My Own Private Napoli

The first thing I notice when I walk into Tidbit Bistro on a sunny
Friday evening is that everyone is happy. Four friends at a table by
the window exclaim as several plates of tapas arrive; a clutch of young
women burst into laughter in unison as the lemony light illuminates
their empty martini glasses; and a guy in the corner sits contentedly
over some effervescent prosecco. My wife and I look at each
other and realize that we’ve found the perfect antidote to this dreary,
drizzly early spring—a postcard from the bright and glittering
Mediterranean.

As we are escorted to our choice of tables (the warm, well-lit room
is about three-quarters full), we take in the space. It’s light and
airy, welcoming, a little noisy. My wife remarks upon the harmonious
pairing of sunflower and maroon on the walls. And while she finds the
addition of dusky orange accents a bit much, it feels right to me, less
hesitant Seattle, more garrulous Valencia.

The food perpetuates the illusion that, however temporarily, we have
migrated to a warmer place. We begin with tapas. Everything looks good,
from varieties of crostini and lamb albóndigas (Spanish
meatballs) to prawns sautéed in sherry to rosemary-scented
sweet-potato fries, but we try to ration ourselves to save room for the
equally appealing entrées. I choose the crostino
español ($2.50), which combines a distinguished slice of
chorizo and some crushed tomato and garlic atop a plank of nicely
toasted bread. It’s gone in three bites.

The beauty of the tapa lies in its evanescence. You’re just
realizing how good it is when it’s gone. It forces you to make a
choice. Should you immediately order three more or should you trust
that the kitchen that made such a beautiful nibble will make more, and
perhaps even surpass the first? With difficulty, I refrain from
ordering three more.

Next to arrive is the arancino ($2.50), which justifies my
temperance. Arancia in Italian means “orange,” so arancino
translates as “little orange,” which is sort of what this marvelous
creation looks like: a fried risotto ball stuffed with mozzarella and a
hint of saffron, and served in a tomato sauce that manages to be rich
but not overwhelming. The ball of cheese, however, is another matter;
it’s heavy and gooey yet small enough that it, too, is gone before your
overburdened arteries can close down in complaint.

The size of Spanish appetizers ranges from pinchos (a bite)
to tapas (half a dozen bites) to raciones, which are basically
about half the size of an entrée. Our final appetizer, the
carpaccio di bresaola ($10), ends up somewhere in between a
tapa and a racion. The salted, cured beef almost melts on the tongue
(it’s nice to let it linger there for a second before chewing), but
what really makes the dish is the contrast of the bracing arugula. A
bit of fennel adds to the wonderful complexity that inspires me to
order another glass of wine.

Service is unobtrusive, friendly, and understanding, even when I
somehow forget how to drink from a glass and spill a large amount of
water all over the table. Some blotting, a new napkin, and it’s like it
never happened. The empty tapas plates are replaced magically (the joys
of going out to eat) by our entrées. The manicaretto ($16) arrives steaming in a hot CorningWare dish that reminds me of my
childhood. Cheese tortellini cuddle with small pieces of salty ham and
mushrooms under a sheet of baked pasta, while tomato sauce and ricotta
bubble alongside. It’s good, hearty, Italian-mom food.

But it’s the cordero a la plancha ($23), grilled leg of
lamb, where the kitchen outdoes itself. The lamb, which is served
shaved atop a hummock of fluffy potato cake, is the best I’ve had in
Seattle. It comes with a dab of olive tapenade on one side and mustard
aioli on the other. Both are nice complements, but I think the mustard
brings out the sweetness of the lamb in a way I’ve never tasted
before.

Although we’ve been stuffed since before the entrées arrived,
we convince ourselves—not wanting the evening to end—to
share a selection of various liqueurs that Tidbit calls a “*cello
flight” ($15). Limoncello is made by steeping lemon zest in
grain alcohol in a cool, dark place for anywhere between a couple weeks
and two months. When mixed with simple syrup, you’ve got one of the
national drinks of Italy and some damn potent lemony deliciousness. To
the traditional limoncello, the Tidbit flight adds an orangecello, a

nocello (walnut and hazelnut), and a creamy limoncello
that’s made with milk and sugar instead of simple syrup. We decide that
the only thing missing is a scoop of lemon tartufo ($6), which
consists of lemon gelato with a limoncello core, dusted with lemon
meringue flakes. It all adds up to sweet, sweet nirvana courtesy of
that always-trusty combination of sugar, fruit, and liquor.

Tidbit calls itself a casual, family-friendly restaurant, a place
where friends and family can gather for comfort food and good times.
And though I still cringe a bit at the Olive Garden–like
description, Tidbit actually makes good on its promise. Friendly folk,
good food, abundant alcohol, and a warm, laid-back ambience—and
they’re even opening up a small outdoor patio for those brief,
sun-drenched summer days that are surely almost here.

editor@thestranger.com