Wolfgang's Steakhouse

Walking into Wolfgang's Steakhouse for the first time is a small piece of theatre, and that is before any food has arrived.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: vaulted Guastavino tile, brass fittings, waiters in tuxedos. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with grilled provoleta with chimichurri, 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, the dish that puts Wolfgang's Steakhouse 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 — the canopy of arches above the dining room — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for wild mushrooms in butter and fried okra and a dab of remoulade. 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.

Some places earn their reputation. Wolfgang's Steakhouse earns it twice over.