When I first reviewed Morimoto 10 years ago, I had one of the thrills of my career. The Iron Chef himself stood across the green sushi counter, as he often did early on. He took out some long knives with deer-antler handles, and personally made me an omakase I'll never forget.
I can still taste the buttery toro tartare with shallots, the lobster sashimi splashed with soy and hot oil, the abalone seared on a hot rock, the sublime sushi, the sake crisp from a bamboo carafe.
It's a nice memory, since the chef rarely visits anymore after opening another namesake restaurant in New York. The result of his absence is less a decline than it is an obstacle to this kitchen's ability to grow. A place of this caliber needs a distinctive leader to bring it to the next level.
Maintaining the status quo at Morimoto, however, is no small achievement: It remains our premier Japanese experience. The color-shifting room, with its undulating walls and bamboo ceiling, is among our most distinctive.