Peter Luger has served porterhouse in the same Williamsburg beer hall since 1887, outlasting the neighborhood's every transformation. Dry-aged on premises, cut thick, broiled at fearsome heat, and presented sizzling on a tilted plate, the porterhouse for two (or three, or four) remains the standard against which American steak is judged.
The formula tolerates no substitutions: thick-cut bacon to start, the porterhouse, creamed spinach, German fried potatoes, and the burger only at lunch. Waiters in vests deliver the institution's famous brusqueness, now performed as much as felt. It's cash or debit only — a century-old policy the house shows no sign of abandoning.
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