Hawksmoor

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

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 a wedge of iceberg with blue cheese, 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 hash browns the size of a hubcap and pommes Anna. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was key lime pie, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

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