Hawksmoor

A friend who knows London better than I do put Hawksmoor 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: low light, dark wood, City crowd loosening ties. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with bone marrow with a small salad of capers and parsley, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Argentine malbec the waiter chose for me, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: bone-in prime rib, the dish that puts Hawksmoor on every short list. Cut through it and you found that deep, beefy, almost iron-tasting interior that only comes from time and dry air. The signature touch — the triple-cooked chips — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for creamed spinach so rich it should embarrass us and buttered haricots verts. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a slab of New York cheesecake, 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.