Beast

There are restaurants you visit and restaurants you return to. Beast is, after one quiet Sunday in London, very much the second kind.

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 a small dish of marinated white anchovies, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a heavy California zinfandel, no apologies, 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 fried okra and a dab of remoulade. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a wedge of chocolate cake to share, fork divided, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

It is not cheap. It is, in this case, worth it.