Beast

I had been meaning to get to Beast for years. I will not wait that long again.

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 single chuleta of cured pork to set the mood, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a quiet Brunello from the back of the list, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: nebraskan tomahawk, the dish that puts Beast on every short list. Cut through it and you found that deep, beefy, almost iron-tasting interior that only comes from time and dry air. 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 wild mushrooms in butter and creamed spinach so rich it should embarrass us. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a slab of New York cheesecake, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I will be back. With company, next time, and a longer reservation.