Goodman

Walking into Goodman 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: 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 a single chuleta of cured pork to set the mood, 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. 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 wild mushrooms in butter and asparagus with hollandaise. 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.

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