Top of the food chain.

Every Wednesday night when I was a child, my mother would drive my sister and me to White Castle for a satchel of sliders. It gave her the night off from cooking dinner and made us deliriously happy. In hindsight, of course, those nasty, square-shaped burger-products with the jarred chopped onions and sad little pickle slivers were actually rather terrifying—closer to military-style ordinance than anything grownups consider to be actual food. But a recent trip to Barclay Prime cast the whole of my childhood burger-eating experience in an entirely different light.

My first bite of Kobe slider was as Proustian a moment if there ever was one. Instead of a madeleine and a cup of tea, this was a ridiculously rich burger-for-grownups and a glass of Spanish red. But the effect it had on me was identical to the one young Marcel’s bite had on him: I was instantly taken back to my childhood.

Those Wednesday-night runs to White Castle, it turned out, were formative in ways I had never realized.

That’s the kind of place Barclay Prime is. Though not everything works as flawlessly as you’d hope, there’s an irresistible charm to it that keeps people almost slavishly devoted.

There were, surprisingly, some kinks that I wouldn’t have expected from one of the flagships of the Stephen Starr empire. When we arrived, for example, exactly on time for our reservation, we were told that our table wasn’t yet ready. No problem—it happens at restaurants all the time. But we had to ask our cocktail waitress three times for a menu, and by the time she brought it, our table was ready. The service in the dining room was much better—friendly, enthusiastic, supremely competent—exactly what we’ve all come to expect from Mr. Starr’s restaurants.

As for the food, it was generally very good, though you may want to end your meal with a stiff drink before the check arrives. Fortunately, there’s a lovely selection of after-dinner beverages, including a delicious grappa di nebbiolo da Barolo that’s powerful enough to take the sting out of any bill.

The Kobe sliders ($15), as I’ve already noted, were excellent: Two tender and buttery-rich mini-burgers, sandwiched between homemade brioche and topped with either heirloom tomatoes, pickled shallot, and a basil-chive-tarragon aioli, or caramelized onions, Gruyere cheese, and the same basil-chive-tarragon aioli. They can only be described as sinful. And the warm spinach salad ($12) was nicely dressed with a sherry vinaigrette, studded with generous, toothsome pieces of Nueske bacon, candied pecans, shaved red onions and heirloom potatoes. The leaves were wilted just enough to take some of their potentially overwhelming heartiness away, yet not so much that they were limp.

The entrées, however, were less consistent. While the 12–ounce filet ($38) was well-seasoned and just as tender as you’d expect of that cut of meat, the Four Story Hill Farm New York strip steak was a let down. Rather more than generous at 16 ounces (though it should be for $44), the texture was simply too tough to justify that kind of expense.

I generally prefer strip steak to most other cuts of meat, and I understand that ordering one necessitates a bit of a sacrifice in the tenderness department. This strip, however, was far too gristly and tough for any richness of flavor to compensate. The 21–day regimen of dry aging had intensified the flavors and given the flesh a deliciously earthy quality, but there was far too little actual meat. Even my samurai-sharp Henckels steak knife (chosen from the four proffered by the waiter) was no match.

The sides were very good ($9 each), though that cost seems a lot easier to justify when you’re talking about the truffled whipped potatoes ($4 extra) as opposed to the caramelized onions. Still, I’d recommend ordering one to share, if for no other reason than variety. And skip the salty béarnaise sauce ($3). The meat is seasoned well enough that you really don’t need it.

Desserts ($10 each), surprisingly, were the highlight of the meal. We ended ours with the candy bar, an adult version of every child’s fantasy. Chocolate mousse, pretzels, caramel, sweetened peanut butter, and toasted almonds were all layered with chocolate shortbread and served alongside a “reverse” root beer float. It was accompanied by edible candy buttons, just like the ones I spent my early years getting sugar-high from. Our other dessert, the toasted peanut butter s’mores, was remarkable, and I was bowled over by the surprisingly deep-flavored homemade marshmallow that was the centerpiece. In fact, as soon as we began digging into our sweets, a hush fell over the table. We were there with another couple, and all four of us fell into a spontaneous silent reverie, borne back, as it were, into our collective pasts. Proust would have been proud.

Barclay Prime is located at 237 South 18th St., Philadelphia, Pa. 19103 and can be reached by telephone at (215) 732-7560 or visited online at www.barclayprime.com.