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 a single chuleta of cured pork to set the mood, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a quiet Brunello from the back of the list, 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 skin-on fries, twice-fried and potato gratin with a dark crust. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a wedge of chocolate cake to share, fork divided, 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.