Two mayoral terms later, Jerry Brown’s plan to bring “elegant density” to downtown Oakland has paid off in fresh clusters of condos, townhouses, and live-work lofts. But where it’s really excelled is in the empanadas. On a recent afternoon, on an otherwise forlorn stretch of Eighth Street, Gloria Dominguez delivered them in triplicate: three diminutive empanaditas, their shells lightly fried, their middles filled with shrimp, green onions, and serrano chilies—savory pastries with fiery insides, served with tangy tomatillo sauce.

Since 1989, Dominguez has operated a burrito shop in Antioch, always with an eye toward culinary trends. When Fonda opened on Solano Avenue in Albany a few years back, drawing crowds with its dressed-up South American dishes, Dominguez decided it was time for her to do something much the same. She took a lease in an abandoned building just off Broadway, a stone’s throw from a lot where a large residential project is under way. She began grinding chilies, making her own salsas, and preparing lighter, brighter adaptations of the food that you might find at a humble taco stand. The result is Tamarindo, a delightful new restaurant that is just the recipe for a downtown trying to shake off three decades of decay.

Tamarindo is an antojeria and, as such, it specializes in antojitos, or “little whims,” the snackable street food that sustains the working multitudes in many a region of Mexico—tacos, tostadas, tortas, tamales. You recognize the terms. What you don’t recognize, if you’re used to the bluntness of a bulging burrito, is the delicate interplay of flavors: the crema and chipotle, the cilantro and serrano, the coupling of mango and chili powder, which dance a sweet and spicy two-step along your tongue.

Antojitos are small plates, but at Tamarindo they compensate in character for what they lack in size. A trio of tostaditas is gone in a few swallows, but the palate still tingles with the slow, smoldering heat of the shredded chipotle chicken that once nested on the crisp tortillas. Sopecitos, made with silver-dollar-size cornmeal patties, also come in threes: one layered with chorizo and potato; another topped with roasted poblanos and mild cotija cheese; and the third featuring a lone garlicky shrimp, tail coiled but head held high, like a mermaid on a rock.

Dominguez makes almost everything by hand, from the salsas to the cilantro oil, which she drizzles on seviche to lend a perfumey kiss to the bite of lime, red onions, and serrano chili. She leaves her guacamole chunky, studded with hunks of tomato and onion. Her Mexican hot chocolate is sweet but understated and very close to crunchy from the pulverized almonds, cardamom, cinnamon, and other seasonings that are ground in a mortar by the kitchen staff.

Tamarindo is a family-run restaurant down to the design, which comes courtesy of Dominguez’s architect son, Alfonso, who also happens to wait tables. The dining room is small but tall, with soaring ceilings, a modest collection of blocky wood tables, and an exposed brick wall that Alfonso left intact as an homage to old Oakland. A counter of glass tile fronts the open kitchen and a hand-carved bowl rests upon it, filled with pods of the restaurant’s namesake fruit. The walls that aren’t brick have been sponge painted in a color scheme of tamarind and lime, a cheery combination for what is also a very cheery place to eat.

Of all the sweet impressions Tamarindo leaves, the strongest is that of a restaurant run with great care. This is apparent in the painstaking attention paid to presentation—in the groomed headdress of cabbage that sprouts atop the tostaditas, in the dusting of crystallized coconut shavings on a flan of perfect firmness. It also comes across in the warmth of the service, a warmth generated by a personal investment in something bigger than a tip.

There will always be those who prefer their Mexican food down and dirty, who would rather troll for taco trucks than spend the time—and money—on refined versions of such familiar food. I have no beef with them. Nor would I argue that you can’t find tacos and tostadas of equally abundant flavor in other places at less than half the cost. What you will not come across is food of this genre prepared so freshly in such an inviting ambience.

Along with lunch and dinner, Tamarindo does Saturday brunch, with sharply executed morning standards such as huevos rancheros and pozole, a spicy pork and hominy soup. Mimosas are offered, as is a limited wine list, though this is food that all but begs for beer.

Tamarindo stands just around the corner from the trendy end of Washington Street. But the block, like all of downtown Oakland itself, has hardly been restored to its long-ago glory. With its beautiful empty buildings overlooking sullied sidewalks and trash-strewn streets, downtown Oakland remains a symbol of untapped potential. Then again, it might depend on how you measure progress. More condos are coming. But in the meantime, if you’re looking for something elegantly dense, you might try Tamarindo’s pork tamales instead. 

Tamarindo Antojeria Mexicana 468 Eighth St. (at Broadway),
Oakland, 510-444-1944. $$. Reservations Recommended. Wheelchair Accessible. **½