Smith & Wollensky

It rained the whole afternoon I spent at Smith & Wollensky, and I cannot now imagine eating there in any other weather.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: white-tile corner room above Third Avenue. 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 small dish of marinated white anchovies, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Chianti Classico Riserva I wrote down in my notebook, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: bone-in ribeye, the dish that puts Smith & Wollensky on every short list. It arrived faintly hissing on a heated plate, the kind of small detail that tells you the kitchen still cares about the last twenty seconds before service. The signature touch — Wollensky salad and the cottage fries — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for wild mushrooms in butter 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 panna cotta with stewed cherries, 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.