes, guac, and pico that I briefly wondered if I needed medical clearance to attempt it. Dipping sauces included sour cream and both red and green salsa, because clearly, Martha’s wants you to have choices in how you explode with happiness. I only made it halfway through before I surrendered and boxed the rest. (Yes, I ate it later. Yes, it was still glorious.)

Mr. Picky went for the Eggs California, Martha’s glow-up version of Eggs Benedict. Picture: two perfectly poached eggs perched like royalty on English muffins, draped in Canadian bacon, and drowned (in the best way) in creamy Hollandaise. Mr. Picky, who usually critiques toast for being “too bready,” was silenced except for muttering, “Oh wow. This is incredible.” I almost checked his pulse.

And then there was Ava, our server, who deserves sainthood. She kept the Arnold Palmers flowing, treated us like old friends, and even checked in on Mr. Doodle—who may or may not have been slipped a contraband sausage bite. (Don’t ask, don’t tell.)

By the time we left, Martha’s had officially claimed our brunch-loving souls. If you go, bring your appetite, your patience for the line, and maybe a backup stomach. Martha’s will win you over too.