Mark McEwan’s 26-year-old white-linen steakhouse remains the uptown choice for special occasion dinners. The room is inoffensively elegant, with taupe chairs and faux Roman statuary. The menu also sticks to the tried and true, like a premium cut of beef tenderloin, caramelized on the grill yet exquisitely blue at the core, predictably accompanied by fingerling potatoes and steamed French beans. Experiments, like a special of bison tartare that’s strangely bland save for an overabundance of Tabasco and cayenne, are less successful. Servers are several degrees more cheery than their downtown peers, gamely accepting requests to snap photos of your table or plunk a birthday candle into a heavy tart of pulpy, overcooked peaches. The big spender wine list—it’s a book—includes several four-figure U.S. vintages.
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