Part I
Omakase
1
Miki Miyamoto
“Irasshaimase!” I called as the young couple stepped inside, their faces bright with excitement. Their shoes tapped softly across the wood floor as I guided them to the dining room.
“Do you mind if we sit by the window?” the woman asked, her voice timid but hopeful.
“Of course. This way.” I led them over and set down the menus with a small bow. The warm light pooled across their table as I straightened.
“Tonight, we have wonderful specials created by Chef Ono. I highly recommend the Ono Trio, which was a runner-up in the Sushi of the Year competition, voted on by all of Japan.”
“We want her omakase,” the man said eagerly. “Let her choose our dinner.”
I gave a tight smile, trying not to wince. “I’m sorry, but Chef Ono isn’t serving omakase tonight. But the house specials did originate as an omakase.”
“Oh, we were looking forward to omakase by her personally. I mean, the restaurant is literally named Ono Omakase.”
“I understand, but Chef Ono only prepares omakase when she’s at her best.”
The couple looked at each other, defeated. A beat later, the man apologized, and they left.
I sighed as I gathered up the menus. I had expected them to ask for omakase. I just hadn’t expected them to walk out. Another lost table, another nail in our coffin.
I turned around, my gaze sweeping the dining room. There was only one other couple dining. And it was a Saturday night. Prime time.
Aya, our only server, approached me. “What happened? Why did they leave?”
“They wanted omakase. Where is Chef Ono?”
“She’s in the kitchen… chopping vegetables.”
I sighed. How many vegetables needed to be chopped? Who did she intend to serve them to?
In the past, Saturday nights were elbow-in-your-face madness. The main dining room packed with diners drinking and eating, laughter spilling everywhere. The sushi counter shoulder to shoulder. Even the private dining room, with its high price tag, never sat empty.
Akiko always said sushi didn’t have to be so damn quiet. She wanted people to laugh, drink, have fun—not sit in silence like they were in a museum. The way she put it, it was elevated home cooking. Delicious yet relatable sushi. And boy, did her menu hit hard with foodies.
While most of Akiko’s time was spent at the sushi counter plating the night’s omakase, she would always break away to chat with the diners, take selfies with them, even do shots of sake.
Reservations were a must, but there was always a line of hopefuls waiting outside in case of a no-show. Akiko would make it a point to step outside and talk with them. She even took a sake bottle out there for shots. She wanted everyone who came to Ono Omakase to have a wonderful time, even if they didn’t actually get to eat there.
But now the restaurant was a shell of its former self.
I stopped by the table of our only customers to see if they wanted dessert or an after-dinner drink. All they asked for was the check.
After saying goodbye to the couple at the doorway, I paused. A yellowed copy of Tokyo Eats still hung by the door, its frame cracked, the glass smeared with fingerprints. “Ono Omakase is the future of sushi,” the quote read. Akiko was front and center with a large smile, arms confidently crossed across her chest. No one looked at it anymore.
Over the past three months, as Akiko’s mental state unraveled, reservations had dried up. Rave reviews stopped coming. And for the first time, staff churn was an issue.
The custom knife set Akiko once displayed with pride sat untouched on a velvet tray. The blades engraved with her name—Akiko Ono—had started to dull. She used the house knives now. Said they were “fine.”
Even her signature dish, the Uni Golden Bomb, hadn’t been ordered in weeks. It used to sell out nightly. It was still advertised on the menu board near the door.
At the sushi counter was Riku, the young sushi chef Akiko had hired. He was leaning against the counter, scrolling away on his phone. I thought about telling him to put it away—it was against the rules—but what was the point? There was no work to do.
