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Underground nooks make Harry’s perhaps the city’s most intimate steakhouse. Tucked away in a Financial District basement, this quasi-secret spot has a wine-cellar table situated in a cozy corner; male-bonders will appreciate the 12-seat banquet table flanked by murals of monks and wenches. The Prime aged porterhouse for two was tender and nicely encrusted, the service was semitheatrical (waiters offer freshly cracked pepper from yard-long mills), and the wine list was filled with New World bargains for when the plastic’s your own.