Hawksmoor

Walking into Hawksmoor 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: 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 grilled provoleta with chimichurri, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: bone-in prime rib, the dish that puts Hawksmoor on every short list. Was it the very best steak I have ever eaten? No. Was it among the dozen I think about most? Yes. The signature touch — the triple-cooked chips — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for grilled radicchio with anchovy butter and asparagus with hollandaise. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was tiramisu, just barely too much, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

If you are passing through London, do not pass Hawksmoor by.