It would be easy to focus simply on the word 'taqueria' in regard to Lime Taqueria, a pretty new restaurant opened in West Village Place, the newly minted mix-used complex just outside the perimeter in Smyrna.

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The restaurants puts the lime in the dining room.
Becky Stein/special (ENLARGE)
Veracruz enchilada
Becky Stein/special (ENLARGE)
Sweet corn cakes
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Lime doesn't look like a taqueria, and the menu is clearly one that goes beyond small tacos. Blimey, Lime isn't a taqueria at all.

First, there's the digs, and that starts with limes. Big, ceramic slices of them line the partition that separates the bar from the dining room, like a funky lime romper room. The candlelit tables are flanked with a couple of palm trees, the walls bathed in bright green and yellow, giving the room a breezy, but sophisticated feel.

Then there's the service, which is hardly the handout version you'd get at a small joint that serves tacos and other antojitos. Here, seasoned servers bring big, salty margaritas sloshing around in beautiful Mexican glassware. They remove flatware with each course, and the food is presented artfully on clear glass plates.

But the real reason Lime Taqueria is not a taqueria is chef Oscar Mendivil's menu, which is in Spanish (with English descriptions) and throws around terms like antojitos loosely, using it to describe small plates (also referred to as "tapas" – eek). In fact antojitos are the kind of hand-held goodies Mexicans would eat on the go, buying tacos or sopes from a street vendor for lunch or a snack, the Mexican equivalent of salted pretzels and hot dogs.

Apparently Shakespeare had that whole "what's in a name?" thing right, because in spite of how misleading its name, Lime tastes just as sweet. Well, I mean good. Work with me here.

Sure, the menu over reaches in spots – pernil, a classic Puerto Rican dish Mendivil gives a Michoacan twist doesn't have the crunchy, outer caramelization that gives way to pulled pink flesh that pork shoulder slow roasted for hours should have, and sautéed spinach and tomato "jam" overpower its timid flavor. And the festive dish of Puebla en Nogada, a variation of chiles rellenos from the state of Puebla is a grand idea: a sweet poblano pepper stuffed with ground pork, onions, fruits and nuts under a mantle of walnut cream sauce. But here, it falls flat, with the only predominant flavor the sweetness from walnuts and cream.

And sure, we've been here before – remember Oh ... Maria!? The Martinez-Obregon family closed it in 2003 after an on-again, off-again romance with diners who couldn't decide between their longing for slushie-machine margaritas and the authentic fare like red snapper stuffed with huitlacoche. Their decidedly more casual concept, Zocalo, recently closed its second location in Decatur (the Midtown location is alive and well). Atlanta just hasn't embraced the idea that Mexican food – a truly peasant cuisine – can be interpreted with a modern touch, not just in Mexico but in the United States as well.

But Lime Taqueria tries hard to buck that misconception, and its smaller portions — an array of tacos, tamales and rarely seen goodies like asado de panela (a grilled cheese without the bread, served here with sweet, smoky, roasted poblanos) — prove out. It's in little snacks like gorditas — thick masa cakes stacked with savory beef, tomatoes, queso cotijo and a splendidly smoky roasted tomatillo salsa surrounded by squiggles of cilantro "pesto" — where big flavor bursts through.

Specialty tacos of bacon wrapped shrimp with chipotle sauce and classics of spicy Mexican chorizo with potatoes and onions are small bites, scrumptiously good and fun to boot. Even guacamole and totopos are made regal, the chips lodged upright in creamy chunks of avocado loaded with onions, tomatoes, peppers and fresh cilantro flavor.

I wish Lime wouldn't fall prey to the gooey chocolate dessert demon that lurks in nearly every restaurant this side of the Mississippi, but a soupy "soufflé" proves that this devil has paid a visit to the kitchen. A corn cake redeems all: light corn flavor like a sweet corn muffin, but moist like a pudding.

Owners Jesse Diaz and Rene Diaz have venerable resumes in the local food scene – the former worked as a manager at Pricci for 15 years; Rene's family owns Latin food distributor Diaz Foods.

It shouldn't shock anyone that the two could pull off a venue like Lime this easily. Just don't let the name fool you.