50 Withers St., Brooklyn (718-387-3434)
Photograph by Amy Lombard for the New Yorker
Photograph by Amy Lombard for the New Yorker

Erik Ramirez, a former sous-chef at Eleven Madison Park, recently opened a quirky portal to Lima, Peru, at a boho-swanky restaurant wedged under the shadow of the B.Q.E. in Williamsburg. While Ramirez’s roots in Manhattan’s anointed temple of fine dining might strike fear in fans of the Peruvian-rotisserie-chicken chain Pio Pio (how can you elevate such perfection?), Llama Inn turns out to be fun, unusual, a little bit goofy, and extremely delicious.

The menu rides the waves of the Spanish, French, Amerindian, Chinese, and Japanese influences of the Peruvian melting pot. Anticuchos, the street snack of grilled skewered meats, included, on a recent night, perfect little bites of char-siu pork belly, topped with homemade pork rinds, and a wonderfully firm and fortifying beef heart. Fluke ceviche, with lime and red onion, was bright and assertive; red-snapper tiradito, sliced into thin pieces and topped with unctuous persimmon and lightly crunchy poppy seeds, was elegant, like fruity silk. Flouting the unspoken rule that quinoa is a bummer, Ramirez mixes it with avocado, thick hunks of bacon, caramelized bananas, and banana mayonnaise, resulting in a sort of improbably irresistible banana-bacon pudding.

For those who believe that the cuisine of Peru starts at roast chicken and ends at fried potatoes, Llama Inn has you covered. One of two large-format plates is a gorgeous brined, hickory-smoked, garlic-tinged bird, served chili-spiced skin intact, alongside a mountain of potato wedges roasted to a handsome crisp. The sauces on the side make it a party: a creamy queso-fresco concoction, a rich rocoto-chili crema, and a green aji-pepper sauce for a tiny bit of heat. A spectacular lomo saltado, a stir-fry of tender beef chunks in a thick soy-vinegar glaze, is showered with French fries and drizzled with more rocoto crema. As if that’s not enough (it is), it’s served with avocado, pickled chilis, and scallion pancakes, for making Chinese-Peruvian tacos.

As befits the neighborhood, much attention is paid to the cocktails. The El Chapo doesn’t feel particularly louche, except that it’s basically a goblet of tequila, with a hint of pisco and citrus (“Very spirit forward,” the server offered optimistically); the Flying Purple Pisco, with purple-potato purée and frothed egg whites, is like a tiny lavender-hued soufflé. Pisco buzz aside, maybe the good vibes have something to do with the catwalk of tropical plants ringing the walls of windows high above the seats, or the earthy colors and fibres seemingly sourced from nature. Or maybe it’s the feeling you get from all this lovely food prepared with unpretentious enthusiasm and home-town pride. (Plates $4-$48.) ♦