The hyperfocus underscores the quality of the ingredients and a skilled chef’s rigor. Rather than a grand whirl of servers, the staff numbers few. Omakase is an abbreviation of the Japanese phrase “omakase shimasu,” or “I’ll leave it up to you.” At an intimate counter, for a few hours, the customer yields decision-making. In a moment when ideas around “fine dining” - particularly in a Eurocentric, white tablecloth sense - are changing and dismantling globally, our omakase restaurants have never been more prominent, nor greater in number. More than ever, that includes the headiest expressions. We have cultivated one of the world’s most fervent sushi cultures.
The California roll, the advent of supermarket sushi, the opening of the first local Japanese seafood distributor in 1963, the 1980s economic boom that flooded Los Angeles with Japanese capital, the Hollywood obsession with Matsuhisa in Beverly Hills, the now-ubiquity of sushi bars across the region: L.A.’s notions of nigiri and maki evolve in step with the city’s stacked identities. Sushi is elemental to the story of Los Angeles. Among the city’s current generation of omakase chefs, though, I notice a new paradigm: More of them are returning the essence of the cuisine in their pursuit of greatness, and they have an engaged, ready audience. For every chef taking the zaniest liberties, there will be another avowing the most exacting traditional practices. Los Angeles will never be a land of absolutisms. In their sum, I grasped what has recently been driving excellence in L.A.’s own sushi ecosystem: an inspired return to the fundamentals. I disappeared into a dozen of them during an early-spring trip. In Tokyo, the sushi experiences are infinite. It wasn’t my first sushi meal at which a chef conveyed the equal importance of shari to neta (nigiri toppings), but it was the only time I’ve been fed rice as a preamble specifically to underscore its value. He set down each piece and murmured the age of the fish in Japanese or English: “Sayori, needlefish, aged one week.” “Shima-aji, striped jack, aged one month.” “Aji, horse mackerel, aged three days.” “King salmon from Hokkaido, aged 14 days.” The first-act finale was watari kani (raw blue crab) salt-pickled, marinated in brandy sauce and served among its mustardy innards with lemony sansho leaves. Among them: a wild, mulchy mound of seaweed, creamed with mascarpone and blue cheese, that short-circuited my preconceptions in the best ways and a risotto of sorts with pureed shirako (cod milt) and a dusting of tingly sansho, creating the creamy-peppery effect of a madcap cacio e pepe. It’s a dance between honoring the cuisine’s origin, nudging Angelenos’ ever-evolving tastes forward and trusting in one’s self-expression.Ī dozen small appetizers preceded the nigiri that afternoon. I saw reflections of similar ambitions in L.A.’s most energized sushi chefs. Sushi Kimura’s excellence and individualism turned my thoughts back toward home, though. Since Japan reopened for tourism in October, droves of eager, Insta-ready travelers, including me, have been rushing to immerse themselves. I had been wanting to try Kimura’s renegade artistry for years. Sushi Kimura burgeoned into a Michelin-starred phenomenon. Curious chefs eventually heard about his unorthodoxy and showed up at the restaurant’s counter, then told others.
He began to experiment with how time, cold air and natural enzymatic processes could lead to intensified flavors and suppler textures in seafood, similar to dry-aging steaks.
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