Sir Winston Churchill's

A friend who knows Mexico City better than I do put Sir Winston Churchill's 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: fireplaces, claret, club ties. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with country pâté with cornichons, 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: prime rib, the dish that puts Sir Winston Churchill's 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 — the Tudor house in Polanco, a complete time warp — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for grilled radicchio with anchovy 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 a wedge of chocolate cake to share, fork divided, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I paid the bill, walked out into the Mexico City evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.