Peter Luger

A friend who knows Brooklyn better than I do put Peter Luger 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: century-old German tavern, gruff waiters in white jackets. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with Caesar salad assembled tableside, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Chianti Classico Riserva I wrote down in my notebook, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: porterhouse for two, the dish that puts Peter Luger on every short list. The seasoning was simple — salt, pepper, restraint — and it was the right call. The signature touch — dry-aged porterhouse, sliced tableside — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for buttered haricots verts and potato gratin with a dark crust. 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.

Some places earn their reputation. Peter Luger earns it twice over.