Burnt Ends

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

The room is exactly what you want it to be: open kitchen counter, ambient smoke. 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 Oregon pinot, against the steak waiter's better judgement, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: smoked beef short rib, the dish that puts Burnt Ends 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 — the four-tonne custom grill — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for grilled radicchio with anchovy butter 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 crème brûlée with a proper glass crust, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

Some places earn their reputation. Burnt Ends earns it twice over.