Yoroniku

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

The room is exactly what you want it to be: Omotesando basement, hushed and exact. 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 half-dozen oysters from the raw bar, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered an Argentine malbec the waiter chose for me, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: a5 wagyu yakiniku selection, the dish that puts Yoroniku on every short list. Was it the very best steak I have ever eaten? No. Was it among the dozen I think about most? Yes. The signature touch — the chateaubriand sukiyaki at the end — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for thick-cut onion rings, stacked and skin-on fries, twice-fried. 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 paid the bill, walked out into the Tokyo evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.