The Real Deal

Authenticity, as applied to restaurants, has recently been called “a
bogus value only used by insecure, condescending jerks” in these pages.
(See “Top Ramen,” Brendan Kiley, Oct 30.)

First of all: Am NOT,
douchebag.

Second, authenticity may not be a guarantee or a prerequisite of
quality, but there is a reason we apply the word. It’s the same
reason that specialists speak of the terroir of wines (being
able to taste the geographic influence of the soil in the finished
wine) or the provenance of art (tracking the history not only of
the piece’s creation, but of its ownership). It’s the reason real chefs
don’t wear gloves: They want the diner to taste just a hint of
hand.

We watch for authenticity because there is something that
happens when you walk into a Spanish restaurant and hear the Spanish
owner and chef laughing with the Spanish waiters and calling out orders
in Basque. Does it make the food taste better? Not always. But it does
mean that the food you’re about to eat is Spanish food, not just
food in the Spanish style. And if you think you can taste the
difference in exactly what a Spanish chef thinks a “pinch” of salt is,
as compared to an American “pinch,” you might be on to something.

Chef/owner Juan Hontanilla moved to Seattle from his native Bilbao
(a coastal town in the Basque region of Spain) three years ago, after
launching three restaurants in his hometown (one of which, Côte
de Bôeuf, still survives). The Seattle venture, Bilbao Tapas Bar
and Restaurant, opened in 2007 in the same building that houses the
Metro Cinemas on 45th Street in the University District (formerly home
to the miserable Stella’s Italian restaurant). The three dining rooms
(a sunken banquet room, a raised bar nook, and the main floor) are all
cozy, humbly lit, and full of warmth and color, as you sit surrounded
by murals and paintings of enormous red poppies.

The quick hit-and-run tapas-style menu seems perfectly suited to a
movie-going crowd looking for a speedy bite before (or after) a film,
but on each of two recent visits the dining rooms seemed full of diners
languidly lounging for hours, ordering plate after plate, deciding on
the next course only after the present one was finished.

The dishes are simple and traditional, the spicing unpretentious and
straightforward. But in dish after dish, the simple ingredients were
treated so beautifully that the whole of each dish was far greater than
the sum of its ingredient parts.

The pulpo à la Gallega ($9.95) is a plate of the most
perfectly cooked octopus I have ever tasted, with its slimy, gelatinous
skin left intact and dripping off the flesh, served over paper-thin
slices of potato and sprinkled with the aforementioned Spanish “pinch”
of sea salt. The octopus was so tender, and still so moist, that it was
difficult to believe this was the same rubbery substance that usually
bounces off the plate.

The patatas bravas ($6.25) is a plate of crispy (boiled then
fried) potatoes, drizzled with both a tomato-based brava sauce
and a garlic aioli. If it sounds like a fancy description of french
fries with ketchup and mayonnaise, it is, but imagine the plate of
french fries with ketchup and mayonnaise that God might serve to
her God. It was one of the most sublimely perfect dishes on the
menu, the potatoes crisped but light and flaky inside, the sauces
slowly meandering together on the plate, enticing you to sop up every
drop, the rich heat of the brava and the cool cleanliness of the aioli
somehow remaining distinct in every bite.

There were other highlights: The espinacas à la
Catalana ($8.75), a bed of sautéed spinach with a
toasted-pine-nut chutney, was the epitome of simplicity and vegetal
warmth on a wet, cold night; the tortilla Española ($6.50)—the old standby potato, egg, and
onion pie—was
a little fluffier than I usually prefer, but it still did the job; and
the chuletitas de cordero ($10), a pair of diminutive lamb chops
served over a bed of perfectly caramelized onions and mushrooms, was
lovely.

The menu has an entrée side as well—with made-to-order
paella, grilled steak, and pasta—but we stuck to the tapas side.
In fact, I don’t think I saw an entrée served in the dining room
on either of my visits.

During one recent visit, Bilbao had a pair of guitarists playing
classical Spanish standards in the dining room. This is the sort of
thing I usually find intrusive and distracting, but somehow they
managed to spice up the room without calling any attention to
themselves. It was an evening of music; of chatter (Spanish was being
spoken at a fair percentage of the room’s tables); of flamenco-style
syncopated clapping coming from Sr. Hontanilla, standing at the back of
the room; and of simple, honest, straightforward, delicious food
parading across the table.