The villa comes first. Down a quiet street in District 3, a white French villa hides behind old trees — red lanterns at the gate, the KOBE sign glowing after dark. Inside: one hundred seats across ten private rooms, each with its own chef at the teppan, each night a small theatre.

Then the fire takes the stage. Oil on the steel, the flame climbs, and the room goes quiet — wagyu ribeye, foie gras, scallops and ark shells finished inches from your seat. This is the teppanyaki ritual the house is known for: dinner you watch.

And at the centre, the cow. Kobe beef — the name on the gate — arrives as A5 ribeye, folded into sukiyaki, paired with foie gras, laid over sushi rice with sea urchin. Fourteen dishes, no published prices: the house asks you to call, and the house confirms everything.