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 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. 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 thick-cut onion rings, stacked 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 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 paid the bill, walked out into the Brooklyn evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.