Dario Cecchini

It rained the whole afternoon I spent at Dario Cecchini, and I cannot now imagine eating there in any other weather.

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 country pâté with cornichons, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Argentine malbec the waiter chose for me, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: bistecca and bistecca and bistecca, the dish that puts Dario Cecchini on every short list. The seasoning was simple — salt, pepper, restraint — and it was the right call. 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 buttered haricots verts 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 a slab of New York cheesecake, 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.