The room is half timber, half shadow. A long pale-wood counter seats the night's diners shoulder to shoulder, a copper vent rising over the working side, a vase of flowers by the wooden cupboards — everything faces the chef.
There is no printed menu. The branded oshibori says it plainly — おまかせ, "I leave it to you" — brushstroke kanji stamped with the venue's own red seal. The evening is written at the counter, pass by pass.
The kitchen is known for a trio — uni, mantis shrimp, shirako — and for the passing of sake: a Tōyō Bijin junmai daiginjō on the wood, tin carafe, small cup. One last thing, then the room lets go.