Four years ago, before he had a sous-chef (or a space for one), Brett Emerson had Internet access and the urge to create what he called a “smorgasblog.” Like other online culinary tell-alls, In Praise of Sardines dished out a varied menu of meaty thoughts and marginalia. Emerson’s posts detailed his travels and gastronomic cravings, trumpeted the virtues of unheralded ingredients (read: sardines), and offered a catalog of recipes and tips.

Emerson had worked in a few noted kitchens, including Eccolo and Zax, but he hoped to open his own restaurant, and he recounted that effort in updates that took on the poignant tone of the ship log of a captain lost at sea. December 2006: “After a long search, my dream is about to come true.” Wait—check that. June 2007: “Opening date has been postponed.”

Along the way, a picture emerged of the would-be restaurateur. He was passionate, curious, and earnest just to the point where you could still stand it. You liked the guy even before you’d tried his food. Then, late this past winter, a buoyant online message: Contigo had been christened in Noe Valley. Uncork the cava and break out the sardines!

Diners with young children enrolled in a Spanish-immersion program may be aware that contigo means “with you,” a cuddly name that reflects the cordial spirit of the place. The kitchen turns out Iberian-inflected small plates, which taxonomists might classify as tapas. But everything about Contigo, from its farmers’ market sourcing to the soy-based ink on its business cards, reflects the influence of California. Better to call it a high-achieving neighborhood restaurant—a very Bay Area being with Spanish bloodlines.

Like its confessional chef, Contigo seems eager to bare its soul. While most open kitchens run along the back or side of the dining room, Contigo’s greets you at the entrance. It has counter seating with up-close views of line cooks in action, and its shelves are stacked with fresh-picked previews of what’s in store: platters of tomatoes, eggplants, and pimientos de Padrón.

In contemporary fashion, the interior springs from both factory and farm, with cement floors and gleaming stainless steel accents alongside blond-wood tables, reclaimed-redwood siding, and a patio garden that supplies Emerson with his herbs. Mercifully, there’s no communal table, that hackneyed hallmark of forced togetherness. Yet the restaurant still manages to feel communal, with lively acoustics, snug seating arrangements that aren’t quite cramped, and a sense of inti­macy that doesn’t seem imposed.

If you’ve read his blog, you know that Emerson favors Spanish cooking. But more than that, he’s partial to the brand of Slow Food restraint in which the chef steps back and lets the products shine. Hence such humble but high-pedigree starters as a beet-and–pixie tangerine salad studded with almonds, shaded with a cloud of sheep’s-milk ricotta, and drizzled with olive oil and sweet citrus juice; or long spears of asparagus served with sieved egg, green garlic, and a sliver of dried tuna called mojama, a bacon stand-in that’s as salty as the earth, with a hint of the sea. You marvel at the purity of each component, though the dish amounts to no more than the sum of its parts.

When he takes a more active role, Emerson mostly hits his mark. Among his bull’s-eyes are patatas bravas, their outsides crisp and their middles creamy, delivered under dollops of salsa and aioli; and a roast chicken, its skin stuffed with fresh herbs and its robust flavors complemented by a stunning salad of carrots and mint.

A self-proclaimed champion of underdog ingredients, the chef lives by his word. His slow-cooked butter beans bear the rich, smoky flavor of pig’s trotters, with a crisp pig ear on top to intensify the taste and the sense of intrigue. It looks like something you’d enclose in a hog farmer’s ransom note. Then, of course, there are sardines. The chef’s fondness for them finds lovely expression when he sets the grilled fillets on avocado-smeared rustic toast. The fish are sweet and plump, and the ring of purple onion overlaying them adds a perfect element of punch and crunch.

Contigo bills itself as a “kitchen + cava,” the latter being a Spanish sparkling wine that’s wonderfully refreshing and infused with distant memories of a Eurail pass and a romantic picnic with a raven-haired temptress in the hills of Catalonia (that’s my unlived dream, anyway). It’s one of the fine choices in a list that sticks to Spanish labels and includes ports and sherries to pair with Kara Lewis’s fine desserts. Lewis once worked at Zuni Café, and it shows in the simplicity of her salted caramel flan and an impeccable meringue, dotted with almonds and crowned with strawberries and whipped cream.

Contigo is not a perfect restaurant—the servers struggle with pacing, and a good number of dishes arrive underseasoned (take the lamb-and-pork meatballs with garlic-almond purée, which sound spectacular but are weirdly bland)—but it does have a skilled chef in the kitchen and its heart in the right place. Brett Emerson finally got his wish, and now he’s bound to wind up like the rest of us: too busy to update his blog.

Contigo: 1320 Castro St. (bet. 24th and Jersey Sts.), S.F., 415-285-0250, dinner only, wheelchair accessible, $$–$$$, 2.5 stars