As a breakfast enthusiast, I long ago had the idea to make the breakfast diner of all breakfast diners: a cozy, colorful, funky eatery with creative twists on comfort classics. Looks like The Friendly Toast has already beaten me to the punch. Hidden among office buildings in Kendall Square, this Portsmouth, N.H. implant has a built-in fan base and a coveted “Best Breakfast” shout out from Boston magazine. Looks like I might have to change my business model.

Jealousy aside, I had to go snoop out the competition. With yellow, lime green and hot pink walls, 50s dinette stools and old-fashioned barbie dolls, The Friendly Toast is covered head to toe in kitsch and creativity. Alas, a word of caution for the diner on the go: nothing comes quick here. Granted, it was a Saturday morning around 11, but the 35 minute wait ticked by second by second in the crowded quarters. Once we were finally seated, it was another 15 minutes before our waitress even showed her face. She was nice enough, to be sure, but the achingly long wait for our food put a damper on things.

All this was forgotten once the bounty arrived. For me, it was the Almond Joy Pancake, a fluffy, cakey pancake the size of the entire plate filled with coconut, slivers of almond and chocolate chips ($5.75). A side of crispy bacon (though a bit greasy, but that’s what napkins are for) rounded out the meal ($3.50). Ordinarily, I don’t like when my pancakes are super thick and doughy. However, the addition of chocolate chips, coconut and almonds justified the added girth and tipped the scale toward dessert (always welcome in my book).

My dining companion chose the Guy Scramble ($9.50), a mixture of scrambled eggs, avocado, black beans, salsa and cheddar cheese so harmoniously delicious it was tough to pay attention to anything else on the plate. In time, however, we discovered that everything else deserved its fair share of the spotlight. The almost two inch thick toast, made from home-baked bread, had a sweet honey taste and a soft disposition. When it comes to breakfast sides, usually homefries are something I can do without. Not in this case. The heap of roasted potatoes featured some slices perfectly cut and browned, and some mushier, more akin to mashed potatoes. Overall, each component of the meal held its own. And with all manner of scrambles, waffles, sandwiches, and even flavored teas, the menu has me curious enough to venture a return visit. Despite the long wait and the mediocre coffee (of which we had two cups each before the food even arrived), I have to hand it to The Friendly Toast–even if it stole my entrepreneurial fire.

The Friendly Toast
1 Kendall Square
Building 300
Cambridge, MA 02139
617-621-1200

Ahh, Restaurant Week. Normally, this is a time I’d search out the most expensive restaurant in the city in order to get the most out of my $33.09 prix-fixe dinner. But when you wait till day of, the pickings can be slim. So, naturally, I turned to my stalwart stomping ground, the South End. Metropolis Cafe, the supposedly Mediterranean eatery that looks, smells and sounds like a Parisian bistro, was wide open. Lucky for them, I thought. As it turns out, lucky for us.

The tiny cafe, with wide storefront windows, crimson walls and star-shaped hanging lamps, winks invitingly to passersby on busy Tremont Street. The decidedly Euro vibe (the electrical closet-sized bathroom is labeled “WC”) fits in well with the rows of cramped tables and the handsome wooden bar, centrally located like a wood-burning hearth. Although it didn’t fit my bill as a usually-super-expensive joint (appetizers around $8, mains arouns $18), the ambience made up for the lack of overpriced food. Now, Restaurant Week menus can sometimes leave something to be desired, but the choices here were top notch. For first course, I chose the cucumber gazpacho, while my friend went for the carpaccio of prosciutto di parma (a summer salad with prosciutto and beans). The gazpacho came cool and fresh, with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of cruncy tortilla strips. You see, I was still under the impression that this was a French bistro, so the Mediterranean fare came as a shock. A rather tasty shock.

Appetizers were followed by the gulf shrimp and sea scallops with linguini in shrimp bisque sauce for both of us. I’m not a huge scallop fan, so I managed to avoid the slippery sea creatures. The shrimp, on the other hand, were fresh and full of flavor. The best part here was the sauce, however. My dining partner and I could not get enough of the spicy, flavorful sauce, which complemented the rich, buttery linguini perfectly. I’ll admit, the butter content seemed a bit French. But I’ve never been one to complain about a little French influence in my food.

Lastly, the desserts. For me, it was the lemon and pistachio cake; for her, it was the georgia peach cobbler. Accompanied by a hefty dose of raspberries, blueberries, blackberries and powdered sugar, the cake hit the pastry craving head on. I recently baked a a french yogurt cake with lemon, which has a similar moistness and tangy citrus flavor. The addition of crunchy pistachios on the edge of the cake was noted, however. As for the cobbler, it looked delicious and as far as I know the taste followed suit. We washed down the meal with Sierra Nevadas, squeezed out of our tiny table and heading off into the balmy summer night. It felt just like Paris–or, should I say, Greece.

On the list of “up and coming” neighborhoods, Fort Point Channel easily takes the cake. For an Allston native, however, taking the trip over the bridge is akin to trekking to Siberia. Well, really a switch from green line to red and a walk over to Congress Street–still pretty far. Undaunted, I unearthed my hiking gear (or, rather, a mini dress and platforms, one must be fashionable when heading to such exotic locales) and decided to adventure over to Italian eatery Sportello and its cocktail-wielding cousin, Drink.

In Fort Point, the streets are wide and the storefronts broad and open. Sportello smiles down onto Congress Street through large sheets of glass, modern white lamps floating like orbs within. The interior is primarily white and immaculately clean, with rows of communal tables and 50s style dinette stools. With a case filled with all manner of sweets, it has the feel of an Italian espresso bar. My friend and I, both former European study abroad students (she in Rome, myself in Prague), detected the authenticity of the European vibe with a sigh of nostalgia and a sip of a Peroni-like Italian beer.

First up: chicken and summer vegetable soup ($9). With pesto floating delicately over the surface of the broth and carrots, peas, and shallots jumbling happily together, this soup has a homey and fresh feel. No Campbell’s influence here. For our second course, we split the corn risotto, featuring chanterelle mushrooms and pancetta ($18). (Although Sportello is a casual joint, the entrees can get a bit pricey. The food is good enough, though, that it’s worth either splurging or splitting.) The risotto comes hot and steaming, with a thick, decadently creamy texture. On top, chanterelles sit waiting to be devoured. The pancetta bits add a welcome smoky flavor. Unfortunately, we were too full for dessert; plus, Sportello’s sister business, Drink, awaited us downstairs.

Sitting just below the ground, with windows positioned so you can see the legs of passersby, Drink feels like a secluded and deliciously mischievous cave. I’ll admit, I’m not the world’s most knowledgeable spirits connoisseur. I felt a bit nervous as we approached our metal bar-stools under the dim industrial lighting. You see, Drink has no cocktail menu–you simply tell the bartender what you like, and they create it for you. With bartenders in patterned button-downs and silk-backed vests, vintage glass-wear and stone and brick walls, Drink has the feel of a 20s speakeasy. If only speaking–or ordering, I should say–was that easy.

Our bartender detected our nervousness immediately, and offered a full tutorial. No snarky or condescending tone here. Complete with historical insight and witty asides, she listened to our requests for something fruity and white spirited, and offered up an explanation for the drinks she chose for us: a traditional daiquiri (not the frozen kind) and a gimlet. The gimlet had the stronger lime flavor of the two, and came, tart and refreshing, in a delicate etched glass. The daiquiri, the bolder-flavored, went down just as smooth. I’ve never felt more intellectual drinking rum. The bill came to $21 for the two, which just about met my expectations. A good cocktail can cost $12 elsewhere, so I was more than happy to pay around $10 each for arguably the best cocktails I’ve ever had (and certainly the only alcohol lesson). Kudos, Drink, for making drinking academic.

As two cash-strapped recent grads, my friend and I decided to make our way to the South End for Masa’s $1 tapas. Sounds too good to be true, right? Alas, dear readers, it was—at least for a Friday night at 8 p.m. In a city full of like-minded young professionals, we were slapped with a two hour wait and a bumper to bumper bar situation. We had no choice but to head due west into the depths of the South End’s marvelous (and pricey) gastronomic scene. (Don’t worry. A future Masa post is in order.)

This led us next door to 28 Degrees, a swanky lounge with a bit of an identity crisis. Flanked by a leafy, dim patio whose connection to the restaurant seems dubious, 28 Degrees sits on the other side of a pair of frosted glass doors more befitting an office park. The hostess promptly seated us directly next to the entry for the restrooms and kitchen, despite the fact that the place was virtually deserted. After requesting a patio seat, and a quick stay at the bar with two fruity and stiff martinis (I had the grapefruit, she had the prosciutto and melon), we were escorted to the courtyard through a side room projecting Lady Gaga’s Poker Face video on the wall.

Now, let me tell you, those drinks were not all bad. The grapefruit ($11.50), a mixture of Charbay ruby red grapefruit vodka, grapefruit juice and a splash of cranberry, certainly has a kick. It’s not overly sweet, and the chunk of fresh fruit is refreshing. The melon ($9.50), featuring Van Gogh melon vodka, is a bit sweeter, and frothy, as if a cantaloupe was juiced right there on the spot. In fact, if our waiter had ever thought to ask if we wanted another, we would have said yes.

Instead, we were largely ignored, and only given enough time to order something solid. This came in the form of the peach arugula salad, two mini beef sliders and an order of herbed fries. The salad ($9) is a significant portion, perfect for splitting. It comes slick with dressing, but not in the unappetizing way a Caesar salad can drown you in garlic. The vinaigrette has just the right level of sweetness, which vibes well with the tart, mini yellow tomatoes, creamy goat cheese and ripe peach chunks. I also appreciated the addition of pistachios, rather than the usual pecans, almonds or walnuts.

The fries ($6) really hit the spot. Thin, crispy, and sprinkled with herbs, they come with ketchup, ranch and some sort of zingy ketchup with a kick (again, it would have been nice to get an explanation from the waiter). The ranch was by far the best, and by meal’s end the little bucket for dunking was all but empty. But let’s be honest here. It’s kind of hard to go wrong with fries. The real test was the sliders.

When it comes to the spectrum of savory and sweet, my palette skews dangerously to the latter. Now, I can deal with savory food as much as the next person (to give it up would be to forfeit two meals of the day), but when given the choice, my allegiance always lies with dessert and breakfast. So it was, on a sunny Friday morning, that I found myself in need of some serious sustenance. With two failed attempts behind me (Charlie’s Sandwich Shoppe was on vacay, The Buttery’s kitchen was under renovation), I stumbled into the South End’s quiet and unassuming Francesca’s Cafe.

I’d been to this quaint coffee shop once before for after-dinner tea. It’s a great place to spy ballerinas (they’re the ones in leggings with long braids down their backs) or nibble a cookie. At this point, I was ravenous, and didn’t care about a hot breakfast. Gearing up for coffee and a scone, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the muted, relaxing cafe offered table service. (The cheap prices, especially in the South End, didn’t hurt either.) Two cups of coffee, half a breakfast burrito, and a half moon later, I was full, satisfied and ready to recommend Francesca’s to all my friends.

Let’s start with the coffee ($2.25 including one refill). I’m partial to richer, more full-bodied java, so I was happy to see this coffee bears no resemblance to its watery diner-variety cousin. The shot of caffeine was all I needed to tide me over until the first act: the breakfast burrito. You may assume, due to my sweet tooth, that I’d go for french toast dowsed in maple syrup. But my addiction to Mexican food is such that as soon as I see the words guacamole or sour cream, I’m powerless. This burrito ($5.95) features both of these things, along with scrambled eggs and jack cheese. All are neatly wrapped in a flour tortilla, and ever-so-slightly grilled to provide that extra crunch without any burnt flavor. Topped with a generous spoonful of salsa, this burrito is never soggy, and each flavor makes its mark instead of jumbling together.

My dining partner chose the bacon egg and cheese b-fast sandwich ($4.25, plus 50 cents for a bagel instead of an english muffin), a wise decision. At this late in the game (it was now 11 a.m.) they were down to only two bagel choices, so onion it was. My companion found this to be a bit of an odd combination, but I don’t see how a warm, perfectly-toasted onion bagel can go wrong, even if it is topped with eggs, crunchy bacon and cheddar cheese. The bite I had was satisfying, in the way only a breakfast sandwich can be.

Nestled along Boston Common in the theater district, Teatro (get it?) has been eying me for quite some time now. With every leisurely stroll over to Beacon Hill or trip to Loews for a 9:30 movie, the elegant yet quiet entrance has been demanding my attention. I gave in at last this weekend before catching 500 Days of Summer (which, if you haven’t seen, I recommend, though be forewarned that the ending is a bit jarring). I like my rom-coms with a bit of Italian fare on the side.