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If it gets any more old-school than this circa-1941 steakhouse, we haven’t seen it. Filling every inch of the wood-lined dining room are Naugahyde bar stools, chairs and banquettes as blood-red as the steaks (both well-aged, we might add). Servers range from formal to gruff, but they mean well and they deliver the goods: textbook veal Vesuvio, a “garbage” salad fit for four, calf’s liver sautéed with onions and bacon, perfectly seared chops and garlicky shrimp De Jonghe that the veteran staff swears the joint invented. Believe ’em—these are the Chicago old-boys you don’t want to piss off.