The Travel Critic

In a time when half the population seems to avoid anything with a heartbeat on their plate, and drinks are mostly oat milk lattes or craft kombucha, the simple joys of steak and wine can feel like relics of a bygone era. But then, you walk into Blacklock on a Monday night – that’s right, Monday night – and it’s full. Properly full. People packed in, drinking actual wine from proper glasses, eating meat that’s unapologetically charred to perfection. It feels like a reprieve. More than that, it’s a reminder that life is still life, and some of us still want to eat and drink our way through it.

The service? Well, flawless doesn’t quite cut it. Every member of the team manages to hit that sweet spot between friendly and invisible – there when you need them, gone when you don’t. It’s better than perfect; it’s precise, intentional, and absolutely on point.

The decor is dark, deliciously atmospheric. A place where you can settle in and feel properly off the grid for an hour or two. There’s a buzz in the air, a low hum of satisfaction and anticipation, which only intensifies when the food hits the table. And the food. My God, the food.

We had the ‘All In,’ a glorious, gluttonous spread of chops and steaks heaped with reckless abandon over flatbreads that soak up every last drop of meat juice. I think it was the happiest day of my life. My wife, bless her, doesn’t read these reviews, and my kids wouldn’t be caught dead browsing any site with me on it, so I think I can say it: I’d go back every single day if I could.

Blacklock has restored my faith in humanity. It’s proof that there are still places where people gather to eat, drink, and be alive. And, for that, I’ll raise a glass. Or two.