Parrilla Peña

I have eaten in a lot of dining rooms that try this hard. Parrilla Peña is one of the few that pulls it off without looking like it is trying.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: 1940s tiles, paper tablecloths, men in white aprons. 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 tomato salad heavy with red onion and oregano, 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: vacío, the dish that puts Parrilla Peña on every short list. It arrived faintly hissing on a heated plate, the kind of small detail that tells you the kitchen still cares about the last twenty seconds before service. The signature touch — the asado de tira, slow and smoky — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for fried okra and a dab of remoulade and buttered haricots verts. 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.

I will be back. With company, next time, and a longer reservation.