Prostrate with gluttonous satisfaction after my first visit, I made sure to wear pants with a stretchy waistband for Take 2 at Segovia Tapas Bar. And I didn’t take pictures, because no woman really wants to memorialize the lycra in her jeans.

The service was pleasant and not slutty, which I always appreciate when I have selected my trousers for their elasticity.

The chefs, with their veiny hands, pork tattooes, and burned fingertips, show some serious dedication to quality. From my seat at the bar, I watched them make and remake dishes with intense concentration. Beets not lined up properly? Redo it. Toast a little too charred? In the bin. Waitress too busy to take the dish off the pass? Get pissed off and serve it yourself.

The seared tuna was just as close as you’ll come to sex on a plate, the scarily fatty bone marrow was nicely offset by its parsley salad sidekick, and I had to restrain the hungry fiancé from licking the plate near the end of our encounter with the mushrooms in sherry sauce. My God, those were delicious.

I could have used a little more fat-cutting acid in the apple/quince chutney topping the pork belly. That said, we cleaned the plate and would order the dish again. The Apple Torrija (a sort of Spanish French Toast) was light and not overly sweet, though we would have loved bigger slices of the apple.

But the most impressive aspect of the meal was the young men at the stove. Undoubtedly their friends were out for a Saturday night of drinking and cavorting, but they were burning their fingertips making me dinner, with a maturity clearly born out of a love for their craft.

Cheers.