"Good.”
Grinning, I looked at him. “What does it mean?”
“Omakase means 'I leave it up to you.’ Therefore, you trust the chef completely. She chooses everything—the fish, the order, the pacing. You just. . . receive."
"That sounds like fun."
Chef Mariko returned with two pieces of fish, pale pink and glistening. They were draped over small mounds of rice.
She placed it before me and said a word in Japanese.
I blinked.
"Tai," Kenji translated. "Sea bream. She wants you to eat it with your fingers, not chopsticks. Let the warmth of your hand release the oils."
“Okay.” I sat up.
"Trust." He reached for his. "That's what omakase is. Surrendering control to someone who knows what you need better than you do."
Interesting.
I picked up the piece with my fingers. The rice was warm. The fish was cool. The contrast made me shiver.
I placed it in my mouth.
Oh.
The flavor was delicate. Clean. Like the ocean had been distilled into a single perfect bite. The rice melted on my tongue, seasoned with vinegar so subtle I almost missed it.
"Good?" Kenji asked.
I could only groan and nod, still savoring.
The chef smiled.
Meanwhile, the Dragon watched my mouth with an intensity that made heat bloom low in my belly, and then he tried his.
A satisfied groan left him too.
I chuckled.
Chef Mariko left.
"This tradition started in Edo period Tokyo." He wiped his hands on a napkin. "Sushi vendors would prepare whatever was freshest that day. The customer had to trust them. Had to believe they would be given exactly what they needed."
Before I could ask any questions, Chef Mariko returned and placed two other pieces before us—darker flesh this time, almost ruby-colored. She spoke, and Kenji translated.
"Maguro.Lean tuna."
“It looks delicious.”
“It is.” He picked it up with his fingers and instead of feeding himself, he brought it to my lips.
Eager to try it, I opened my mouth.
He placed the sushi on my tongue, and his fingertips brushed my lower lip.
The touch was brief.
