Goodman

There are restaurants you visit and restaurants you return to. Goodman is, after one quiet Sunday in London, very much the second kind.

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 country pâté with cornichons, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Napa cabernet old enough to drink itself, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: usda bone-in ribeye, the dish that puts Goodman on every short list. It was, frankly, the best version of this cut I have had this year. The signature touch — Himalayan-salt dry-aged sirloin — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for asparagus with hollandaise and skin-on fries, twice-fried. 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.

Some places earn their reputation. Goodman earns it twice over.