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 house-cured beef carpaccio, 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: 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 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 tiramisu, just barely too much, 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.