The margarita I ordered before dinner one golden evening at Driftwood arrived with an apple slice for a garnish. Where was the wedge of lime? The official fruit of spring break (not to mention adult beverages) got replaced with something I put in my kid’s lunchbox. Nobody said a word.

It’s clear from the menu that this restaurant on Alki Beach embraces local ingredients in a big way. But you could pass an entire meal sitting by the window, taking in Elliott Bay at sunset, and it might never come up that Driftwood pulls off a bar program completely without citrus—because lemons and limes don’t grow in Washington. You’d certainly never know from the margarita itself, perfectly balanced and garnished with miniature ice spheres, like a pile of amethyst-colored marbles.

I appreciate a restaurant that understates its sourcing flex rather than subject every table to a TED talk about foraging saskatoon berries. But knowing a bit more could go a long way toward understanding—and enjoying—one of the year’s most compelling new restaurants.

Chef Dan Mallahan was driving down Admiral one afternoon when he spotted bachelor buttons growing in the front garden of a home that faces Seattle’s skyline. He pulled over and knocked on the door.  “I’m a local chef and I have a restaurant down on Alki called Driftwood,” he told the surprised homeowner. “Your garden’s beautiful; would you be opposed to me coming by and gathering some flowers for garnish every now and then?”

Once you hit a certain caliber of Seattle restaurant, bragging that you use local produce is about as notable as proclaiming that your restaurant also has utensils—and tables, even. But Mallahan exceeds even our high local standards by performing a citywide scavenger hunt each week to lay in whatever supply of turnips and squash blossoms and sea lettuce will power the menu. He might visit three farmers markets, plus assorted P-Patches, even his mom’s herb garden: “My mom is a huge, huge supplier of the restaurant.” By now, four different houses on his route to work let him collect herbs and flowers (he invites owners to dine on the house, though nobody’s taken him up on it yet). For necessary imports like spices, Driftwood at least tries to buy local, from places like Villa Jerada. Zero produce sneaks in from California.

It’s way easier to rely on a “broadliner” company that gathers produce from various farms, including some very credible local ones. “But I wanted to just try to highlight Washington state,” says Mallahan. “To a fault—it’s really challenging.”

This one-man odyssey yields dishes like a piece of rockfish, expertly cooked, and gilded with enough elements to form an entirely separate dish—a bed of sugar snap peas, porcini and morel mushrooms, garlic scape pesto, and translucent circles of pickled spring onion. There’s more, including a dehydrated powder on top. Does this sound like overkill? Miraculously, it’s not. Over and over, Mallahan’s kitchen takes ingredients worthy of a solo spotlight, then turns them into an artistic rendering of a tidal pool or forest floor.

Nearly as surprising as an apple in your margarita: a beef tartare that’s practically a grain bowl disguised as a meat dish—in the best possible way. Petite cubes of 21-day dry-aged beef mingle with hazelnuts and sprouted black lentils. It’s a savvy update to a very traditional formula, especially with a lavash cracker shaped like a ruler and dotted with black garlic aioli so each piece you break off can add richness. But it’s so far afield from the indulgent pile of raw beef people envision when they order; some diners might appreciate a little context. The pork chop—perfectly sliced, bone in, sprinkled with cherries—needed no decoding whatsoever.

Okay, a few vegetable dishes felt more like pretty exercises in technique than something I might crave and eat again. Servers seem overwhelmed when the dining room fills up. And if you don’t pay attention and just say yes to still rather than sparkling, nobody clarifies you just shelled out $8 for a fancy bottle of water. But Seattle’s restaurants are beset with so many challenges right now (supplies, staffing, costs, you’ve heard this before) that these issues feel extremely minor. The act of opening an ambitious place, then cooking every intricate dish flawlessly, might as well be a 72-point headline. The hazelnut pie and chocolate olive oil cake, both garnished with summer fruit, are easily the best restaurant desserts I’ve had this year.

Mallahan traces his zeal for the markets to his days cooking at Boulevard in San Francisco. Owner/legend Nancy Oakes and executive chef Dana Younkin have decades-old relationships with farmers. At the Ferry Building farmers market across the street, “You have the stuff that’s for sale and the stuff that’s for Nancy.”

Driftwood’s signature pull-apart rolls (great with flavored butter; imperative to soak up broth if you order the shellfish steamer) combine a brioche recipe from the Boulevard days with Mallahan’s experience baking thousands of hamburger buns, of all things, during a year cooking at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Rome. But Mallahan grew up in Everett. Driftwood’s dining room—designed by his wife and business partner, Jackie—has handsome white cabinetry, pale dreamscape aqua hues, and the effortless polish I associate with San Francisco restaurants. But nobody’s mistaking this menu for California cuisine.

Back to that margarita. The bar replaces lime juice with cider made from Washington’s own cosmic crisp apple. A bit of citric acid helps match the pH. “We try not to be pandering or overly pretentious about it,” says Mallahan. Though sitting at the bar gives you a front-row seat to geek out on the pickled carrot brine in the martini, the masterful N/A negroni, and a cocktail program that’s worth its own visit. (Those elevated stools give you a better view of the water, anyway.)

Driftwood is hard to tuck into a category: It’s a fish-forward restaurant that also knows its way around meat. A waterfront destination that doesn’t rely on its view (which, for the record, only applies to the front tables). The chef holds himself to rigorous sourcing standards, but doesn’t need to hold forth about it. His kitchen puts out special occasion food, served in a dining room where vibes are downright beachy.

But as the sun gets lower, seats fill up with friends who biked here and families packing teenagers in Birkenstocks and cutoff jorts. Suddenly categorizing this place isn’t nearly as important as deciding whether to order the asparagus or the snap peas. And, probably, another margarita.