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 a wedge of iceberg with blue cheese, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a heavy California zinfandel, no apologies, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: porterhouse for two, the dish that puts Peter Luger on every short list. It was, frankly, the best version of this cut I have had this year. The signature touch — dry-aged porterhouse, sliced tableside — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for fried okra and a dab of remoulade 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 key lime pie, 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.