Mashiro

I have eaten in a lot of dining rooms that try this hard. Mashiro is one of the few that pulls it off without looking like it is trying.

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 bone marrow with a small salad of capers and parsley, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Burgundy that arrived too cold and rewarded patience, 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 potato gratin with a dark crust and buttered haricots verts. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was crème brûlée with a proper glass crust, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

If you are passing through Tokyo, do not pass Mashiro by.