Fine dining is alive and well at The Capital Grille in Clayton

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

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One of Clayton’s newest, most upscale eateries is an exercise in unalloyed dining extravagance, from the private wine lockers stacked at the entrance to the opulently appointed bar to the carefully selected sculptures and paintings to the dining-area carpeting that folds into a soft hush any noise beyond the civilized level. And then there are the impossibly thick cuts o’cow and luscious buttery-rich sides.

The Capital Grille is a chain, with more than 50 locations across the country, but the environs and personal attention are so polished, one scarcely notices. It’s an impressive addition to the way-ritzy steak-and-wine emporiums catering to those coasting on expense accounts or in the mood for a special evening. Prices here can be daunting, but consider what you’re buying.

There’s enough first-class protein here to have emptied half of Texas’ stockyards. Steaks (dry-aged in house and tasting like it) have that intense beefiness and arrestingly exciting texture that you find in places with snowy starched tablecloths and lots of polished dark wood.

We tucked into a ribeye that challenged the dimensions of the dinner plate, its surface crusted with an exquisite fine char. Ordered medium rare, the meat was a dark rose inside, the marbling a juicy glistening. It was tender, fine-grained—there is no better steak in the area. The ribeye was just naked beef. A New York strip arrived resplendently decked with aromatic dollops of Gorgonzola and a swirl of cherry-cabernet reduction on the side. The cut’s firm grain lends itself to such embellishments; a strip steak is less robust, taste-wise, than the ribeye. The flavor was boosted dramatically with that powerful cheese and deep, winey sauce.

Mastodons, apparently, have been genetically reengineered: The Grille’s slab of veal could not possibly have come from a cow. A bone-in chop, as massive as it was tender, was a lovely hue of smoky ash with a taste more like succulent pork than beef. A swordfish fillet—meaty, firm, splendidly roasted—was a less calorically astounding choice (well, except for that shovelful of lump crab heaped on top). Roasted chicken is also on the menu for those unfamiliar with the concept of a steakhouse.

Typical of any good cow castle, little is complex here. Sides? Mushrooms—button, shiitake, and oyster—are simply roasted. Lardons lend porky sweetness to sautéed Brussels sprouts. Even the lobster mac is relatively straightforward: trumpets of campanelle pasta swirled in an exuberant slurry of cheddary goodness and about half a lobster’s worth of meat.

Steak’s ever-loyal sidekick, French fries, have perhaps the most rococo presentation, sporting a fine tracery of crispy Parmesan and a blush of truffle oil.

A profusion of starters is distracting. They’re so generous and choice (and filling), they threaten to dull your appetite rather than hone it. Go with one starter for every two diners to avoid (as Mom warned) ruining your dinner. Opt for a half-dozen oysters or the shrimp, sautéed in a restrained garlic broth and accompanied by olive oil–infused crostini. A baseball-size blob of burrata sits in a shimmer of arugula pesto, along with beautifully balsamic-spiced pears. Our server pushed the fried calamari in a faintly sweet sauce with flecks of hot cherry peppers, and we were grateful. Or just go for appetizer gold with the Grand Plateau, an entire geologic formation of lump crabmeat, lobster, shrimp, and oysters.

Stroll past those personal wine lockers, and you will quickly get the message: Wine is serious business here. Much of the stock is on display in a floor-to-ceiling glass-walled “cellar.” The list is, uh, capital. Focus on the cab savs and Burgundies; your palate will appreciate their hefty tannins against the fabulously marbled meat and rich sides. (Not incidentally, the notion that big wines need biiig! glasses is annoying; you could anchor a Boston whaler in the volume of liquid these goblets hold.)

Open less than a year, the place is typically packed, so reservations are mandatory. On a recent Thursday evening, if there was anyone in Clayton who wasn’t dining or drinking at the Grille, it was only because parking space wasn’t available.

Inside, the atmosphere is clubby, pleasantly formal. The view of a sprawling, impressively efficient kitchen is diverting as you wait for dinner. Once those steaks arrive, however, your attention is properly undivided.

This kind of elegance demands all your dining consideration.

The Bottom Line: High-end dining in an inviting, formal setting