When it comes to the sushi itself, though, Sato is a purist. "Fish from the sea, rice from the land, wasabi from clean, pure water. You serve it simply, with no additives," he says. "The raw fish should be simple and fresh, so that the taste blossoms in your mouth."
He hands me a slice of hamachi on still-warm rice. I pop it into my mouth. It blossoms.
Five o'clock, opening time. Sato washes out the rice cooker and stashes it away. Then he puts chopsticks and soy sauce bowls out at each place. He looks in serious need of a nap. Gulping down a cup of tea, he cuts sheets of nori into a stack of strips, then sets a pot of water boiling for customers who like their sake hot. The house sake is, predictably, a mild-flavored one, one that doesn't get in the way of the taste of the sushi. Likewise, the house soy sauce.
"If you want to really know the worth of a sushi chef, taste his tamago," Sato tells me as I watch him construct a perfect, multilayered omelet in a square copper pan. When he's done, he holds a tiny branding iron over the gas flame, then burns the Japanese characters for "Sukeroku" into the omelet.
Two women poke their heads in the door, the first customers of the evening. "Are you open?" Sato glances at the clock. It's five-thirty, and he hasn't even hung the noren out over the door yet, so he rushes past the women to put up the short curtain, which signals "open for business." When he comes back in, the exhaustion has disappeared from his face. He's switched into host gear. Smiling and cracking jokes, he takes his trays of assorted shellfish from the refrigerator and puts them on the counter (there's no room here for a countertop refrigerator case); the women ooh and aah, then order sake. Sato gives me a flask, too. Then the fish starts appearing. Hime sazae. Glistening uni dappled with wasabi. Squid that was, I happen to know, alive only hours ago. Iwashi sashimi.
The women, a famous TV comedian and her hairdresser, are soon on their third flask of sake. An awabi on the counter suddenly moves, the comedian shrieks, and we all burst into laughter. Sato opens himself a beer and we toast to the success of his new shop. The fish keeps coming: saba; sayori; hotate; geso; chu toro.
He admits to us that he was so tired last night, he went home and fell asleep in the bath until five in the morning. "You might have drowned!" the hairdresser exclaims in horror.
More customers arrive, some old friends, some strangers attracted by the profusion of congratulatory flowers out front that announce a new restaurant in the neighborhood. A dapper businessman who sits alone and knows so much about fish that I suspect he may be from the competition. An elderly executive with a young woman who is clearly not his wife. A woman with a Betty Boop voice who owns a nearby art gallery. The comedian and her hairdresser leave, and their places are quickly filled. The door slides open but all the seats are taken, and Sato must turn away three men. "I'm sorry. Please come back tomorrow," he says.
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