Beast

Some rooms tell you exactly what to order the moment you sit down. Beast, in London, is one of them.

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 grilled provoleta with chimichurri, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Oregon pinot, against the steak waiter's better judgement, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: nebraskan tomahawk, the dish that puts Beast on every short list. There was a thumb of butter melting into the cross-hatch, and a single sprig of thyme on top, and not one thing more. 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 asparagus with hollandaise and wild mushrooms in butter. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was vanilla ice cream with a shot of espresso poured over, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I paid the bill, walked out into the London evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.