Eating at a cozy little neighborhood restaurant is like seeing a play in a tiny theater: When things go well, the intimacy is enough to make you swoon; when they don't, the awkwardness is enough to make you squirm -- and wish you were anywhere else.
At Ten Tables, we swooned. More than once.
We had a hint that Ten Tables would have this neighborhood-restaurant thing down as soon we first called for a table. When she bought the predecessor, Perdix, Krista Kranyak kept most of the staff but changed the menu, the interior, and, thankfully, a reservation policy that had irritated many of the neighbors, us included. Now tables can be booked for any night, even Fridays and Saturdays, when they are most needed.
The swooning, though, didn't start until we walked into the flickering candlelight. The chefs looked up, smiled, and nodded from a stainless-steel kitchen that was as close as the next table. Kranyak helped her general manager wait on tables, then sat and chatted with friends, part of a decidedly local crowd that filled all but one or two of the 24 seats. A gorgeous baby was already starting his meal, as his mother breast-fed him under a shawl.
Ten Tables is still waiting for its beer and wine license, so on their advice, we brought our own stash. And it was too bad that the female half of Sauce was on vacation, because less oenophilic friends carried in a sparkling dessert wine and had it opened before the Saucier arrived, let alone had a chance to object. Kranyak and company, ever the polite hosts, didn't point out the faux pas.
Soon enough, other tastes competed successfully with the Moscato d'Asti. Perfect little salads had a sharp lemon vinaigrette, mussels were topped with ham and leeks, and a white bean soup was garlicky and full of bacon fat, just the thing for a cold winter's night. It may have been a bit greasy, but only one of us minded.
Thankfully, it was soon time to open the 1999 Stonehaven Shiraz that the male half of Sauce had brought -- a much better fit, if he does say so himself, with the entrees that would soon be arriving.
Manager Bronwyn Summers opened it and asked, "Does anybody want to taste?"
Nah, we said. What would we do if we didn't like it, send it back?
The entrees were silky and hearty, particularly the wild mushroom and chive lasagna, which would have made us contemplate vegetarianism if only the roasted monkfish, braised pork, and ribeye hadn't been so tasty. The pork belly should've been trimmed of more fat, but that didn't stop the svelte diner who had ordered it -- a co-worker whose idea of a hearty lunch is yogurt and a Diet Coke -- from devouring it, fat and all. The luscious ribeye, cooked just right, came with roasted shallots, pan juices, and a dish of heavenly potatoes whipped with Great Hill blue cheese and broiled until crisp.
While we passed around a perfect creme brulee, pound cake with cranberries, ethereal chocolate mousse, and poached pear with rum creme anglaise, the other table of four gay men broke out into "Happy Birthday." When they got to the fill-in-your-name-here line, and sang, "Happy birthday, dear Tina," the place erupted in giggles.
With the bill, Summers said the leftover ribeye, for a doggie bag, had gone missing. She had removed the price (at $24, the most expensive). That's the kind of service that caused another swoon.
Ten Tables, 597 Centre St., Jamaica Plain, 617-524-8810. 
