Mashiro

Walking into Mashiro for the first time is a small piece of theatre, and that is before any food has arrived.

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 a wedge of iceberg with blue cheese, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: tasting of wagyu cuts, the dish that puts Mashiro on every short list. The crust was the colour of dark mahogany, and the inside was a confident, even pink the whole way through. 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 fried okra and a dab of remoulade and broiled tomato with a breadcrumb cap. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a slab of New York cheesecake, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

Some places earn their reputation. Mashiro earns it twice over.