Goodman oozes with testosterone

By and large, men are easy to please. They are simple souls who crave security yet yearn for perfection - with very definite ideas about what constitutes the latter. A wish list for your average go-getting London bloke might read: the Perfect Car (an Aston Martin); the Perfect Suit (anything from Jermyn Street); and, of course, the Perfect Meal.

Despite what the government tells us, or what healthy options our partners try to push on to our plates, the caveman in us all cries out for just one thing: meat. And I mean red meat, because chicken doesn't really count. Actually, I'll break it down even further. We want steak. Desperate Dan kind of steak. Man food. So my heart was cheered to hear that a new restaurant has opened up in Mayfair that specialises in just that.

There's a reason why Mayfair is the most expensive property on the Monopoly board, although it's not immediately apparent. There are no big swathes of green. No tree-filled parks. The noise and bustle of Oxford Street are a little too close for comfort and there are too many cars. But what Mayfair does have is a reputation for quality. It's wealthy - in a restrained rather than flashy way. It's well-mannered, not loud, and also has some quiet little streets tucked away which, when you stumble upon them, make you feel as if you've discovered your own little secret place in London. Maddox Street isn't one of them. Have you seen people wearing luminous sandwich boards advertising golf sales and wondered where such a sale would take place? Well, I can tell you. On Maddox Street.

Named after the famous band leader Benny, Goodman is something of a chain - there are nine branches in Russia, though this is the first in England. And there is something gloriously old-fashioned and instantly reassuring about it. Gleaming dark wood gives it a slightly clubby feel and chocolate-coloured banquettes are made from every man's number one choice of furniture covering, which is, of course, leather. There are splashes of scarlet on the bar stools and the gleam of lovingly polished glasses. And a serious wine list.

A chalkboard advertises what kind of meat is being hung that day, and there is a dry ageing room where this all happens (imagine introducing the concept of an ageing room to Hollywood). And there are men everywhere looking with fierce concentration at the rich menu. Blimey! This place is simply oozing with testosterone.

Feeling rather reckless, my friend and I ordered a bottle of Brouilly; people just don't drink at lunchtime any more, do they? He decided he wanted to try the set lunch, which at only £19 certainly won't break the bank. He began with chicken liver p‚té, which he said was smooth and rich (I'm not going to make any banking jokes because the room was full of them) and very moreish. I had something called Un-ravioli, which reminded my guest of Alice in Wonderland's un-birthday and made me look at him with new eyes (people really do say the strangest things). In fact, it was a large open piece of soft pasta, topped with a rich mushroom mix. I ate every bit (like Goldilocks, I suppose), even though I rarely finish a starter.

My rib-eye steak was huge and tender - the cow probably had its own special masseuse to produce meat this faultless- and the accompanying chips were good. A very reasonable seven out of ten on the chip test. My guest had steak frites, which he said were as good as any you would eat in France; the only difference here was that the waiter was charm personified.

The thing about eating steak is that it gives you a feeling of wellbeing that you simply don't get from any other food - a messed-around-with piece of white fish just doesn't come close.

Seated at the window, watching the world go by and being looked after by our waiter, we were loath to move. I suggested living dangerously and sharing a pudding. It was probably a mistake to opt for a peanut butter parfait topped with a berry sorbet after so hefty a main course. The taste was as cloyingly intense as a peanut pudding always is, but the texture was a bit too dense. It was the only questionable part of the meal.

Feeling replete and lazy, we stepped outside to see the welcoming yellow light of a cab sailing towards us. Perfect.

Goodman
Maddox Street, London, W1S 1QH