In the late ‘80s, Smith & Wollensky was an alluring enigma to me. Grown-up, a little intimidating, and completely out of reach, it was the kind of place where I imagined real deals went down over martinis and rare cuts, spoken of with a mix of awe and reverence. In my early twenties, fresh out of college and trying to find my footing in New York City, a meal at this high-profile New York steakhouse is what young people now would consider “goals.” If anyone my age had been, it was immediately name-dropped, and it was almost always on a visiting relative’s dime. Its signature green-and-white wooden facade stood out like an artifact among Midtown Manhattan’s towering glass-and-steel giants. On most evenings, black town cars idled at the curb and around the block, as did the thick smell of charred meat, heavy cologne, and cigarette smoke, my imagined scent of..
