He set down each piece and murmured the age of the fish in Japanese or English: “Sayori, needlefish, aged one week.” “Shima-aji, striped jack, aged one month.” “Aji, horse mackerel, aged three days.” “King salmon from Hokkaido, aged 14 days.” The first-act finale was watari kani (raw blue crab) salt-pickled, marinated in brandy sauce and served among its mustardy innards with lemony sansho leaves. Among them: a wild, mulchy mound of seaweed, creamed with mascarpone and blue cheese, that short-circuited my preconceptions in the best ways and a risotto of sorts with pureed shirako (cod milt) and a dusting of tingly sansho, creating the creamy-peppery effect of a madcap cacio e pepe. It’s a dance between honoring the cuisine’s origin, nudging Angelenos’ ever-evolving tastes forward and trusting in one’s self-expression.Ī dozen small appetizers preceded the nigiri that afternoon.
I saw reflections of similar ambitions in L.A.’s most energized sushi chefs. Sushi Kimura’s excellence and individualism turned my thoughts back toward home, though. Since Japan reopened for tourism in October, droves of eager, Insta-ready travelers, including me, have been rushing to immerse themselves. I had been wanting to try Kimura’s renegade artistry for years. Sushi Kimura burgeoned into a Michelin-starred phenomenon. Curious chefs eventually heard about his unorthodoxy and showed up at the restaurant’s counter, then told others.
He began to experiment with how time, cold air and natural enzymatic processes could lead to intensified flavors and suppler textures in seafood, similar to dry-aging steaks.
0 kommentar(er)
