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Having spiffed up the mythic nineteenth-century saloon without disgruntling its eclectic clientele, P.J. Clarke’s owners expanded the brand upstairs with a gentrified chophouse menu and ambitious prices. Romantic in a roadhouse way, the room's woodsy and dark, with bare brick, Sinatra crooning, and some surprisingly good food: glistening scallops, carefully cooked salmon cut as big as a T-bone, and a fine sirloin shell with fries. — Rob Patronite and Robin Raisfeld