It was months ago that Max gave me a wrapped package of Shiba Fune. Glyn and I rationed them, hid them from ourselves, and eventually ate the last ginger cookies with tea, just as the weather was turning colder. They were so good, that I actually thought Max cruel for giving them to me.
Cruel, because he'd given me a taste for what I couldn't find again, at least not on my own. Shiba Fune come only from one particular town in Japan and cannot be found elsewhere. Seriously, nowhere else. The cookies came with a map, that I couldn't read, with a red x marking the pastry shop in the town.
I'd been asking him about restaurants since those cookies. Where to go for good Japanese food specifically. So when Max suggested Glyn and I join him and Yuko for a Japanese dinner, on Wednesday evening, at Anzu, in Hotel Nikko, I was surprised. Why?
"The menu on-line looks crap."
"Ah but that's not where we're going," Max said.
Over Devil's Slide, through the Golden Gate Park, down Geary all the way to Hotel Nikko. Then inside the restaurant, inside Hotel Nikko is a sushi bar--not connected to the restaurant's sushi menu--that seats nine people run by chef Takahashi, a master sushi chef we would come to love by the end of the evening. But more on that later.
Nikko, a pretty boring, escalator ridden, marble and dark carpets hotel, used to be run by Air Japan and still gets some of it's more exciting products flown in a few time a week. No roots of course, no, that would be illegal... But such tasty fish as to make my dinner companions moan slightly, gasp even--more on that later--and then sit quietly and sip on the beautiful wines Max, a sommelier, had brought with him.
Now, I know little about wine. But I do know one pours ladies first, and always from the right. I know that when someone brings their own bottle and pays a corkage fee, it is their bottle. And I know that Chef T was more graceful reaching over the counter and putting down two nori on our wooden boards with his vinegar washed fingers than any of the awkward suited servers were pouring our wine and later, our green tea.
When it's warm enough to take off my coat I watch chef Takahashi bust out more of his old school moves: turn a daikon in the air all the while sheeting a continuous see-through layer with his knife--a skill that cost him forty six stitches and many many years training properly in Japan. But now the man laughs at mandolins. Sudden, contagious, big laughs. And he laughs at kids like myself, fresh out of culinary school fumbling with knives and mandolins the first day they step into the kitchen. I suppose you learn to respect a knife if you have to wait six years before touching one. And when I ask, embarrassed as hell,
"er, do you mind if I take a photo?"
He laughs again, hard,
"my food is nothing special."
Oh, but he's lying now, right through those big white teeth. His food is the best I've had in San Francisco. Careful, balanced, and fresh. And he is teaching us all night what it's about--sending thoughtful pairs of fish side by side so we can taste the subtle differences between them, explaining how he makes his Dashi and how a sushi chef is trained.
And while talking, he sends us four small vegetable plates one after the other. First of all, wilted spinach leaves that look as if someone has sharpened their pencil over the bowl--but no, the shavings are bonito, and the spinach is soaked in that tasty homemade dashi. Next, a plate of pickled burdock noodles. Then a bowl of oyster and shimegi mushrooms in dashi with a surf clam and a few slices of slightly oily aubergine, that made me wish there was more.
The quiet parade of fishes begins here, with a sashimi plate. Scallop, top neck clam, kanpachi, baby snapper, taro on a shiso leaf with fresh grated wasabi. The raw spot prawns freaks me out--not enough to leave the second on my plate though. After the first strange, waxy, chew, that sticks to the inside of my mouth I pop the second upsetting mouthful and pull off the sharp little tail, to try and understand why, why dear god do people eat shrimp raw like this. And I don't. I stand as much of a chance of acquiring a taste for raw shrimp as I do turkey eggs. Slim to none.
The monkfish liver is a smooth pink mouthful--not buttery like foie gras, but surprisingly meaty and complex. He tells us how he prepares it, and I have flashbacks of picking out the wriggling worms, peeling back the skin, and making a torchon to garnish the monkfish at my last job. I think the same thing now as I did then, how could the worm infested liver of an ugly, googly eyed fish that lives at the bottom of the ocean taste so sweet and beautiful?
I am so happy by now that I am not even slightly appalled when chef T heats up one of our courses in the microwave. A tender Hamachi cheek, soft and melty, with a disk of daikon. The dish is sweet and fishy and I feel giddy. I get, as warned, one or two tiny bones. Not much of a challenge compared to the sea urchin that follows.
As I chew on the seaweed and rice, the buttery trickle of cold sea urchin melts down my throat. Chef passes the board of urchin scraps over the counter for Max and Yuko to pick clean with chopsticks. I've had sea urchin a few times now, and although I am not repelled by it the way I used to be, I'm still not entirely comfortable with the texture and taste. I was, in other words, satisfied with the single bite. And when it was all over, we talked about the various fish over tea in stone cups and he made some quick nori so we could taste what he hadn't yet tasted.
I would have loved something sweet to finish--a scoop of sorbet or ice-cream, or even a pringle shaped Shiba Fune. He sent us instead a bite of sweet egg custard. Not exactly what I had in mind, but cold and sweet, it did the trick.
Again, much like with the ginger biscuits, I blame Max for this wonderful experience. How can I possibly walk over to Main Street Sushi now and enjoy a spicy tuna roll and vegetable tempura combo? No. I don't think I'll ever be the same. Not after this. Thanks a lot Max.
So, if you want someone to throw a shrimp into your mouth or a giant spicy tuna roll, go somewhere else. But if you don't mind spending quite a bit of money on excellent raw fish and seafood, well balanced small plates, and the good company of Chef Takahashi, call Anzu and make a reservation at the Sushi Bar. I'll do the same as last time and not order from the menu but just ask chef to send out what he thinks is good, and requesting my favourites--the cheek, the liver, and the shiny fish plate.