My Precious

I am always a trifle wary of trends in dining. I'm happier if restaurateurs are creating menus and eateries out of passion and conviction and taste, rather than jumping on a bandwagon of fashion. And when something is in fashion, inevitably it's going to go out of fashion. I can remember the shock I felt, a number of years ago, when an acquaintance said gaily after learning that I was going to a Cajun-Creole restaurant that night, "Oh, are people still eating that food?" "Well," I thought, "it still tastes good."

Not too long ago, my sister told me she'd compiled a list of 15 local restaurants that specialize in tapas or small plates. Tapas I understand, even if most of the "tapas" restaurants in the Bay Area are considerably more elaborate than the tapas bars in Spain, which offer little salty snacks in order to encourage drinking and lingering (or lingering and drinking). Many classic tapas require no cooking -- just slicing (of salamis, hams, and cheeses), pouring into bowls (nuts and olives), or opening (oysters). It's stuff that's not only easy to share, but also easy to eat standing up, with a drink in hand. Many Spanish tapas bars are casual in the extreme; after several hours in a bar in San Sebastián that was immaculate when we entered, we waded out across a floor picturesquely littered with peanut shells, olive pits, and cheese rinds.

Tapas in the Bay Area are often much more involved, including small sandwiches, french fries (often with a mayonnaisey dip), grilled shrimp, even dishes that demand the use of a knife and fork, such as chunks of fish and plates of paella. It's a way of eating that I adore: I love a table covered with little dishes that you can pick from at will, whether it's tapas or Japanese ippin-ryori or Middle Eastern mezze. One of my favorite Bay Area restaurants is César, a tapas place snuggled in the embrace of next-door neighbor Chez Panisse, where some of its owners once worked; I look for excuses (a play up the street, a screening at the Pacific Film Archive) to drop by for a glass of unfamiliar wine or sherry chosen from its intelligent list, to go with some crisp herb-dusted fries, wedges of the Spanish cold omelet called tortilla, and a plate of jamón serrano.

But when it comes to the phenomenon known as "small plates," I'm considerably less sanguine. I'm all for sharing (as one of my friends points out, that's the way I eat anyway, because reviewing requires me to taste every dish that comes to the table), but too many small plates seem to be just miniature versions of main courses, and are too messy and awkward to divide equitably. (How do you share meat or poultry on the bone, not to mention tiny yet flavorful garnishes?) And there's something about appetizers that can be used to the chef's advantage: It's easier to sustain interest over a few bites than over many, which is why you so often see reviews that state "the main courses were less successful than the starters."

What appeals to me about a restaurant, above all, is the food -- and despite my uneasiness with the concept, I was thrilled with the several meals I enjoyed at Cortez, a spot in the new Hotel Adagio whose menu is devoted to small plates. The place is only open after 5, and the long, soigné room is dressed for evening. The front part is dominated by a lengthy bar backed with glittering bottles and boasting big, square, comfortably upholstered stools (you can dine at the bar as well as drink); across from it are a few groupings of small couches and chairs. The rows of white-linened tables overlook a semiopen kitchen tucked into one long wall, and are themselves overlooked by a stunning series of arty, colorful lighting fixtures that reference both Alexander Calder's mobiles and the circus, evoking trapeze artists and their balance bars.

At my first small-plates supper, we threw the staff an extra curve because we were going to a movie. Then again, they're probably used to time constraints, given their proximity to the Geary and Curran theaters; indeed, I was thoughtfully asked if I had to be out by a certain time when I made the reservation. In the event, all it meant was that we skipped dessert (but our server invited us to come back later if we wanted something sweet; some of the desserts, she said, could be served even after the kitchen closed at 10).

I couldn't resist starting with a terrific cocktail called the Journalist -- Damrak gin, Cointreau, red and white vermouth, lemon juice, and bitters -- icy and silky in a chilled martini glass. The two rounds of foie gras terrine, sided with a house-made orange marmalade scented with herbes de Provence, were properly suave and luxurious, especially spread on the warm grilled brioche, which I preferred to the organic country bread, whose flavor was a bit too aggressive and rustic for the delicate pâté. The generously portioned frisée salad boasted slivers of apple and avocado as well as bits of smoked trout, and hid a surprising base of warm fingerling potatoes drenched in a fluffy, mustardy beurre blanc. We went on to petite portions of chicken and duck, which, I told a friend later, actually tasted like chicken and duck -- no small praise in a time when duck is often prepared to taste like meat and chicken tastes like nothing at all. The chunks of slow-cooked chicken breast mimicked the slippery texture of the accompanying stewed mushrooms and creamed scallions, resulting in a seductive dish of grown-up nursery food, easy to eat. The lavender-honey-glazed duck breast, thoughtfully sliced for ease in sharing, perched on roasted chestnuts, pear, and celery root, an interesting and successful assembly. Less successful was the combination of gnocchi, chanterelles, pancetta, and parsnips, a grouping that didn't seem to have been properly introduced.