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In the midst of a desolate block, Paloma’s doors open wide, sheltered by a burgundy awning. Like an eager date, it’s available: The sinuous wooden bar with its wide-planked floor offers a comfy perch, and the restaurant in back has plenty of tables, including a few appealing, odd-fit nooks. But the two halves don’t quite make a whole: The lurch from the warm bar to the stark industrial-chic dining area is heightened by the white wall that doubles as DVD “screen,” with whimsical programming—anything from Cab Calloway to extreme snowboarding to Betty Boop. Eats cover the gamut, from veg-friendly fare to carnivore-pleasers like double-cut pork chops and braised lamb. Plates are full and generally good, or good enough. Simple, seasonal entrées like slow-roasted pumpkin, served with an oddly dry mound of chile red lentils, and a lightly sauced striped bass with earthy-sweet fall vegetables hold appeal. The bland salt-cod fritters, all poufy breading, no bite of ocean, seem to run counter to the menu’s Iberian-Carib sensibility. But the bar’s generous guidance, providing wines for tasting or custom cocktails infused with Kaffir lime or house-made orange bitters, graciously lubricate any meal. — Helen Zelon