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In a windy financial-district nook, Wall Streeters can unwind after a day of rampant capitalism with obscenely thick, richly marbled steaks and a giant wine list (but no cigars). Polished floors, cream walls, rustic murals, and scarlet upholstery set the scene for the restaurant’s well-fixed, over-40 patrons. The business here is beef; steaks are honest, generously portioned, and consistently good. (Caveat emptor: The steaks may arrive apparently rarer than ordered because Flames dry-ages its beef on the premises—once the steakhouse norm, now a rarity—and a shorter cooking time is required for succulent, tender bites. If you’re skittish, waiters will gladly sear slices of the meat on its scalding-hot plate tableside.) The juicy, bone-in shell steak has a well-seasoned crust; filet mignon, T-bones, and a porterhouse for two offer equal carnivorous appeal. The steakhouse fare is joined by a few Northern Italian pastas; Maine lobster; and starters like Blue Point oysters, crabmeat cocktail, and antipasti of fresh mozzarella and sweet, thick-sliced tomatoes. Sides, like lightly fried, sweet and salty onion rings, are for the most part worthwhile. Cheesecake or crème brûlée for dessert is predictable, but so is Flames, which delivers exactly what it promises: a steak dinner that blows your cholesterol count to satisfying smithereens. — Timothy Cooper

The dining rooms downstairs, which can be curtained off for privacy, seat up to 130 and share space with the wine cellar that owner Nick Vuli claims holds 60,000 bottles.

Steak for one, $37; onion rings for one, $5