In ye olde pre-disco dining-out era, greasing the palm of the grey-haired maître d’ in the checked sport coat was commonplace; that old $20 handshake got you the best table in the house.

Few mainstays from that era remain; mostly steakhouses like Carman’s, Bardi’s and Barberian’s. But the competition in nouveau steakhouses is sizzling, a trend epitomized by the newly opened Jacob’s & Co. Owned by seasoned restaurateurs Amar Singh, Gus Giazitzidis, Peter Tsebelis and John Tsoumaris (Brassai, Maro, Myth), it combines the luxury of age-old tradition (minus the guy playing a violin at your table) with innovative and trendy elements one would expect from a group of guys largely responsible for making King West a foodie destination.

After being met by a foxy hostess in a slinky black dress and Philip, a dignified, silver-haired gentleman replete with accent and oozing with manners (and, believe it or not, in a checked sport jacket), we’re soon escorted through a Get Smart–like, labyrinthine passageway that has us first going downstairs, twisting and turning through a lower-level piano lounge, then upstairs, passing a beef-aging chamber before finally being tucked into our table near the former front door.

Entry confusion aside, Jacob’s is divine, from its dreamy design awash in trendy tones of cream, sink-in-your-seat comfort and soft, diffused lighting, to exceptionally trained wait-staff who hover on the periphery like winged footmen, close enough, yet cleverly unobtrusive. “Sparkling, flat or Toronto?” says our server. (Thanks for not assuming we’d prefer anything but our own perfectly fine tap water.)

As for that glassed-in meat chamber, it isn’t a gimmick. It avails chef Ben Gundy real control over the aging process.

A simple opener of carpaccio ($20) is a perfect canvas for the fabled Wagyu beef, its nutty creaminess (thanks to 40 per cent marbled fat) allowing for slab-like slices 2 to 3mm thick. Sparse shavings of reggiano add sufficient seasoning and accent. A generous pile of tartar (if you’re wealthy, $22 for a couple of ounces of raw beef with crackers is reasonable) is tangy and supple, though the crostini are a bit dense.

The theatricality alone of a well-trained salad preparer — who assembles a phenomenal, spicy Caesar salad ($14) tableside — makes Jacob’s worth the trip. Mincing anchovies, delicately squeezing lemons without splashing or spilling a seed and emulsifying while making chit-chat is worth a tip of the hat.

But it is mainly because of the meat that you come to Jacob’s. Will it be Wagyu or USDA Prime? Breeders like Snake River Farms (Jacob’s & Co.’s supplier) claim negligible difference between their American version of Kobe beef and Japan’s original. Snake River’s cows, a crossbreed of Black Angus and Wagyu, live outdoors on a diet of barley, golden wheat straw, alfalfa hay and potatoes. Asian Wagyu cattle, on the other hand, are confined to limit muscle exertion and massaged, their diet infused with sake and beer. We won’t dispute the qualitative difference, but let’s at least agree that they’re not identical.

A Wagyu skirt steak (a slightly tougher cut from the belly of the cow, needing to be marinated and sliced across the grain, $61) is beautifully charred with a grassy sweetness within its perfectly medium rare core. A substantial wad of USDA ribeye ($46) is greedily scarfed down, first grazing the lips before shimmying around the tongue with a salty smokiness. Knees go weak as its wet fat laps against the roof of the mouth.

Both steaks are so spectacular that their unadorned presentation in cast iron dishes is enough, making a trio of mundane dips (chimichurri, ponzu, blue cheese mousse packed with smoked bacon) and exotic rock salts seem almost superfluous. These steaks need nothing more for the palate to respect the sensation orchestrated by proper breeding, aging and cooking. And you can never have enough of frites cooked in duck fat ($11) and Taleggio-cheese polenta ($9) — both fine sides suitable for soaking up the sauces and salts.

An uncomplicated cake ($8) —  filled with pistachios and soaked in brandy — accompanies frothy decafs, nudging us into post-feast lethargy as we await the damage with dread. Perhaps a price tag this steep, for most people, is reserved for special occasions like birthdays or anniversaries. And many might figure they’ll blow their special-occasion wad on something a bit more stacked and foamed and experimental. But we’re pretty sure this is where gramps would feel comfortable taking you for your graduation dinner and heck, you’d enjoy it too. Especially if he’s picking up the cheque. 

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