Keens

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

The room is exactly what you want it to be: clay pipes on the ceiling and theater bills under glass. 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 a Napa cabernet old enough to drink itself, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: mutton chop and prime rib, the dish that puts Keens on every short list. The crust was the colour of dark mahogany, and the inside was a confident, even pink the whole way through. The signature touch — the mutton chop, of course — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for skin-on fries, twice-fried and hash browns the size of a hubcap. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was vanilla ice cream with a shot of espresso poured over, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

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