This tapas bar doesn't feel like the East Bay at all -- no granola, no Birkenstocks. It feels exotic and cozy and exciting and French, Italian, and Greek all at the same time. Blame it on the César martini, a lethal injection of vodka and pastis that takes the sharp edges off everything and puts the warm, lazy Mediterranean sun in its place. Drop by on a Sunday afternoon and the place is packed. Stop by on a Monday night (when you'd think all good Berkeleyites would be at home in bed reading Hedda Gabler or watching the 10:00 news), and it's standing-room-only. Don't even try to squeeze in on a Friday or Saturday. Who are all these people and where on earth have they come from? In any event, the drinks are perfect, the food delicious, the noise level deafening, and the charming màitre d' is nothing short of magnificent.