Goodman

Some rooms tell you exactly what to order the moment you sit down. Goodman, in London, is one of them.

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 Caesar salad assembled tableside, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Chianti Classico Riserva I wrote down in my notebook, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: usda bone-in ribeye, the dish that puts Goodman 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 — Himalayan-salt dry-aged sirloin — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for fried okra and a dab of remoulade and asparagus with hollandaise. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was the bread pudding with bourbon sauce, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

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