Anybody with a heart easily swayed by the promise of delicacies but seldom given to excess can truly revel in the art of Japanese haute cuisine at Yamazato.
At the omakase restaurant at Hotel Okura, there’s a profound sense of comfort in the slow, deliberate act of preparing and savoring a proper meal: An invitation to truly taste as if you’ve never tasted before, in a set far removed from the clatter of ill-mannered eating.
A gentle chime heralded our arrival and a sense of entrance into another world.
Our host, Chef Ikuma Sato, looked up from his meticulous work with a faint glimmer in his eyes.
A serene bob. A gesture toward the seat at the polished wooden counter. The faint scent of freshly grated wasabi and brine.
The quiet intimacy of the exchange promised an experience as fine-tuned as the sushi that awaited, and that everything, however small, would be imbued with care.
Behind the bar, Sato’s movements were balletic; each fell slice, each delicate sprinkling of seasoning, were executed with the flair of a performer, the reverence of a connoisseur, the precision of gifted hands, whose medium happened to be food.
One could do naught but gaze in silent appreciation of the artistry before noshing in, though I must confess there were times it inspired awe rather than hunger. It’s the calm, after all, that nourishes.
Like a sommelier imparting the finer points of wine etiquette, Sato taught us that sushi is an invocation to the soul of the fisherman, the rice farmer, the chef, the bounty that has learned to surrender to the man it chose to sustain.
There is, Sato assured, no finer form of indulgence than the patient art of omakase, and leaving the chef to his own devices. (When life gives you fish — indeed any fish — make sushi!)
It’s like the pleasure you derive from angling: The uncertainty of the catch, the sheer joy of casting a line into the serene waters and simply waiting.
And what, you may ask, is the reward for such patience? A victory most sweet.
The fish fell apart with the sleight glide of the knife, each sliver defying the concept of solidity, finding our digestion in good order when it was presented at the bar like an offering to a temple.
The bluefin arrived first and fast, lest it melt before touching the lips.
Through it the ocean had imparted a secret, one that lingered on the tongue like the memory of a half-remembered dream.
It’s fleeting, but in its briefness, it was extraordinary.
The crab and sea urchin felt more like an illusion than substance, as much as the dollop of bright orange roe, torched and perched delicately on a mound of rice, was a rare instance of insight, finished off with the conspicuous clearing of the throat.
And never underestimate the power of a well-timed pause, and the first whiff of the consommé that shortly followed.
I had no idea that high sushi, rather than mere sustenance, could have such an effect. I realized the true triumph of the meal is the ability to leave the table with one’s dignity intact, and one’s stomach not overly strained.
I learned that a perfect roll — each piece carefully constructed — is fragile in its beauty, and reliant on balance to create harmony. It’s the result of constant refinement.
And then some.
At Yamazato, the intimate ambiance of the room (softly lit and adorned with modest décor) allows one to focus on the fare.
There were nary grand ostentations and artifice, no opulent displays to irritate the senses. Every motion was a study in courtesy, and the ancient Japanese principles of care and respect.
Even the waitstaff moved like shadows, appearing precisely when needed, and unobtrusively fading from sight when their presence was no longer required.
Perhaps that’s what true hospitality is about — not the flashy, eye-catching kind, but a refined opulence that whispers rather than yells.
Hotel Okura certainly understands its customers’ desire to find true comfort, rather than the obscene trappings of extravagance, what with carefully designed spaces that retain calm austerity, decorated with delicate calligraphy and muted wood.
Here, one is reminded that true comfort does not come from extra, but from restraint.
If at all, to truly savor means to discern, to embrace the true indulgence not in abundance, but the quiet virtues of simplicity, which, though now seems ancient, remains ever delightful.
Perhaps these fleeting and modest moments of transcendence are what we are meant to seek in our lives.