Alan Ritchson and I have just beat the lunch rush at Peter Luger, the Brooklyn institution that’s been feeding New Yorkers since 1887. If these walls could talk, they’d swap stories about old-timey gangsters and Wall Street cretins chowing down on dry-aged beef and knocking back old-fashioneds while gossiping about everyone from Rudy Giuliani to Gisele Bündchen’s visits to the steakhouse’s Teutonic dining room.
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