A Dallas Father's Day, at twenty quietly remarkable tables.

The grande dame of Dallas dining rooms. The Mansion's Sunday brunch is the city's most ceremonial — pressed linens, a sommelier who remembers your father's last visit, and a terrace that opens onto the loveliest stretch of Turtle Creek.

Bruno Davaillon's gold-leafed brasserie tucked inside the old Federal Reserve. A short menu of impeccable French classics — the steak frites is what to order, and the wine list reads like a love letter to Burgundy.

John Tesar's dry-aged temple. For the father who measures a Sunday by the marbling of his ribeye — order the 240-day aged and a Bloody Mary the size of a small flower arrangement.

The Village's most charming sidewalk café. Côte d'Azur on the patio: a salade Niçoise, a glass of rosé, and a parade of well-dressed neighbors who all seem to know one another.

A four-decade Dallas institution, and proudly unchanged. White jackets on the waiters, the city's best Dover sole, and a back booth that has held a great many fathers, sons, and significant Sundays.

Italian fine dining a quarter-mile above the skyline. The view alone is a gift; the housemade pastas and a 49th-floor view of the Trinity make this the showstopper for fathers who appreciate a memorable setting.

A soufflé bistro, and unapologetically charming for it. Order a savory gruyère soufflé, a glass of crémant, and a sweet soufflé to share — the closest thing to a small Parisian Sunday west of Inwood.

A pocket of Saint-Germain dropped into Uptown. The cobbled patio under the old oaks is the prize — call ahead and ask for a table outside, then order the croque madame and a pot of café au lait.

Stephan Courseau's coastal Mediterranean room — light, sun-drenched, and built for a leisurely afternoon. The wood-fired flatbreads and a bottle of Provençal rosé were practically made for Father's Day.

Curtis Stone's polished American grill. The wood-grilled lamb and the brunch burger are quiet revelations — and the room has the easy, unstudied elegance of a Sunday lunch at a friend's beautifully kept home.

Theatrical, candlelit, and gloriously over-the-top — Nick Badovinus's love letter to the American steakhouse. A vintage motorcycle in the foyer, chandeliers overhead, and a dry-aged tomahawk for the table.

The classic Uptown steakhouse — piano in the foyer, complimentary caviar at the table, and a Wagyu program that has made it a Father's Day fixture for two decades running.

If Dallas had a clubhouse, this would be it — and Al would greet you at the door. The bone-in filet is the order; the welcome, the real reason to come.

A 35,000-bottle wine cellar and a USDA Prime program that has quietly become one of the country's best. For the father who would rather linger over a Cabernet than a cocktail.

The neighborhood-favorite raw bar — a dozen oysters, the famous double cheeseburger, and a frozen martini on the patio. Easy, unstuffy, and exactly the right pace for an afternoon that should never end.

A vineyard-inspired room with sixty wines on tap and a retractable roof that opens to the live oaks above Knox. Brunch here is a long, languid affair — bottomless mimosas, wood-fired pizzas, and a father who never wants the check to come.

A handsome brasserie inside the Joule, equally at home with a perfectly poached egg or a whole-pig Texas barbecue feast. Pair it with a quiet walk through the hotel's art collection afterward.

Refined interior-Mexican from chef Anastacia Quiñones-Pittman's school of cooking. The chilaquiles brunch, a tableside guacamole, and one of the most respected mezcal programs in the city.

Junior Borges's love letter to Brazil — wood-fired everything, an open hearth that anchors the dining room, and a churrasco-leaning brunch that gives a Texas father every reason to linger.

The most beloved neighborhood grill in Preston Center — three decades on, and still the room where the regulars treat the staff like family. The cedar-plank salmon and a corner booth are the formula.