A neighborhood restaurant can come in any shape or size, and while there is no formal definition for one, it is well understood that it must be accessible, locally owned and frequented by nearby residents.
For all its accolades and fanfare, Petite León, the Kingfield newcomer, is a neighborhood restaurant — if you look innocently enough.
The space, a mishmash of old bones from its predecessor, Blackbird, along with dressy upgrades — like dimly lit chandeliers that slink down from above, tufted booths that stretch across the room, and stained-glass doors — invites you to walk in even though it's not a recommended approach on busy nights.
It's not a fancy place. The hosts are always beaming. Conversations between diners and bartenders flow like the generous wine pours. And the bar snacks, like a wholesome trout dip shaped into a quenelle, sweet parcels of piquillo peppers and a knockout smashed burger, may be progressive but also crowd-pleasing — and substantial. So, too, are the small and big plates that are offered without much of a binding theme. But who cares when you can cobble together a meal with dip, crackers and bubbly and call it a grand time, any night of the week?
Neighborhood restaurants can be good restaurants, too. Petite León is a good restaurant — maybe even a great one, depending on what you order. To tell you why, consider the steak.
A bavette cut, an unsung cut more suited to bistros, is seared so it develops a handsome armor of a crust, with smoky, blackened tire tracks. The flesh is pink and fatless, yet lush and flavorful. Fat slices of the bavette rest on a swirl of steak sauce made from piquillos. It's incandescent and bright. A wedge of avocado, ripe and creamy, docks by.
Though there aren't many entrees on the menu, the steak convinces you to take Petite León more seriously than a neighborhood restaurant. It's the least you can do to reward the chef, Jorge Guzmán, for his efforts to bring flavors from his native Yucatán, Mexico, without being loud about it.
His technique and good choices certainly show. And Guzmán leans into them even more with his take on al pastor, the spit-roasted pork sweetened with pineapple. Here, he takes a deconstructionist approach, grilling pork collar until it's smoky and bedecking it with cured pineapple, along with onions. Below it is a silky habañero purée, sweet like a tropical ice cream. There are nixtamalized corn tortillas on the side, but you almost don't need them.
