Don't Miss! Alice Gabriel of the NY Times came to check out Bellota  at 42, why haven’t you?

THERE was no way around it: After relishing smoky-sweet chouriço flambéed over Portuguese brandy and sipping tourmaline-pink cava at Bellota, on the 42nd floor of the Ritz-Carlton Westchester, we literally had to come back to earth. But with six inches of slush in the streets below, who could blame us for wanting to linger just a little longer?

Chef Anthony  Goncalves’s food has such a wonderfully sunny disposition, and the bar, lounge and mezzanine where Mr. Goncalves serves his vibrant tapas are so inviting, that diners might want to book a hotel room in order to postpone the inevitable descent to the pesky world below. Mr. Goncalves, who follows his Portuguese father’s recipe when he makes that beautiful, piquant chouriço, has created an unexpectedly cosmopolitan — and surprisingly affordable — experience for diners who might shy from his more formal and ambitious project, the adjacent 42.

The physical setting is pretty spectacular (though one guest, taking in the view after walking through the lobby and riding up in the elevator, said dryly, “It could be Indianapolis”). Terrestrial lights glitter for miles in all directions. On a night when flurries swirled outside the tall windows, I felt as if I were inside a giant snow globe. The decor seems to take inspiration from James Bond movies — white leather, sharp angles, shots of lipstick red, dim lighting — but the modern vibe is tamed by rustic touches: blankets of moss strewn with acorns, cocktail tables made from cross sections of maple trees, birch trunks hung with flickering votives.

The best view in the place, however, is a foot away on the plate. Traditional and trendy — both impulses result in little Portuguese-influenced dishes that you remember for days after you’ve eaten them. You can eat a little or a lot. Mr. Goncalves’s larder holds staples like beefsteak, salt cod, sardines, olives, artichokes, hot and sweet peppers and plenty of garlic. (Much of the seasonal menu will be familiar to patrons of Peniche, Mr. Goncalves former restaurant, which has closed.)

First up were folds of jamón de bellota, rippling with fat, draped over toasted country bread. “Bellota ” means “acorn,” and in Spain the free-range black-footed pigs that feast on them produce a rich, silken ham that with each bite justified its $25 price tag. (Slices of two less exalted hams from Spain are also on the menu, for $11 and $18.)

Mr. Goncalves can’t resist a little molecular gastronomy — note the playful “deconstructed” torta española fashioned from Yukon Gold potato foam, caramelized onion, little beads of red-pepper gelée posing as caviar, poached egg, manchego cheese and a puff of juniper-scented smoke that rose when a dome was lifted from the plate.

But traditional tapas made from superior ingredients form the heart of the menu: skirt steak with a soft fried egg and garlicky verde; shrimp in bright-red piri piri sauce; salt cod fritters served in a little wooden box with garlic aioli; grilled octopus with tender fingerling potatoes; exceptional roasted red peppers tossed with sherry; crisp, salty fried artichokes. My own favorites were succulent torched baby lamp chops and a snappy ceviche made with fresh Florida rock shrimp (one of a handful of frequent specials).

For dessert, you might want something from the cheese selection — say, Nettle Meadow’s triple cream, made from goat’s milk and Jersey cow cream, from New York State, or the pleasant, pungent blue-veined La Peral, from Spain. From the short roster of desserts, fruity cherry soup strewn with mealy chocolate (the latter the result of a blast of liquid nitrogen) was a disappointment. Bite-size caramel-glazed churros, served on a pedestal, seemed to better capture the spirit of the place.