Electric.
Still, my whole body tightened.
Mmmm.
The tuna was firmer than the sea bream. Meatier. A whisper of iron beneath the clean ocean taste.
"Omakase is about patience," Kenji’s eyes darkened as he watched me chew. "Each piece builds on the last. Light to rich. Delicate to bold. The chef takes you on a journey, and you have to trust them to know the destination."
I swallowed. "And if you don't like where they take you?"
"Then you chose the wrong chef." His smile was slow and dangerous. "But when you choose right. . .the surrender is worth it."
“Hmmm. I like that.”
“I figured the author side of you would.”
I chuckled.
Each piece after that was a small masterpiece—colors and textures arranged with the precision of a painter, flavors that bloomed across my tongue in waves. Chef Mariko explained them in soft Japanese, and Kenji translated, his voice low and close to my ear.
Otoro.Fatty tuna. The most prized cut.
Uni.Sea urchin. Creamy, oceanic, like tasting the sea itself.
Chef Mariko returned with two pieces ofkinmedai—golden eye snapper. She rested it on sculpted rice. The flesh was pale, almost translucent, with a thin layer of silver skin still intact.
Next, she didn't place them before us. Instead, she reached for a small torch at her station. The click was sharp. A blue flame hissed to life—narrow, focused, and controlled.
She angled the torch over the first piece.
The flame kissed the skin.
A sizzle cut through the koto music. The silver skin blistered and curled, turning from pale to amber to a deep, crackling gold. Fat rose to the surface in tiny beads that popped and wept down the sides of the fish.
The smell hit me next.
Butter.
Smoke.
The sea.
Oh this is going to be delicious.
Chef Mariko moved the flame in slow, intentional passes.
Sensually lingering.
Lovingly scorching.
Coaxing the oils from beneath the skin and letting them bloom.
The flesh beneath the crackling surface softened. I could see it happening—the proteins surrendering to the heat, going from firm to yielding in seconds.
This is amazing.
She killed the flame. The sizzle faded. Steam curled off the fish in thin ribbons that caught the candlelight and disappeared. She placed the piece before me with both hands. The skin was still crackling with residual heat.
