Having grown up in Chicago with an authentic Mexican restaurant usually always somewhere in my five-mile radius, my quest to find satisfactory Mexican food in the city of Boston is seemingly never ending

After sitting in a sterile, white office building twiddling your well-manicured thumbs at your internship, the best thing to counter feelings of self-doubt, self-worthlessness and anxiety about graduating with a journalism degree is to head to Newbury Street.

I've never been to Cabo or Cancun. If I wanted to try to make it to one of those cities, I could sort of emulate the experience by bringing a heat lamp to Rumor or Mantra.

The lack of a bar scene has forced many a Coolidge Cornerian to Trader Joe's to grab a bottle of $3 merlot and sit alone in his apartment wondering if he's better off trekking to Kenmore Square for a buzz or sneaking a flask into the Coolidge theater (again) to mouth every line to The Room. Instead, stay local and grab a stool at the new Regal Beagle, opening soon at 308 Harvard St. in Brookline.

I didn't grow up in a big Italian family, the kind that makes their own pasta, simmers their own sauce and can swing by Rao's just for an espresso and to talk 'business.'

Right next to Bertucci's in Central Square is a mysterious storefront '-'- painted banana-yellow and with dimly lit windows shut out by thick curtains, it looks like an early 19th-century brasserie, with an oversized, plaster flapper girl beckoning you to see what's inside.

Growing up Gotti in Long Island, the joke was always on New Jersey. Crowded with gargantuan strip malls, full-service gas stations and beautiful, rolling freeways, Jersey was an easy target, especially because they shared the same universal stigma that we had.

It was a long and grueling day sitting in courtroom after courtroom trying to be as diligent as possible while working on a beat for my news writing class.

It usually takes a bit of motivation to make it to Allston coming from South Campus. However, me and my roommate Joe decided to leave the comforts of Audubon Circle and make the treacherous '- possibly life-threatening - journey into the bowels of 02134 to sample Korean treats at Myung Dong 1st Ave, a new Korean restaurant on Harvard Ave.

'SHUT UP, GLUTTON,' he spits in my direction. His eyes bulge out of his skull as he screams at me, a chunk of avocado from the Sunset Cantina nacho chips he was eating spews out of his mouth, hitting me in the face.

The explosively popular FoodPorn.com has re-introduced the elements of exclusivity, danger and seduction to the food world on a macro level. It is accessible by anyone, virtually anywhere.

Just like how the fickle face of fashion changes with the wind, there are also trends in the culinary realm.