Review: Hamilton's Urban Steakhouse & Bourbon Bar is serious about steak

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

A wet-aged 16-ounce ribeye, topped with the house seasoning, arrives with a baked potato.

Well, the bacon candle is different, but the basic concept at Hamilton’s is familiar: steaks—hefty, serious, exquisitely aged, impossibly tender, with a char as delicate as frost. Along with sides and appetizers, they more than do the job at one of the city’s newest protein palaces.

You’re here for the beef, obviously. Allow for a proper warmup, though, with some starters that set the pace. Cauliflower fritters are dipped in a chimichurri with crème fraîche. Crab cakes are slathered in a red pepper–lemon aioli. There’s shrimp cocktail, because, hey, it’s a steakhouse classic—and chicken satay because, hey, it isn’t.

Satisfy your inner Neanderthal with roasted bone marrow—creamy, like jelled silk, with a fragrant parsley-fennel dressing—that is beyond luxurious. Prepare to share: This treat is so dauntingly rich, it makes foie gras seem skimpy. The syrup-thick lobster bisque is garnished with a chunk of lobster. A citrus vinaigrette–splashed salad of greens is fresh and sprightly.

Once the appetizers have appetized, the business of serious beef beckons. Both a filet mignon and a KC strip are offered in petite 6- and 12-ounce slabs (that is, within the limits of the normal human appetite) and large 10- and 16-ounce portions (i.e., mammoth-hunter size). Magnitude is one thing; Hamilton’s steaks ace the far more critical tests of taste and texture. Black Angus, sourced from an Iowa farm, is given a rub lending a faint smokiness that accents the luxurious tang of the meat. This is absolutely top-quality beef. As I contemplated my KC strip, which bore a delicate filigree of char, my reverie was interrupted by the server, who gently prodded me to take a bite. She wanted confirmation that the meat had been prepared as ordered. It had: The center was as rosy as a winter sunrise and absolutely bursting with flavor—as perfect a steak as anything available in this area.

A special, prime rib, was very much that. A two-finger thickness of rib—supple and tender, almost buttery, spectacularly rare—was an edible ode to the primal cut.

Hamilton’s offers a couple of dry-aged steaks, including a bone-in ribeye and a baseball-cut sirloin. Is the dry-aging worth it? Probably, especially if you enjoy that powerfully concentrated beefiness that can turn a good steak into a memorable one. 

Cow not your thing? Go with the chicken breasts packed with Gruyère, prosciutto, and red pepper. Or a slab of roasted salmon. Or a cauliflower “steak.” There’s also a smoked pork porterhouse that tastes like a wonderful ham.

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

You won’t be surprised by the sides, including baked potatoes and, far better, spuds mashed until creamy, fragrant with garlic and almost dripping with butter, and roasted wild mushrooms. What will catch your attention is the selection of Plugrá-based steak butters, hopped up with roasted garlic or Gorgonzola or—really out there—pungent soy sauce and Korean kalbi spices.

A wine list, with several glass pours, is satisfying. (The Trefethen cab sav is a noble match for the steaks.) The selection of bourbons—the “Bourbon Bar” part of the name is legitimate—is even more impressive. (It’s become a thing at Hamilton’s to pour bourbon shots down the length of those marrow bones, giving the booze an extra smack.)

Of the desserts, the winner is a giant brick of carrot cake that’s more than adequate for two.

Ambience-wise, Hamilton’s manages to feel like a family eatery. The setting—in a space on Chouteau, a blossoming dining destination—is entirely charming. In accordance with today’s apparent restaurant law, the walls are exposed brick. The black concrete floor and natural wood make for a clubby, intimate setting. It’s small, with four-top tables and a little bar; it’s comfortable, with little to distract from the experience, which is all about the eating.

Owners Paul and Wendy Hamilton handcrafted the bar’s top; grapevines from the family farm adorn the ceiling. Service is utterly efficient yet homey. The folksiness is even more unexpected because the Hamiltons are restaurant impresarios, professionals who own a half dozen other eateries.

Behind Hamilton’s is the aeroponic greenhouse, a fascinating garden that supplies some of the place’s fresh produce. It’s a must-see after-dinner stop.

Now, that bacon candle. It’s the version created at Chicago’s Primehouse, a solidified disc of rendered bacon fat with a wick that burns slowly, melting, dissolving into a fragrant pool into which diners can dip triangles of rye. It doubles as mood lighting and a tasty starter. 

As we said—and like much here—it’s different.

The Bottom Line Way-above-average steaks and delightful sides are served in a relaxed, comfortable setting.