It took me a month and 18 e-mails to get a table at Aronia de Takazawa, but it
was worth it. It would be the best meal of my life. Negotiations had stalled
because I wanted a table for one, and Takazawa has only two tables, so he
was reluctant.
But I explained to Akiko, chief negotiator, that I was prepared to fly 5,938
miles to visit. I’d beg like a dog. I’d pay double. I’d come at any time of
the day or night. I’d walk across Tokyo naked.
Finally, it was agreed. I didn’t even need to do the naked walking.
The e-mail began: “We are now pleased to confirm your booking at Aronia de
Takazawa.” But then it went on . . . “21.30 could be all right, but, since
we will have two table before you will come on the day, we are a little bit
worried. If one customer stayed longer than we expected, could you kindly
arrive bit later than 21.30? In that case, we would like to call to you to
let you know what time we would like you to arrive. Is that all right with
you? This means that you might be able to come later than 21.30, but, at the
moment, please confirm at 21.30.”
[Deep breath . . .] “In the case of ‘Later’, could you kindly let us know
where you will be staying? If you are not going to stay at your hotel around
that time, could you possibly make a phone call to check how we are going?
14th is just there! Thank you. Akiko.”
By this time, I had fallen in love with Akiko, and was determined not to let a
few final obstacles get in our way. I volunteered to arrive at 21.30 and
simply walk around the block until a table came free.
Four more e-mails about menus, potential allergies and my views on Darfur, as
well as the small matter of an 11-hour flight, then I was in a taxi, hunting
for what was, I had been reliably informed, Tokyo’s best-hidden secret. Yes,
the Michelin inspectors have just given a stellar thumbs-up to the city, but
the word on the culinary street was that they’d missed the real star.
And so had my driver. Eventually, he gave up and just pointed to a couple of
streets. Halfway up the second, I found a door with the word “Takazawa”
etched, mercifully in English, on its handle. In the minimalist room were
two tables, one for me, one with a couple halfway through their menu. Up
where you might put an altar, if this were a church, Yoshiaki Takazawa was
labouring at a simple stainless-steel work station, communicating with his
sous-chef hidden away through a door behind him.
I had 10 courses, each of which requires individual documentation:
1 After a palate-cleansing pyramid of frozen macadamia oil, I began with
Takazawa’s signature dish, a vegetable terrine: 15 bright cubes of
vegetable, each marinated in its own specific way, then put together in one
beautiful square the size of a Zippo lighter. It takes him half a day to
make it, but you are asked to eat it in one mouthful, with a crystal of
English salt. It was almost perverse.
2 Fish with “powdery dressing”: the sushi arrived, followed by Takazawa
clutching a wizard’s bowl of dressing, cooled to -200C to create the powder.
It was sensational, literally.
3 A slice of smoked Ezo venison was presented in a bowl full of wood smoke,
with mushrooms, forest nuts and parmesan (to resemble snow, because this is
winter). Takazawa uses one of Japan’s best hunters: the deer is unlikely to
have known what hit it, hence the unstartled flavour.
4 “Aroma pot”: Takazawa spent several intense minutes building a salad of
sweetbreads and herb leaves in a glass, then flipped it over and poured
boiling water into the nape of the upturned glass, with a sprig of rosemary.
I was asked by Akiko (with whom I’m still in love, even though she is
Takazawa’s wife) to enjoy the rosemary aroma and wait for magic. After two
minutes, the boiling water released a frozen dressing through the salad and
I was allowed to eat it. It was amazing.
5 “Prawn on the beach”: this was a special type of butterflied prawn, served
on a beach of breadcrumbs and crushed shell, with a wave of prawn bisque
poured over it.
6 A simple plate of vegetables, but grown by Takazawa’s uncle and grandfather
on a farm in the north, no doubt with the same obsessive dedication he
displays. Like a war-weary soldier having a flashback to a time before
everything went so, so wrong, I experienced a surge of nostalgia when I ate
the carrot. I’d forgotten that they could taste like that.
7 “Mushroom forest”, on a plate upon which Takazawa had painted mushrooms with
balsamic vinegar.
8 “Hiding Behind the Grove in Winter”: more venison, served with burdock,
chestnuts and sweet potato. I won’t tell you how good it was, because it’s
getting repetitive.
9 Medicine: a blob of kihada, which I was told wouldn’t taste nice, but
would be good for my stomach. It didn’t, and it was.
10 One final trick: Takazawa’s camembert platter. It looks like camembert, but
it’s cheesecake made with parmesan and cream cheese. It floated to the
table.
Over tea (I have a choice of 12, all promising great things - I opt for “feel
younger”, which proves to be the only empty promise of the night), I try to
understand why Takazawa only serves up to 10 people at once, when he could
fit at least 20 into the room and cash in. He says his restaurant is
modelled on a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, where one host sources
everything, makes everything, keeps an eye on everything. He just couldn’t
manage more than two groups in one go. I ask if he’s been to Britain, and he
reveals he came over to eat at Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck. What did he
think of the snail porridge? Impeccably polite, Takazawa says that he didn’t
understand the food (although it was “interesting”). Akiko chips in that
they were seated right by a door, and that it wasn’t a restaurant designed
for its customers.
And Heston has three stars. It just doesn’t make any sense.
Matt Rudd travelled as a guest of the Japan National Tourist Organization
and British Airways
Getting a table: unless you’re travelling alone, it won’t be as tough as
trying to get into one of Tokyo’s Michelin-starred restaurants. E-mail Akiko
on reservation_a@
aroniadetakazawa.com a few weeks in advance. Expect to pay £100pp for 10
courses, without wine. Getting there: British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com)
and Virgin Atlantic (0870 380 2007, www.virgin-atlantic.com)
both fly to Tokyo; from about £500. The nearest underground station is
Akasaka; Akiko will give you directions. Where to stay: try the boutique
Granbell (00 81-3 5457 2681, www.granbellhotel.jp;
doubles from £119), or the sky-high Park Hotel (3 6252 1111, www.parkhoteltokyo.com;
doubles from £91). Further details: Japan National Tourist Organization (020
7734 6870, www.seejapan.co.uk).
Worth eating here?
Chris, Seattle, WA