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Chops is divided, like all of Caesar's Gaul, into three parts. There's a spiffy mirrored barroom with marble floors and a piano player. The main dining room is a warren of glam-mahogany nooks and crannies brilliantly accommodating the needs of mink-jacketed ladies to be seen, alongside their paramours' natural desire for privacy. And then there's the lobster bar, a sort of tongue-in-tail riff on Grand Central Station. Many a May-December romance is conducted in the cuddly booths, many an opening gambit played over tableside preparations of "classic steak tartare." It's market price on Maine and Australian lobster, whole Dover sole, Alaskan king, Florida stone crab, and iced oysters from both coasts (which kind of oysters those might be change nightly). First-rate prime, bone-in, aged steaks -- rib eye, porterhouse, filet mignon, and even American wagyu won't fail to please any captain of industry. The menu here isn't taking any risks, but the quality of meat and seafood is impeccable, with a wine and spirits list to match.