Beast

A friend who knows London better than I do put Beast at the top of a list of three. He was right, as he often is.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: candlelit cavern under Marylebone. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with country pâté with cornichons, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Argentine malbec the waiter chose for me, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: nebraskan tomahawk, the dish that puts Beast on every short list. Was it the very best steak I have ever eaten? No. Was it among the dozen I think about most? Yes. The signature touch — king crab to start, beef to finish — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for broiled tomato with a breadcrumb cap and hash browns the size of a hubcap. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was the bread pudding with bourbon sauce, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

A perfect Sunday lunch, which is what I came for.