Peter Luger

Some rooms tell you exactly what to order the moment you sit down. Peter Luger, in Brooklyn, is one of them.

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 chopped salad with too much bacon, exactly right, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Burgundy that arrived too cold and rewarded patience, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: porterhouse for two, the dish that puts Peter Luger on every short list. Cut through it and you found that deep, beefy, almost iron-tasting interior that only comes from time and dry air. 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 thick-cut onion rings, stacked. 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.

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