Eat: Scotland Yard 

Although the demographics are different, the Marina and the Castro share some of the same structural elements. They're both bar-heavy residential neighborhoods, each with good movie theaters and a Books Inc., that cater to specific segments of the populace (namely, the post-collegiate set and the gays). I used to shrug off dining out in the Castro with the sour equivalent of "It can't happen here," but it's a better place to eat out than ever. And now the same can be said of the Marina.

After The Dorian and the magnificent Belga, Scotland Yard is the third leg of a triangle of worthwhile restaurants that opened this year, even if you're guilty of Marina-bashing. Chef Jason Raffin, who hailed from wine bar BIN 38 — in the space that now houses Scotland Yard — has an identifiable palate, and it's one that will be appreciated by people whose fake IDs got them into 10-cent wing nights but who've now grown up. What Scotland Yard has in abundance is umami. What it lacks is Anglophilia: It's on Scott Street, has a pipe-smoking Sherlock Holmes logo, and serves Yorkshire puddings, but mercifully there are no Union Jacks or telephone boxes or yellow submarines.

That it's a wine bar like its predecessor is obvious once you look around, but the menu is another animal entirely. The sirloin tartare ($15), heavy with mustard seeds, was as red as bruschetta and served with an airy thing that couldbe mistaken for a chicharron. (It's puffed beef tendon.) There's a Worcestershire sauce in there, too, that somehow isn't overkill on a dish that generally flaunts its nakedness.

Studded with jalapeños and kaeshi sauce — a mix of soy sauce, sugar, and a low-alcohol rice wine called mirin — a tray of pan-seared dumplings ($8 for six) was particularly pretty; you seldom see that much decorative elbow grease put into something so humble. I never learn my lesson with micro-tacos, though; although these crispy tuna ceviche numbers ($6 for two) were dressed with enough watermelon radish greens to resemble a terrarium, to say nothing of the fantastic avocado cream, it's hard to call them appetizers. (Hors d'oeuvres, more like it, which means we should have ordered more.)

You can sense the kale backlash building, but the kale Caesar salad ($12 for the large) innovated enough to keep it from feeling recycled. However salty, the poached egg, fried shallots, and pickled turnip combination demonstrated a real enthusiasm to make the Caesar new again. Another stellar preparation was the aerated crème fraîche on the Brussels sprouts ($6). It might look like Reddi-Whip, but it imparts sophistication to a dish that would otherwise be a tug-of-war between more strident flavors like lemon and bacon.

To my surprise, the Coca-Cola ribs ($26 for the large portion) were among the very best I've eaten in San Francisco. The combination of cola and cilantro did a better job of cutting the fat than vinegar could, and while they're arranged in a lattice, these ribs looked like they would tip over Fred Flintstone's car at the drive-thru.

Unfortunately, the pork chop ($14) was an over-salted exercise in lily-gilding. The butternut squash, with the texture of a hot melon, was undercooked, and I couldn't understand why there was mustard on it. Raisins and pistachios, a fine idea in the abstract, added nothing — and would you be surprised if I said the pork was bacon-brined, on top of it? If nothing else, it made me appreciate the tartare even more: The mustard there could have been overkill, but even after mushing it all together, you could still discern the heat from the richness of the quail egg.

Then there's the Yard Burger ($13). My eating buddy was adamant that the wilted lettuce was an unpardonable sin, but I enjoyed its faint whisper among the shouting of the bone marrow aioli, the cheddar, and the cornichon remoulade. While the overburdened pork chop wasn't so lucky, the burger's ingredients were singing in a chorus. It's basically the distillation of Chef Raffin's philosophy of going the whole nine yards (if you will).

Therein lies much of the mystery of Scotland Yard: It has the appurtenances of a wine bar, but all the flavors are bold, unsubtle, umami-heavy. It's upper-echelon pub food, which makes me instinctively want to pair it with beer. What's even more confusing is why a server, when asked for a recommendation, would steer people toward a basic California Zin. (Do people really venture to wine bars for fruit bombs?) There is something of a split personality to Scotland Yard, but to be honest, I dig the kitchen's vision. Scour the menu, and what you won't find are pretexts for obnoxious people to flash their cash. You come here to eat heartily, not to consume conspicuously.

The mild schizophrenia extended to the décor. Scotland Yard has a lounge-y interior with nooks and armchairs, and only one row of tables that backs up onto an upholstered bench, patterned like rowhouses in Brussels or the paperback cover of Tales of the City. Not to traffic in gender stereotypes, but apart from the TV, the interior is as girly as the food is bro-y. There was sportball on the screen, with nobody watching it. My dinner date half-jokingly asked if we could change the channel. The server obligingly brought us the remote, and we finished dinner watching a close-captioned SVU episode about an AIDS activist who murdered two people. It's Scotland Yard, after all; lurid crime over wine and burgers seemed like the way to go.