Peter Luger

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

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 house-cured beef carpaccio, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Oregon pinot, against the steak waiter's better judgement, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: porterhouse for two, the dish that puts Peter Luger on every short list. There was a thumb of butter melting into the cross-hatch, and a single sprig of thyme on top, and not one thing more. The signature touch — dry-aged porterhouse, sliced tableside — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for wild mushrooms in butter and creamed spinach so rich it should embarrass us. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was the bread pudding with bourbon sauce, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

If you are passing through Brooklyn, do not pass Peter Luger by.