Goodman

A friend who knows London better than I do put Goodman at the top of a list of three. He was right, as he often is.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: Mayfair, leather banquettes, no nonsense. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with burrata with peaches and basil, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a heavy California zinfandel, no apologies, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: usda bone-in ribeye, the dish that puts Goodman on every short list. The crust was the colour of dark mahogany, and the inside was a confident, even pink the whole way through. The signature touch — Himalayan-salt dry-aged sirloin — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for hash browns the size of a hubcap 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 panna cotta with stewed cherries, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

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