Soon after a Man o’ War and a martini land on the pressed white tablecloth, my friend David leans over. “This place feels like a fancy cruise ship,” he says of the baroque Atlanta steak house Marcel, set on the grounds of a reimagined meatpacking complex on the western fringe of midtown. “Maybe a Monte Carlo casino,” I say, swiveling to take in the fantasy work: Tucked in an oxblood leather banquette, beneath the bust of a cow that looks like it got rustled from Les Halles, I see little to interrupt the French narrative. Velvet drapes
