Sure, the 3-month-old "gastro-tavern" at First and Vine has a consciously constructed image, but what a nice image it is: clean-lined, generous, original and affordable; understated and yet full of surprises.

Shrimp, for instance, arrive sauteed and spicy-hot and arranged in a circle, with the heads fried up in a crunchy center pile like a cannibal's feast. Sliced, rosy-centered hanger steak comes with daikon, just as the menu says -- but the spicy radish is pulped into a pile that resembles nothing so much as mashed potatoes, adding some surprise back to its bite. And Black Bottle's version of antipasti misti? "I love this place!" one guest proclaimed as the plate arrived, seeing panko-breaded, Gouda-stuffed olives; figs wrapped and baked in twists of prosciutto like mini gift boxes (nice flavor, but the ends get over-crisped); and a deconstructed caprese with thin strips of basil binding bites of tomato to flat triangles of mozzarella.

The food is full of such tasty flourishes, but otherwise Black Bottle is resolutely down-to-earth. It promises less than it delivers, in fact, with a terse menu rather than the ornate descriptions in vogue these days. There are flat prices for each dish ($7 for desserts, $8 for everything else.) There are Londonesque echoes -- like the "gastro-tavern" name itself, a nod to the gastropubs that have sprung up in England over the past decade or so, with the goal of making food as fine as the drinks -- but the dishes blithely dance around the international culinary spectrum. We already have some places in Seattle for elevated pub grub; this one is about something else.

The menu has two dozen options, from octopus to laab gai to tiramisu. Dishes are certainly shareable, but we wouldn't call them small plates. We have no idea, in fact, how the owners turn a profit, the way they pile, say, three fat CasCioppo sausages on one dish, paired with an arugula salad whose leaves appear practically individually dried. Even the simple Broccoli Blasted seemed like a novel snack, a loaded plate of salty-tender florets, edges crispy and frizzled from the convection oven, pairing perfectly with a pint of Manny's on draft.

There's no cocktail list, just a fully stocked bar and servers who are glad to bring you whatever drinks you like. When we dared the bartender to surprise us, we got a tame Mandarin cosmopolitan, actually the weakest drink of a good and liberally poured bunch. The menu includes a handful of beers, plus a list of a few dozen young, inexpensive wines.

The place has an interesting vibe. It's clear that careful thought went into every aspect, down to the strong-but-spiffy logo and the pricey-looking, well-insulated (recyclable!) black takeout containers -- yet it's not manipulative or over-tweaked. If anything, it's anti-attitude.

"It's what Belltown was meant to be," said one guest, who toasted the well-balanced vodka gimlet -- served, like several drinks were, with the "extra" in a cold silver container by its side like a milkshake.

Servers are friendly and helpful; not always 100 percent familiar with details of the food, but always willing to check. They gave solid recommendations when asked; we especially appreciated the fellow who steered us toward the decadently balsamic Potato and Prosciutto Wheels, mashed potatoes gone to heaven, rather than the salmon and fontina balls, a fried version that seemed more like a '50s dinner party.

Black Bottle is owned by Judy Boardman (also the designer) and by Chris Linker, who previously owned Carmine's on Penn in Denver, a popular Italian place. Linker paired up here again with former Carmine's chef Brian Durbin, a longtime friend who had been living abroad, running an off-the-grid resort in the Caribbean.

"We wanted the core values of a pub or a bar, sort of the simplicity and honesty in delivery, no tricks, dependable and timeless," Linker said. Black Bottle wound up being the integration of their research, he said, exploring everything from Japanese isakayas, bars that specialize in food, to hangouts in Paris and Austria.

The fully renovated restaurant space -- formerly home to the unfortunately named "Two Dagos From Texas" restaurant -- has a pleasing, unfussy look, with a lot of browns and blacks and white. It's clean but not austere, with some character added by the lovely old red brick wall.

There's bar seating, with a white-bearded tender who tells visitors to make themselves at home, but plenty of tables as well. A dull, silvery half-wall in the back is actually a large-scale sculpture made of cold-rolled steel, with a planetary design gently rotating near the top. Dim lighting is comfortable when the business first opens, but the naked candles lit on the tables as the evening progresses are painfully hard on the eyes. Silver medallions on the table now have the Black Bottle name -- and how did that name come about, given that the place seems no more geared toward scotch than any other drink?

"It's strong, dependable, timeless, Hemingwayesque, aesthetically nice to look at," said Linker. "It just clicked, (thinking) 'That's something that will be here for 20 years.' "

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