“If you want to find an ABG in the wild, your best bet would probably be at Seaside Bakery.”
Curious as to whether the claim was true, I went to find out myself. I drove down to Newport Beach fully prepared to conduct what I can only describe as a highly unqualified field study — one that, in my head, included iced matcha, a playlist featuring Keshi and Bixby for full immersion, and an oversized ESSENTIALS hoodie. By the time I got there, it felt like I had stepped into the unofficial headquarters of perfectly angled drinks, glossy lip combos and the kind of “effortless” energy that only works if you’ve clearly spent hours getting ready for it.
I hadn’t even ordered yet, but I was already overthinking whether my drink choice said something about me. Did ordering matcha automatically make me look like I knew what I was doing? Was there a right way to hold the cup? Was everyone born knowing how to casually pose for photos without suddenly forgetting what to do with their arms? The longer I stood there, the more it started to feel like the performative-ness wasn’t just about fitting in, but about becoming a version of yourself that other people would instantly recognize.
As I scanned the whole menu, I realized matcha isn’t even one of the menu items — just green Thai tea.
I had walked in with such a specific image of what this place was supposed to be that I had unconsciously invented parts of it myself. That’s when I realized the reputation of Seaside Bakery wasn’t really about the bakery alone — it was about the internet-crafted identity surrounding it.
And honestly, that’s what fascinated me.
It sounds like an exaggeration — one of those internet jokes that gets repeated enough times to feel true — but I started wondering if there was something behind it. Not just the cute fits or the aesthetic Instagram stories, but the way a place can become tied to a certain kind of identity. Somewhere between the outdoor seating, the coastal air and the casual conversations happening over pastries and drinks, Seaside Bakery had somehow become more than just a bakery. It had become a social landmark.
At one point, while trying to decide whether I wanted to order a thai tea or a fruity iced tea, I ended up talking to a group of friends hanging out near the patio. They had driven down together because, according to them, they “needed to see what the hype was about.” I wonder if the Stussy and ESSENTIALS shirt they had worn was “for accuracy” or if their entire drive revolved around Keshi playing at full volume.
But underneath the jokes, there was something surprisingly sincere about the way they talked about it. They weren’t there because they genuinely believed they were stepping into some exclusive ABG universe. They were there because places like this had become intertwined into the culture they grew up around online — almost like landmarks tied to a shared experience. Listening to them, I realized we were all kind of doing the same thing: showing up out of curiosity, half ironically and half genuinely hoping to understand why this place — and the identity attached to it — meant something to so many people.
Walking into Seaside Bakery felt a little like entering a space where everyone already understood the assignment. There was an unspoken rhythm to everything: order something photogenic, casually mention a nearby boba spot, pretend you’re not fixing your hair every time someone pulls out a digital camera. But despite how curated it all looked, there was also something strangely comforting about it. No one was really trying to stand out. Everyone was trying to belong to the same atmosphere.
That’s the thing about aesthetics online — they’re easy to make fun of from a distance. ABG culture gets reduced to stereotypes: long false lashes, blonde balayages, boba runs and playlists full of EDM. But sitting there with my fruity iced tea, watching groups laugh together and friends take digi-cam photos of each other without embarrassment, I realized the stereotype probably survives because there’s a real sense of community underneath it.
Maybe that’s why places like Seaside Bakery became so popular in the first place.
People don’t just go there for pastries. They go because it feels like somewhere they can participate in something bigger than themselves — even if it’s as simple as sharing an aesthetic, a playlist or a favorite drink order. In a weirdly internet-shaped world where identity often feels curated for an audience, spaces like this offer a physical version of belonging. You show up, you understand the vibe, and suddenly you’re part of it too.
By the end of the trip, I still couldn’t tell you whether the “ABGs at Seaside Bakery” stereotype was fully true or just a trend fueled by TikTok. But I don’t think that really mattered anymore. Somewhere between the green Thai tea, the music and my ongoing internal crisis over whether I looked awkward holding my drink, this big inside joke stopped being just a joke.
Because beneath all the performative pieces of identity — the outfits, the playlists and the aesthetics we carefully build and post online — there’s usually a much simpler desire underneath it all. And that is to be recognized, to feel understood and to find somewhere you can see yourself reflected in the people around you.
