To experience Saito is to experience the man himself: the focused baritone, clean-shaven high priest in pressed whites running an eight-seat counter like a private ceremony.
Watching Saito’s hands — how he presses shari three, no more than four times into neta; how the wasabi lands with the same measured dab; how soy is brushed in one economical... More
To experience Saito is to experience the man himself: the focused baritone, clean-shaven high priest in pressed whites running an eight-seat counter like a private ceremony.
Watching Saito’s hands — how he presses shari three, no more than four times into neta; how the wasabi lands with the same measured dab; how soy is brushed in one economical sweep — is to witness those of a young pianist who had finally become one with Liszt. But Takashi Saito has done this for 22 years at his namesake, and he doesn’t skip a beat as an an increasingly raucous gallery plies him with aged Burgundy, tall highballs, and conversation topics that grow more perverse by the half hour. And still, near the end, he keeps moving with that same rhythm, sending out nigiri in full color so pristine, so virtually flawless that you find yourself recalibrating what perfect is supposed to feel like.
I arrived late to this February reservation and, in the steps approaching the dining room, had a brief, unhelpful vision of my own excommunication.
Which is why my hands trembled through the otsumami — shiro ebi, delicate shirako, karasumi with a richness that made me think of the melting center (and color) of a great quesabirria taco that made me weep in front of an LA taco truck — then into the nigiri, where superlatives apply. I had sayori with shiso; custard-like murasaki uni, sans seaweed (a technical flex); toro whose fat and flesh knit together handsomely; and chewy but yielding ika, rubbed with salt and sudachi, melting slower than you expect, then all at once. The tremors left around the time when someone poured me whiskey. Yes, Saito has every right to excommunicate a tardy guest, but he doesn’t because he’s kind and giving, and so the room loosens around him too.
Saito’s craft is legible in the details, with a near colorless red-vinegar blend that stays neutral rather than bracing; soy painted with restraint so the neta still sings; and shari sturdy enough that it barely holds it together. Still, I left thinking about the end: how it never softened, nor reached for a flourish. A meal for the culinary ages. 🙏 TK-san for paving the way.
📍Saito, Tokyo. 🍽️ Feb ‘26. Less
