Mashiro

I had been meaning to get to Mashiro for years. I will not wait that long again.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: eight seats around a counter in Roppongi. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with French onion soup with the cap of cheese intact, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Oregon pinot, against the steak waiter's better judgement, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: tasting of wagyu cuts, the dish that puts Mashiro on every short list. The seasoning was simple — salt, pepper, restraint — and it was the right call. The signature touch — the chef explaining each muscle in turn — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for wild mushrooms in butter and buttered haricots verts. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was vanilla ice cream with a shot of espresso poured over, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I will be back. With company, next time, and a longer reservation.