There’s a sushi restaurant in the Gotanda neighborhood of Tokyo.  It’s one of those places hidden in plain sight, easy to find only if you know it’s there, tucked among other undistinguished buildings on a featureless, busy street.  It’s small, with six seats at the counter and a private room at the back that no one ever seems to use.  It’s slightly rundown and looks like it hasn’t been modernized since it was first opened a few decades ago. I suspect it might fail any rigorous hygiene inspection.  No menu is offered and only cash is accepted.

The place is owned and run by the sushi chef and his clearly devoted wife.  He prepares and serves the sushi (usually nigiri) while she takes care of drinks, the bill, and everything else.  They’re a boisterous and hospitable pair, yelling welcomes when you arrive, farewells when you leave, and smiling all the time in between.  It feels like you’re eating in someone’s home.  Someone you can’t understand, who grins at you throughout your meal, tells you what to eat, and takes your money before you wander off happily into the night.

Sushi is apparently the simplest of foods.  What other popular cuisine consists of only two ingredients: rice and fish?  But if you listen to the aficionados, they’ll tell you it’s very difficult food to pull off.  They’ll also argue endlessly and tiresomely about which of the two ingredients matters most, but will eventually agree that it’s the pairing of both that makes the difference.  In experienced and skilled hands, like those above, that simple combination can taste sublime.

If you ask me nicely and promise never to go there, I might tell you the name of the place in Gotanda.