Don Julio

Some rooms tell you exactly what to order the moment you sit down. Don Julio, in Buenos Aires, is one of them.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: Palermo corner parrilla with empty bottles signed on the walls. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with French onion soup with the cap of cheese intact, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Burgundy that arrived too cold and rewarded patience, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: ojo de bife, the dish that puts Don Julio on every short list. It arrived faintly hissing on a heated plate, the kind of small detail that tells you the kitchen still cares about the last twenty seconds before service. The signature touch — the chorizo and provoleta before the beef — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for fried okra and a dab of remoulade and buttered haricots verts. 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.

A perfect Sunday lunch, which is what I came for.