Sometimes, only steak will do. It’s a primal, fundamental urge, a taste as old as cold water, and a reminder that for all our so called ‘civilisation’, we’re only a few faltering steps removed from the most savage and brutal of beasts. And while the grain-fed, buttery American cuts have their place, it’s British, grass-grazed beef I crave, served charred and bloody, smeared with a sinus-clearing blob of Colman’s English mustard.
And so to Hawksmoor, that magnificent bastion of British beef, currently celebrating its 20th anniversary. Has it really been open that long? Dear god, it seems like just yesterday when
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