12 September 2025
When I was in New York I met up with Kevin. Hadn’t seen him in ages. Handsome as ever, showing me his new digs in Downtown Brooklyn. A half Taiwanese boy from Massachusetts given a shot at normalcy being named Kevin. Not a chance.
We used to drink together on the steps of Yamashiro, this horrendous oriental palace in the Hollywood Hills. There was this little carriage house converted into a kind of wine bar, that was the venue for many a late night gathering. A neon pool and a neon lit pagoda. The city below. Couldn’t beat the view. Highest concentration of hapas maybe anywhere, drinking the week’s leftover sake and whatever else was brought along. He was the guy who got me into Laphroaig. First couple sips I wasn’t sure, and then I tasted the ocean in it and have been drinking it ever since.
He had been working the kitchen upstairs at Yamashiro proper and would join us after clocking out. In an effort to improve the food there they had brought in this Japanese guy whose name I forget who brought Kevin on and showed him the ropes. He was eating this shit up. He would go on and on about Japanese craftsmanship. Let’s talk about something else. He was learning surgical grade sanmai oroshi, the Japanese way of filleting fish. I was dabbling in that Italian Japanese. The bagna fredda sauce was born in those days. We were going in opposite directions. He was heading towards tradition, I was heading away from it.
For a while he dropped off the map. He came around less and drank more when he did. The talk about Japanese craftsmanship became incessant. He had gone from the kitchen upstairs to a place run by a guy named Keizo, then a small player in LA who was just starting to make some moves.
I knew Zo from the counter of his first place, in some little strip mall in West LA. Stopped there on my way to the airport one time and almost tore up my plane ticket. That good. A snapper specialist, maestro of the many tai. The word was getting out, this was the guy. An ambitious Osaka gent, like my old man, is on his way, I thought to myself. Towards the end of lunch, he went into the back to whip up the staff meal. Grilled sanma, served whole.
I remember being impressed they took their lunch that seriously. Sanma, a legends only fish, being prepared in front of customers. There is actually an Ozu movie called Sanma no Aji, literally the taste of sanma, but it is translated as An Autumn Afternoon for obvious reasons. It is an oily sardine-like fish shaped like a dagger, brushed with salt, and eaten with the guts. If you’ve never had it it’s great. It tastes like life, sensuous but with some bitterness.
His sous chef went and grated up the daikon. What’s the opposite of a red flag? No accident Ozu ended up the way it is. Occasionally you have to watch us eat too. Some cutting edge shit going on there. Forbidden uses of natto. Decked out onigiri. Please tell me if I have rice stuck to my face.
Someday we’ll serve grilled sanma, but for now it’s just personal use. These days, I don’t even tell my dad I’m eating it, lest he start swimming back to Japan. Like many things, it used to be cheap and plentiful but has gone the way of the oyster. Grilled it on the patio with the aspen leaves rustling. A messenger of autumn, which feels near.
I would run into Zo every now and then, usually at trade shows, tasting a bottle of Born Gold Dreams Come True with the pompadour-sporting owner pouring for us. He always remembered my name as a good counter man would. I noticed he was flanked by some well-heeled Chinese gents. He introduced them as his business partners. A few months later he was opening in Hong Kong, Bangkok, New York. He sent Kevin east to head up his place in Midtown.
The rise and fall of Rome. New York location’s closed. He’s down to just a few. The original is still there, in that little strip mall, where he lives on in my imagination, grilling sanma for lunch.
Kevin’s dusted himself off and has another project in the works, working on a counter with a major hospitality group. Walking around his new setup, he gave me a tour of restaurant life in New York. The thing about hapas, we’re always a little bit fucked. Tossed and turned in this world. Sitting down at the counter, we both looked at our phones.
Sorry, I gotta order fish.
“Me too.”
temaki
choice of blue crab, maguro, kanpachi namerou, or ikura
sesame miso bagna fredda
local raw vegetables with an umami-rich anchovy dip
hiyashi salad
local lettuces, radish, cucumber, sesame ginger dressing
owan
rich fish stock miso soup
eggplant & sungold salad
cold Japanese eggplant & sungold tomato salad with ginger dressing & cilantro
shime saba
Kansai-style vinegared raw mackerel sashimi
white anchovy salad with shiso vinaigrette
marinated white anchovies over local greens with fresh shiso dressing
scallop ceviche
raw sea scallops, sudachi, ikura, aonori
black cod saikyo yaki bento
roasted black cod marinated in miso, over Japanese rice with hiyashi salad and pickles
seared scallop bento
seared sea scallops over Japanese rice, hiyashi salad & pickles
maguro bento
raw bluefin tuna over sushi rice with hiyashi salad, pickles
chirashi
raw itoyori, saba, tuna, nodoguro, scallop, kinmedai, tai, ikura, uni over sushi rice*
basque cheesecake
yuzu coconut rice pudding
sesame miso cookie