Wolfgang's Steakhouse

I had been meaning to get to Wolfgang's Steakhouse for years. I will not wait that long again.

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 burrata with peaches and basil, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, 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 buttered haricots verts and pommes Anna. 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.

If you are passing through New York, do not pass Wolfgang's Steakhouse by.