A few days before the birth of our first child, one of my oldest friends came down from Brooklyn…read morefor what we understood would be my final properly indulgent night before parenthood. We have known each other since we were five, lived together in New York for six years, and stayed close through marriages, children, and jobs that occasionally made us question our sanity. He has seen me at my absolute best and worst, and he was also the person who helped me get fit and regain some discipline while we worked in finance and used excess to numb the misery of those jobs. Choosing Butcher & Singer gave the evening exactly the ceremonial weight it deserved.
Steakhouses take on different meanings as you move through life. In your early twenties, an expense account dinner feels like the dream: free drinks and an extravagant meal while you are broke, eating ramen, and sitting at the bottom of the professional food chain. By your early thirties, after enough wining and dining in Midtown Manhattan, the ritual can feel exhausted, and another steakhouse dinner holds little appeal. In your early forties, with young children and fewer unstructured nights, catching up with a lifelong best friend over a great steak feels incredibly meaningful, partly because neither the dinner nor the friendship needs to become a weekly habit.
That contrast was especially fitting because my friend is remarkably health-conscious and frugal despite being tremendously successful. He seldom strays from his disciplined diet, while I have historically been much more willing to wander toward fries, dessert, and whatever reckless topping appears on the menu. A traditional steakhouse lets both people leave satisfied: one can order a lean steak and vegetables, while the other can treat the table as permission to suspend judgment for two hours. We shared the same celebratory dinner, but our plates still reflected exactly who each of us had always been.
Inside, Butcher & Singer delivers the classic steakhouse fantasy with extraordinary conviction. The soaring ceiling, monumental columns, and amber lighting give the dining room a glamorous scale, while the dark wood, painted murals, and small shaded lamps keep all that grandeur from becoming severe. This is where Stephen Starr's judgment becomes especially apparent, because both Butcher & Singer and nearby Barclay Prime depend on concepts that could age badly: one could become stuffy and antiquated, while the other could become glossy and artificial. Instead, Butcher & Singer still feels transportive, Barclay Prime remains contemporary and cool, and each succeeds because the design, service, and atmosphere are executed with total confidence.
Our meal included what I believe was a Caesar salad, filet mignon, asparagus, fries, and a rich chocolate fudge cake. I added a blue cheese garnish to my steak, a completely unnecessary flourish that became the crown jewel on an already excellent piece of meat, while my friend kept his side of the table considerably cleaner. Parc creates a useful third point in Starr's small Rittenhouse constellation: its bar steak and burger offer a more casual form of red meat, somewhere between an ordinary dinner and the full ceremony of Butcher & Singer or Barclay Prime. I appreciate both, but a burger leaves me feeling heavier, while a properly cooked lean steak can feel filling and indulgent without ruining the rest of the night.
Only one detail could have improved our experience. We sat at a small table near the host stand and the clock, which was comfortable and entirely reasonable for a table for two, but it left us slightly outside the dramatic center of the room. This was no one's fault, merely the kind of learned preference that comes from seeing the full room afterward and knowing where I would request to sit on a future visit. I hope to return when the budget allows, settle farther inside among the leather booths, glowing lamps, and sweep of the murals, and once again let Butcher & Singer make a rare night with an old friend feel worthy of savoring.
