Sun Taka

The bill asks for respect here, and for once I paid it without argument. Take the counter seat. From there you watch Mitsutaka Kawata's kitchen work with the economy of people who trust their technique: knife strokes measured, temperatures minded, nothing done twice. The sashimi is where the discipline shows, each cut served at the temperature it deserves rather than fridge-cold, textures kept distinct instead of allowed to blur. The room stays calm enough that the restraint registers; conversation drops to match it. This is Japanese cooking with a serious streak, and none of it curdles into solemnity, which is the harder trick. I hold it as a quarterly appointment, saved for evenings when I want something considered rather than casual, and it has yet to let the standard slip. Expensive, yes, and visibly so on the plate.