The Marina's Spanish-inspired Laiola: Intriguing, Irresistible

When I wrote about Bar Johnny and the tapas/small-plates trend toward the end of last year, I was tempted to mention in passing that my favorite small-plates place is Terzo, the eclectic Mediterranean restaurant I'd written about in the summer of 2006. I didn't, and the day after, with exquisite timing, I learned that Terzo's chef Mark Gordon had decided to alter his menu by substituting entrée-size dishes ("large plates") for a third of its heretofore all-small-plates-all-the-time format.

On my first visit to Laiola, a Spanish-inspired place that opened last year in the Marina, I was intrigued to see that, in addition to about a dozen and a half small plates, the menu also boasted four large plates — including one that I can never resist, slow-roasted piglet. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The irresistible large plate of suckling pig at Laiola came near the end of a parade of perfection of small plates with big flavors.

We were ensconced at a high wooden table set in the window overlooking Chestnut, and, although there were many tempting dishes — looking at the menu again, I see no reason not to order any of them — we quickly came to agreement on what we wanted. There were three cured meats listed under charcuteria at $8 each, or $21 for all three. We took the second option, and were rewarded with velvety slices of the very popular La Quercia Rossa organic Berkshire prosciutto; wonderful crunchy house-made Catalan-style headcheese called cap i pota that arrives in almost translucent slices; and sturdier cuts of lomo de cerdo (pork loin). The roasted baby beet salad (red, orange, and gold) served with a sharp, creamy wedge of Cabrales and tender leaves of mâche was a perfect, bright foil for the rich meats.

The exciting wine list, almost all Spanish (plus a few American wines made from Spanish varietals), gives good value. In addition to bottles costing between $30 and $60, there are carafinas, yielding two or more glasses, priced between $10 and $13. My friend savored a fruity Garnacha, while I sipped a delightful basil-lemon gimlet from the inviting cocktail list — sharp, sweet, sassy, summer in a glass on a damp and chilly night. I wish I had one in my hand right now.

We went on to three more small plates. We raved to our server about the succulent small squares of tripe with tiny white beans in a garlicky tomato sauce, and were told that it was the dish's debut that night. It perfectly showcased tripe's toothsome, slightly spongy texture and mildly funky taste. While debating whether the casserole of Willapa Bay clams in the shell suffered from a slight salty excess of chunks of smoky bacon, we quickly finished the dish and swabbed up its various juices with chunks of rustic bread. We were both beguiled by another tiny clay casserole full of roasted wild mushrooms, topped with crunchy breadcrumbs and a quivering sunny-side-up egg with a creamy golden yolk just begging to be released from its barely jelled white.

The slow-roasted piglet dish apparently changes nightly. Ours featured four surprisingly firm and chewy strips of flavorful pork belly, sided by a heap of sliced brussels sprouts, tender and sweet cipollini onions, and a smear of quince aïoli.

We both felt we'd assembled a perfect meal, pausing between satisfying bites to congratulate each other on our selections, while casting covetous glances at our neighbors' glistening bacon-wrapped Medjool dates speared on long picks and stuffed with chorizo, and sautéed baby squid with chickpeas and aïoli. We were replete, but lingered happily over a rich créma catalana flavored with orange, almond, and cinnamon, whose sugar crust was a bit burnt for my taste, and an exciting invention: a ball of soft, puddinglike chocolate sprinkled with sea salt, meant to be scooped onto slices of grilled bread, but also delightful eaten with a spoon.

I loved our full-flavored repast. I returned on my own a week later and was offered a spot at the long copper bar overlooking the entire open kitchen area, a catbird seat from which to observe the action. I was inches away from the expediter, who I assumed was chef Mark Denham (his lengthy, scholarly, passionate notes on Laiola's Web site are very good reading), as the three young sous-chefs turned out enticing dishes under my nose. I longed to try the fat albondigas madrileñas, big meatballs drenched in an oniony sofrito decorated with sautéed Chantenay carrots, but they were available only as part of a three-course $32 Dine About Town promotion, which didn't fit in with my plans. (I felt like a spy in the house of love; it was the first night of Dine Around Town — which continues until the end of January — and the staff wasn't thrilled that couples were ordering one menu to share.)

The chilly night inspired me to ask if the bar could make me a hot drink. I was obliged with a curvaceous snifter bearing a perfect toddy, only slightly sweet, with a massive and welcome wedge of lemon.

I was impressed with the chickpea croquetas, six thin logs stacked up criss-cross, two by two. Under their thin, crackly shells lurked melty, almost-liquid chickpea puree, to be dipped into its sharp olivada aïoli or eaten on its own. The gambas al ajillo, small pink shrimp drowning in good garlicky olive oil sweetened with shreds of red and yellow peppers, were too firmly cooked for me, especially since I'd just seen them in their uncooked gray state being scooped out of a container.