Dario Cecchini

I have eaten in a lot of dining rooms that try this hard. Dario Cecchini is one of the few that pulls it off without looking like it is trying.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: communal feast above the butcher shop. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with bone marrow with a small salad of capers and parsley, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: bistecca and bistecca and bistecca, the dish that puts Dario Cecchini 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 — Dante at the cutting board, opera on the speakers — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for potato gratin with a dark crust 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 vanilla ice cream with a shot of espresso poured over, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

Some places earn their reputation. Dario Cecchini earns it twice over.