![]() The eel and octopus at 15 East are still undefeated, and possibly the rice, too, although Mr. Not everything I ate was in that category, and not everything is the best in town. That scallop dish is distinctively his, and once you’ve had it you’d know it anywhere. ![]() Yuzukosho, a paste of bright yuzu peel and burning chiles, bites playfully into the cool sweetness of a sea scallop lopped from its shell just a minute before it’s served, its edges still fluttering. He dabs Japanese mustard under medium-fatty tuna and the hay-smoked skipjack, bringing out its bloody-lip tang. He gets other effects by skipping the standard wasabi smear. (He also gave you the idea that Jiro could be kind of a pill.) Ono’s criticisms, he gave the impression of a novice Zen monk who was accustomed to abuse in the name of enlightenment. With his shaved scalp, bowed head, downturned eyes and meek acceptance of Mr. Ono conceded that he had finally made an acceptable egg custard. Nakazawa was the young apprentice who cried when Mr. He’ll ask, how can I make the best piece of horse mackerel anyone has ever tasted? When Jiro Ono dreamed of sushi, what he saw were new dishes waiting to be invented. But one of the points made by the 2011 documentary “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” was that a driven, obsessed chef will treat each sea creature as a unique challenge. We don’t normally think of one sushi piece as wildly different from the next, apart from the inherent qualities of the main ingredient. I can tell you about the burning-leaf smell of skipjack smoked over smoldering hay until it becomes a softer, aquatic version of aged Italian speck. I can feel the warmth of just-poached blue shrimp from the South Pacific islands of New Caledonia, which had a flavor that was deep, clean and delicate at the same time. Nakazawa’s mackerel and the way its initial firmness gave way to a minor-key note of pickled fish and a major-key richness that kept building the longer I chewed. I remember precisely the dull luster of Mr. So does the meal, 21 pieces or so over about two hours. ![]() These little events carve themselves into your memory. A piece of his sushi grabs control of your senses, and when it’s gone, you wish you could have it again. Nakazawa cups in his hands and places in front of you is an event on its own. The moment-to-moment joys of eating one mouthful of sushi after another can merge into a blur of fish bliss. I had the other three at Sushi Nakazawa over the next few weeks. ![]() Then he picked up a palmful of rice and began to serve one of the four most enjoyable and eye-opening sushi meals I have ever eaten. He had just come back from Pier 76, he said. “I’m sorry,” the chef said cheerfully as he slid behind the counter and prepared for work. Were they going to let us eat?įinally, Daisuke Nakazawa walked in the front door. Servers in black suits were offering hot towels, water and drinks, and more water, and then small talk, until it became clear that they were stalling. It looked about as Japanese as Peter Luger. Now we found ourselves sitting in the small, bright, glossy, black-and-white front room of the restaurant, which opened in August in the West Village. All 10 of the black-leather-and-chrome swivel seats, the same kind you’d perch on to play the slots at the Venetian in Las Vegas, were taken. Most of us had reserved a month before.
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