The ribeye at Boeufhaus in Chicago, dry-aged for 55 days and weighing in at 22 ounces, arrived carved into thick tiles with crimson centers. The slices toppled neatly over one another like fallen dominoes, the last beefy brick leaning against the bone from which the meat had been cleaved. Devouring it fulfilled every desire a diner could have for this cut of beef and this length of aging — tang, funk, tender-tautness, fatty profundity — and my table of three fell into a focused, contented silence. Between meaty bites, we snatched up fries cooked in beef tallow and shook our heads helplessly at the narcotic richness of a cauliflower gratin. We had fallen deep into the steakhouse pleasure zone.