Some twelve years ago, I went to a steak restaurant. Not any steak restaurant, obviously, but one of particular note. It was in the early days of the steak revolution in the UK; Hawksmoor in Covent Garden was the talk of the town, Wolfgang Puck had not long opened Cut on Park Lane, grill specialists Blacklock hadn't yet fired up, and European offerings Macellaio and Sagardi's sights on the UK were a mere glint in their founders' eyes. In this environment came one that had their own take on proceedings, and one rooted in the fundamentals. Their emphasis was on provenance, with the now-de riguer chalk board showcasing cuts of day, and dry-ageing their stock in-house so chefs could keep a keen eye on what could be served, and when. It was an approach to husbandry that continued after the farm, to the plate, as it were. That restaurant was Goodman Mayfair, and last week, after a month in Dry sans-sugar/fat/fun Veganuary purgatory, itching for a top flight steak, a gallon of