Pendleton blanket–level comfort is the credo at this Northeast dining hall, especially at brunch: think flawlessly scrambled eggs, dense house anadama toast, and the adjacent meat shop’s smoky-sweet bacon. That prime pig is fried to stand-up attention and nestled next to textbook French omelets stuffed with everything from smoked trout to korv sausage stroganoff. There are serviceable biscuits (on boards; sandwiching ham, cheese, and eggs; and with timid sausage gravy), but save room for more salt potatoes: crispy, buttery, velvety Yukon golds that the kitchen roasts, smashes, and then deep-fries to produce an addictive sort of potato chip spliced with a dinner spud. They are, I suspect, the reason brunch was invented in the first place.