Dario Cecchini

Walking into Dario Cecchini for the first time is a small piece of theatre, and that is before any food has arrived.

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 a tomato salad heavy with red onion and oregano, 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 grilled radicchio with anchovy butter and fried okra and a dab of remoulade. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a wedge of chocolate cake to share, fork divided, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I paid the bill, walked out into the Panzano in Chianti evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.