Smokin’!

It’s not unusual that I doze off in the passenger seat after a particularly satisfying dinner. Heavy with bacon-wrapped liberties and buttery indulgences, warmed by wine and good conversation, powerless to leave a single crumb on the dessert plate, my body’s most natural response is a de facto “Shut ’er down, boys.”

What is unusual is for that to happen during a 1.1-mile drive at 8pm, as it did en route home from The Smoking Goat.

Just how satisfied—how cosseted and comfortable—does one have to be for that near-narcoleptic feat? I swear, one glass of grenache.

It’s not that the quintessential French-American bistro fare is boring or overly rich. Somewhere between the pillowy butternut squash ravioli, the butcher-paper tablecloths and the authentic bonhomie, The Smoking Goat has cornered the North Park market on cozy conviviality. The vibe is playful without being frivolous, casual but never lazy, simple but not simplistic. It feels like every patron should be smoking cloves inside.

Recent stories about North Park’s dining scene always mention a “renaissance,” a cliché that takes a hairpin turn at the Jack in the Box on Upas Street but is nonetheless appropriate for the ’hood once known as Hillcrest’s dull Craftsman cousin. Seemingly overnight, locals were choosing from scads of restaurants within walking distance, and like cast mates from The Real World—the Educated Hipster from Mexican Wine Country, the Society Hen with a Southern Drawl, the Endearing Farm-to-Table Fanatic—none were so similar that they made another redundant. In 30th Street’s pantheon of characters, The Smoking Goat was welcomed as the It Girl Next Door, a hopeless romantic who studied as a cheesemonger, cycled through Provence and settled in San Diego, where she knows all her neighbors.

Inside, the unfussy design by hip firm Bells & Whistles—vintage metal baskets as light fixtures, assorted frames on a slatted-wood wall, a custom bar and hutch—is more chic farmhouse than cool industrial. That warmth suits the close quarters: Currently, the low-lit hallway accommodates about 30 people, five of them touching elbows at the bar, and the tiny kitchen—neither open nor hidden, but smack-dab in the middle of the action—emits a market’s worth of smells and smokes. Sitting toward the back, one is acutely aware of every piece of wild Pacific snapper ordered.

Thanks to an unending wave of local goodwill and the closing of the short-lived North Park Fish Market next door, the little bistro that could is in the midst of a major expansion, with Bells & Whistles at the helm. Chef and owner Fred Piehl expects that come March, the kitchen and dining room will have moved to the annexed space, while the current quarters will be an expanded bar area. With the expansion, Piehl promises “a bunch of new beers” (there are currently three brews, all legit) will soon line shelves in their ex-neighbor’s massive walk-in.

An amicable Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef whose CV includes lauded stops at Nine-Ten and Avenue 5, Piehl has crafted a spot where diners strive to be recognized as regulars. His menu is tenderly shaped by local, simple, strictly seasonal ingredients. Suzie’s Farm, whose dance card is largely filled up by 30th Street fans, makes several appearances, though the menu isn’t a slave to the locavore trend. The quail, for instance, is flown in from an open game ranch in Texas. It’s a brilliant little beast and one of Piehl’s best creations. Draped in prosciutto, it’s sweet and crisp on the outside and juicy within. Depending on what’s budding, it’s plated with pan-roasted apples or peaches (the apples shine) and a pomegranate reduction that borders on puckering. Advertised as a starter, the wee bird—nestled against a tangle of wild arugula, goat cheese and walnuts—has all the makings of a perfect (and just plain darling) entrée.

To prolong the onset of the inevitable tryptophan nap, the fall fruit salad, likely the lightest item on the winter menu, is an unexpected medley of greens, fresh apple, pear and persimmon, with blue cheese crumbled throughout. It’s a clever, somehow friendly salad.

From the bacon-wrapped trout in a sherry glaze to the Brandt rib-eye in a smoky, bourbon-tinged sauce, carnivores are pampered at The Smoking Goat.

Accompanying the pork chop slab—a three-seasons-running stunner also featured in an osso bucco special, likely benched for spring but assured a comeback—is a bed of wilted, savory collard greens, cheekily identified as “proper Southern” on the menu, and smoked cheddar and jalapeño grits, the winter menu’s only miss. The peppers overwhelm and the cheese is reminiscent of my first foray into fondue: melted Kraft Singles.

Finally, there’s the side dish that no one will shut up about, for good reason. The duck fat truffle fries are the city’s best—elite fair food with a Québécois accent—and the garlic and mustard aioli on the side is good enough to eat like custard, eliminating any plebeian knee-jerk instinct to ask for ketchup. Not that you’d be denied. One night, conversation turns to a certain new downtown hot spot where spoons and IPAs are strictly verboten—antics our beach-boy server smilingly shrugs off as “pretentious foodie BS.” “People like what they like. If you want ketchup, we’ll bring ketchup.” (Really, you don’t want ketchup.)

The two desserts—a caramel- and ice cream-saturated banana bread pudding and syrupy bananas—are unlisted and seem to be afterthoughts, though the servers (and most every late-night table, since the bread pudding routinely sells out) are enthusiastic about them. The bread is hyped as baked fresh that day, which seems a bit like bragging that your breakfast java was just brewed this morning. But, like The Smoking Goat itself, it is delicious, humble, steeped in warmth and begging, like a secret, to be shared with friends.

The Smoking Goat
** ½
3408 30th St., 619.955.5295, thesmokinggoatrestaurant.com

HOURS
Tue.-Sun., 5-9pm; Fri.-Sat., until 10pm

WHERE TO SIT
Patio conversation will compete (and lose) with Bluefoot Bar’s crowd next door. Get cozy at a table next to the kitchen.

GETTING IN
Don’t even think about it during rush hour. Four-tops go fast and resos aren’t taken. Call ahead and ask that a table be held for 15 minutes.

WHAT IT COSTS
Starters, $7-$16; entrées, $14-$29; desserts, $7