It all started 30 years ago in Manhattan. A year later, we found each other. Another year, and we made it official. One more, and we moved. One more, and a little Japanese restaurant opened on our block in a strictly residential area of our village starting an omakase tradition for this February day.
If the weather is brutal, we walk over to our corner place. On a good day, we venture downtown — there are at least ten or more Japanese places within walking distance from our house.
Yesterday, we made it Shumi. To say that the food was out of this world is to say nothing.
They started us with a soup with cooked tuna sushi roll. It was new to us and interesting. The bowl was bursting with umami.
Chawanmushi— Japanese egg custard came next. Tender smooth and smoky it was hiding mushrooms and a fish cake.
Then there was a sushi platter — different ways with tuna, salmon and yellowtail.
Scallop and fish tempura arrived next. I didn’t catch the name of the fish mentioned by our server.
Another sushi platter. Same perfectly portioned for one elegant bite slices of the freshest fish that has absolutely not been overpowered by rice.
And one more sushi platter: tamago on one end and smoked eel on the other, with three rolls based on monkfish liver topped with octopus and tuna, wrapped in incredibly flavorful nori.
The experience was rounded up with ramen that had a really nice corn flavor base.
With all the amazing food here’s the thing though. We left the place with a strange feeling. As I mentioned before, it was not our first omakase experience. Maybe some experts can correct me and point were I am wrong.
Severe expressions on chefs’ faces who were avoiding any eye contact — we sat at the bar — contributed some sort of tension. We were never asked about food allergies or aversions — we have none but still. We did not see or got to talk to the chef preparing our food — explanations were given by servers not always clear. And the final straw was ramen placed in front of us with the words something to the extent of “this is your last one,” which with stern faces in the background sounded “time for you to get out.” We have never hear this at omakase before.
Staying positive, we laughed it off and focused on the memories of the most incredible food.
Happy anniversary to us!🥂