Like fashion long before it, the restaurant industry has come to embrace the branding of big names: witness the mass production of Michael Mina and the Aqua empire. Such restaurants exert a magnetic pull, and not just on your wallet. Some even serve good food. But I’m drawn more strongly to the ones that retain a personal touch. Like a lot of diners, I like to frequent places where the person in the toque has a stake in how I feel about my steak. Of the best restaurants to open recently around the Bay Area, some are big and splashy, run by well-connected chefs relying on deep pockets. Others are tiny operations opened by solo restaurateurs. What they have in common is a trait shared by good restaurants everywhere: they bear the marks of an emotional investment, of an owner’s passion—and not merely a rubber-stamped imprimatur.

Bar Tartine
As the owners of a boomingly successful bakery, Elisabeth Prueitt and Chad Robertson opened Tartine with a built-in following. But they haven’t simply rested on their good name.

When Bar Tartine got started, you could tell the baking duo had never run a bistro. Sloppy service and uninspired food left you biding your time for dessert, when the kitchen delivered the kind of treats that made Tartine Bakery famous.

But faster than you could say “Check, please,” the owners executed a turnaround. They spiffed up the service. They hired a new chef, who emphasized the elemental. Bar Tartine hadn’t exactly been fussy, but the menu now relies more directly on the basics. In their revamped bistro, Prueitt and Robertson have proved that bakers can think outside the brownie box.

A succulent example is the marrow bone appetizer. Generously cut, it resembles a scale model of the Three Mile Island skyline prettified with a side of mizuna and herb salad. The marrow you scoop out is pink and wiggly with a rich, meaty flavor, and it spreads on a thick slab of toast like butter. It’s a perfect, primal dish, an atavistic pleasure that pairs sweetly with a bottle of dry red wine.

The desserts, however—like shaker lemon tart—were not overhauled. Once the restaurant’s greatest strength, they still remind you why the bakery became such a big deal, but they no longer overshadow the rest of the meal. 561 Valencia St., S.F., 415-487-1600.


Pizzeria Delfina
With restaurants, as with empires, expansion is frequently a prelude to decline. But Craig Stoll of Delfina avoided this when he annexed the tiny space next door.

Pizzeria Delfina is a modest addition to a Mission district restaurant whose strength has always been simplicity. Stoll’s new place sticks to the formula. It doesn’t try to do too much (pizzas, salads, calzone), but what it does, it does very well.

Whereas Delfina has a full-fledged trattoria menu, from salmon salad to Tuscan ribs, its sidekick is for those in search of a casual meal. In Anthony Strong, Stoll found the perfect man to delegate the dough-making to. His thin, crisp pizzas, mottled black on the bottom from their brief time in the oven, are as delicately dressed as anything this side of Victoria’s Secret. The best of them might be the Napoletana, topped with capers, olives, and anchovies but no cheese. How nice to eat a slice that doesn’t sag under its cargo when you lift it to your mouth.

Salads are similarly under­stated: eggplant caponata, roasted beets with ricotta salata. Choices are scrawled on a big blackboard, an invitation to grab a piece of chalk and write, “I will never order pineapple on pizza again.”

Like Delfina, the pizzeria is something of a destination restaurant. But it has the good sense not to act like one. And that might be what’s best about it. Even as its reputation reaches across the city, it still feels deeply rooted in the neighborhood. 3611 18th St., S.F., 415-437-6800.


Cyrus
Veteran restaurateur Nick Peyton calls himself a “hopeless people pleaser,” a weakness seen in his unbending attention to diner demands. When patrons complained that the welcome at Cyrus was too pretentious (the host used to phone the kitchen to an­nounce your arrival, as if you were a royal entering a ball), Peyton nodded politely and axed the practice. What he didn’t do away with was the champagne and caviar cart, which still rolls up to your table as soon as you sit down. And, of course, he didn’t change the chef.

Critics’ Choice Best Chef Douglas Keane (see page 112), who co-owns Cyrus with maître d’ Peyton, provides the perfect complement to Peyton’s lavish front-of-the-house touches. In the process, he’s established himself as one of the region’s most accomplished chefs. Dishes such as Thai-marinated lobster and duck confit with tamarind, dates, and daikon suggest a kitchen where the constraints of perfect execution haven’t killed the
sense of play.

Unlike the French Laundry, Cyrus isn’t freighted with seriousness. It’s theater, of course, but the servers seem aware that they’re working a stage. Even the most outrageous gestures—weighing your caviar against a gold bar from the Union Bank of Switzerland—are carried out with something of a wink. At Thomas Keller’s place, a waiter might solemnly instruct you on the origins of the humidor in which the truffles are delivered. If they did this at Cyrus, they might also remind you that a truffle is a fungus dug up by a pig.

Cyrus is high-end without being haughty. The intense people pleasing, the treatment that flirts with flying over-the-top, are honest reflections of the good attitude of the maître d’. Fawning, you realize, doesn’t have to feel phony. 29 North St., Healdsburg, 707-433-3311.


Tamarindo
While her architect son, Alfonso, handled Tamarindo’s bricks and mortar, Gloria Dominguez dealt with the mortar and pestle, grinding spices for the Mexican hot chocolate to go along with her vibrant small-plate dishes.

You recognize the terms: tacos, tostadas, tortas, tamales. Less familiar is the way Dominguez reworks them, delivering tostadas, for example, in shrunken triplicate—a trio of shredded chicken tostaditas, smoldering with the smoky flavor of chipotle. Empanadas get similar treatment: three empanaditas, stuffed with shrimp, green onions, and serrano chilies, are tiny palate teasers that have big character.

These small tastes are known as antojitos, or “little cravings,” but the restaurant is hardly a passing fancy. Dominguez and her family ran a burrito joint in Antioch for 17 years before applying their savings—and skills—to this snazzier setting.

You sense the intimacy of their investment in the way that Alfonso, who also waits tables, describes his redesign of the building, how he added chunky wooden tables and brilliant
glass-tile counters but left an exposed brick wall as a tribute to the warehouse that the place once was. While he’s talking, his mom is at it with her mortar and pestle.

It may look like a grind, but you can tell she doesn’t think so. And you root for this place much as you root for the weary stretch of downtown Oakland where it stands. 468 Eighth St.,
Oakland, 510-444-1944.


Pizzaiolo
The power of sharp marketing is readily apparent in that popular game called Six Degrees of Chez Panisse. An ambitious restaurateur who once peeled a shallot in Alice Waters’s kitchen opens his own place, and the public follows, convinced that some wizardry must have worn off.

In the case of Charlie Hallowell, however, the chef had a long tenure at that famous Berkeley temple of the four seasons. The separation is only one degree.

There was, to be sure, something cultish in the fervor that swelled around the opening of Pizzaiolo. Part of it was pedigree. But most of it was Hallowell’s perfect timing. Temescal, a fast-gentrifying patch of Oakland, was desperately hungry for something like this.

Along with Doña Tomas, which stands next door, Pizzaiolo gives locals what they long wanted on a stretch of Telegraph that now has pedestrians pushing strollers where they used to push something else.

Here, in a big, rustic setting with a wood-burning oven and exposed brick walls, Hallowell turns out humble pastas like spaghetti with pesto and bucatini in pork ragù.

There’s so much endearing about the restaurant—the chef waving to patrons from his open kitchen, the photos of his children on the wall—that you forgive the flaws, the clunky service, the adolescent way in which the dining room is run.

What’s more, there’s the food: solid Italian dishes not pretending to be anything more than what they are. Sitting at the bar, you can soak up the buzz of conversation while you watch the pizzaiolos toss your pie. Outside a crowd has gathered, waiting patiently, pleasantly, on a sidewalk that used to be so lonely and forlorn at night. 5008 Telegraph Ave., Oakland, 510-652-4888.


Ame
At first blush, Ame’s story has the makings of a cautionary tale. After years of running Terra, a sweet restaurant in St. Helena, Hiro Sone and Lissa Doumani are drawn by the siren song of the city and open a big, spendy place in the flashy, splashy St. Regis Hotel.

It’s a plot line suggestive of soulless expansion: a bloated reproduction of a wine country restaurant, Terra on ’roids.

But Sone and Doumani have scaled this slippery slope to great heights, selling their names to a corporate bidder without selling out. The husband-and-wife team now have a terrible commute, but they use the two locations to their advantage, shuttling between St. Helena and San Francisco to give Ame their unique spin.

Ame took some inspiration from Terra, including its executive chef, Critics’ Choice Rising Star, Greg Dunmore (see page 114). Sone’s signature dish of sake-marinated cod with shrimp dumplings in shiso broth is here, too. But the Asian accents are stronger at Ame, and the sleek sashimi bar aptly complements the upscale urban atmosphere.

On many evenings, you can spot Sone in the open kitchen plating poke—a sesame-seasoned blend of whatever fresh fish is in stock—or slivering sea bream sashimi over monkfish liver, the ocean’s equivalent of foie gras.

Service is sharp, and the eclectic sake list matches up with some of the city’s most unusual food. By the end of the evening, you’re left with an impression: this is a restaurant run by chefs who care too much to just cash out. 689 Mission St., S.F., 415-284-4040.


Redd
In his young but already well-traveled career (Spago in Beverly Hills, Daniel in New York, Auberge du Soleil in Napa Valley, plus stints overseas), Richard Reddington acquired a reputation among his peers: he was an immense talent who had failed to find the perfect fit. Then, late last year, Reddington discovered the ideal restaurant. It just happens to be his own.

Reddington’s place stands on Washington Street in Yountville, a stone’s throw from the French Laundry. Redd has an easygoing air, where a bearded guy in blue jeans with the look of a bouncer can bump up to the bar and order a bottle of rare bordeaux.

At Auberge du Soleil, among other gigs, Reddington oversaw a mammoth operation—one that wasn’t his. At Redd, you can tell he’s put his hands on the menu. There’s a spring to his cooking,
a subtlety and sophistication in even the most simple-sounding dishes, such as roast chicken with white beans and Meyer lemon.

You can order à la carte, but the chef’s inspiration is most apparent in his tasting menu,
a five- or nine-course volley that showcases his versatility. Hamachi sashimi over sticky rice leads to butternut squash ravioli, and potato gnocchi with chanterelles turns up in advance of monkfish saltimbocca, the fish wrapped in prosciutto and laid out on salsify ragout.

Running his own place, Reddington comes across as a chef of redoubled enthusiasm, a richly skilled cook grateful for the chance to do things right. His five-course tasting menu is well worth $70 ($100 with the wonderful wine pairings by Critic’s Choice Best Wine Director Chris Blanchard—see page 118). Not to try it once would be an act of shortsighted self-deprivation, like telling Michelangelo your ceiling doesn’t need touching up. 6480 Washington St., Yountville, 707-944-2222.


Range
With its crisp, compact menu, offered in a correspondingly compact dining room, Range
is a restaurant of perfect pitch and scale.

Phil and Cameron West (he of Bacar, she of Delfina) prove themselves attuned to the tastes of the Mission, a ’hood that welcomes well-groomed restaurants but remains wary of anything too high-end. The Wests walk deftly down the middle. This is seasonal California cuisine, sprung from local farmers’ markets.

That kind of food can leave you wondering why you paid eight bucks for a plate of tangerines. Not so at Range. Prices are in keeping with the scruffy-chic self-image of the Mission, which means entrées hover around $20, though the cooking often tastes like it’s worth far more. You get the gist quickly: tomato soup, sweetened with a fried squash blossom; goat cheese and sorrel ravioli layered in a shallow bowl. But the subtlety of the flavors impresses you over time. There are quaint country touches—slow-cooked halibut in fava bean broth, served in a miniature cocotte—but the service and atmosphere are urbane. And desserts made by former punk-rock guitarist and Critics’ Choice Best Pastry Chef Michelle Polzine (see page 116), such as pluot tart with cardamom ice cream, deserve mainstream success.

You often hear grousing about changes in the Mission, how new money has softened its edge. That may be true; still, if Range represents the way things are headed, Mission protectionists may end up concluding that change has an upside after all. 842 Valencia St., S.F., 415-282-8283.


Canteen
There they were, a few months after the restaurant opened: local critics Michael Bauer and Patricia Unterman eating simultaneously in separate booths in a dining room not much bigger than a shoebox. Chef Dennis Leary wore a worried look, but not because he had tastemakers in his midst.

That look is his usual expression. And it’s less an indication of concern than of care; the chef tends to his minuscule kitchen with the fixed gaze of a man trying to bend a spoon with his mind.

Of all the many things to like about Canteen, Leary is what leaps out first. He’s the focused presence behind the bright green counter, whirling like a dervish, the former Rubicon chef who turned a coffee shop into one of the best restaurants to open in this city in years.

Though Canteen has received national press, Leary pays little heed to the fuss. His California-French restaurant, done up as an avant-garde diner, remains intensely local, so much so that the chef sets aside one night a month to make dinner just for
his regulars.

Leary has a hand in everything that comes out of the kitchen, from the condiments to the coffee cake. “To my mind, a chef who doesn’t cook is not a chef. I want to be back there making things, getting burns and calluses on my hands,” he says. He makes a lovely veal blanquette, but his most stunning dish might be asparagus and fennel salad with peas and pea puree, topped with a spooning of verjus sorbet: it’s a flush of spring frosted with a light winter chill.

It’s food as art. Food as metaphor, which is fitting. At Canteen, what you get is so much more than what shows up on the plate. 817 Sutter St., S.F., 415-928-8870.


Sea Salt
What started with Lalime’s, a well-loved Cal-Med restaurant in Berkeley, has blossomed into an East Bay mini-empire. It’s run by the Krikorian clan, who’ve put their faith in the pithy restaurant concept.

Sometimes the strategy goes over well (Fonda, Latin small plates). Sometimes not (T-Rex, overpriced barbecue). At Sea Salt, they’ve gotten almost everything right.

There’s a faintly cutesy Finding Nemo theme to the decor. But they don’t harpoon you with it. This is no Spenger’s. And the food, sharp and simple, keeps your focus on the plate.

The menu takes a two-lantern tack: pretty much everything arrives by sea. Much of it is
shellfish, sustainably selected and treated with a highbrow-lowbrow touch. A sweet lobster roll, big and buttery, rises above its humble New England background. The BLT, meantime, might be the East Bay’s finest sandwich. It’s a modernist take on the diner standard: bacon, lettuce, and pan-seared trout.

Sea Salt sells a package, but the package works. The restaurant blends in smoothly on an upward-looking stretch of San Pablo Avenue, a block that, for all its new polish, is still more patchouli than Pottery Barn. Most important, the Krikorians tend to the smallest details, right down to the housemade ketchup accompanying the cornmeal-battered fish-and-chips.

Yes, they’re out to lure you with a catchy concept, but they’re offering more than an empty hook. 2512 San Pablo Ave., Berkeley, 510-883-1720.