Had my own version of “last call” last Friday. Peggy and Sunil left three days ago to take up their new posts at ASU in Arizona. Last Friday, Hubby and I had plans to go to Athens (where I was hoping to try out the noted Five and Ten restaurant) and catch one of our favorite bands, The Avett Brothers. Said plans went grossly awry when I wasn’t able to leave work early enough to make it to the show in Athens, but serendipitously, it worked out for us to race up to Atlanta and catch dinner with Peggy and Sunil.
Our choice was MF Sushibar. We’ve been eating there since the restaurant first opened, and we know the owners (chef Chris Kinjo and his brother Alex) well. So well, in fact, that Chris invited us to his wedding in New Orleans last month. A friend noted over lunch one day that he’s been eating at the same restaurants repeatedly for years and has never gotten to know any of the servers or anyone at the restaurant well enough to know their names much less be invited to their weddings. When I was living in Atlanta, Peggy and I ate in front of Chris at the sushi bar about once a week and we routinely brought business guests and friends to eat there with us as well –so it really isn’t hard to make the jump from regular customer to friend. J
Chris' first words to Peggy when she entered the restaurant: “Arizona? Where the hell are you going to get sushi?” She promised to fly back frequently.
I could rave incessantly about MF Sushibar but better and more celebrated food critics already have. I’ve eaten sushi on two continents and in countless states. It’s easy to say that MF ranks as one of the best.
Our first meal together seven years ago was over sushi, at Soto’s. This is probably as good a time as any to comment on Soto. In the spirit of full disclosure, it should be known that I’ve been boycotting Soto for five years. I used to eat there quite regularly – once or twice a week, along with Peggy or other friends. I also brought countless guests there and got to know the entire staff really well – Ferdy, my favorite waiter, Takuya, another great waiter (who I ran into when my sister Hani and I ate at Blue Ribbon Sushi in New York last year!), Claudia, the hostess par excellence, and the effervescent sous-chef, Taka, who later went off to found his own sushi joint in Buckhead. Then one night (on the same night the exact same thing happened to Peggy, who had eaten there earlier), Soto pissed me off so much that I never went back. It should say something that an insano foodie would forgo superb food simply because she hates the chef’s guts so much.
Let’s just say that while I admire Soto’s exquisite food sensibilities, his absolute obsession with perfection, and his brain-surgeon-like intensity, his riff as the Sushi Nazi leaves a lot to be desired. He has no sense of customer service and lacks an appreciation for the people who enjoy his food. Soto’s like an art genius who wants to create solely for himself and believes that no one is worthy to look at, or to own his work. I don’t enjoy eating at a restaurant where I’m a burden to the chef no matter how wonderful his food (for fuck’s sake, I’m told Masa at the fabled Masa in New York has time to chat with his guests even though he’s running the whole damn show). So un-Buddha-like. It’s been five years and I’m STILL pissed off at him. I understand that he has revamped his menu and it is now strictly omakase: $70/per person and the meal takes four hours. Cynically speaking, the only thing that differentiates this new format from the previous is the omakase part. The cost and the interminable wait for food (on average food didn’t arrive until 90 minutes had elapsed) sound pretty much the same to me.
Feh. But on to happier subjects: Chris and MF Sushibar. Chris’ nickname is “Magic Fingers,” hence the “MF.” It’s strictly sushi at MF. No cooked foods; no teriyaki and if you only like California rolls, don’t bother coming. Chris gets his fish flown in fresh daily and he takes his fish and preparation as seriously as does Soto; the difference is that Chris is delighted when his guests are thrilled with his dishes. He’s not as cerebral as are some sushi chefs; but don’t mistake easy going for lax. Chris moves like magic behind the bar and we always know when he’s not making our dishes. There’s something about his cuts that distinguishes plates prepared by him from those sent out by his sous-chefs. All the more reason to always have omakase with Chris.
This being our last meal together in Atlanta, we asked Chris to choose everything – including our sake. He sent out four dishes at a measured pace, each more sublime than the last.
The first plate was a quartet of appetizers: tempura fried lobster tail with a spicy
cream sauce topped with hunks of red tobiko; toro tartare –delicately chopped chu-toro clinging precariously together with chopped spring
onions and topped with spicy wasabi tobiko, salmon tataki, a lovely play on the more common tuna version, this
time with delicately seared slices of salmon doused with a light Ponzu sauce,
and finally, bound together with light Japanese mayo, pine nuts, and flavored
with unagitare, the tuna
tartare.
Next up was Chris’ signature lobster custard, an airy, rich egg
soufflé infused with lobster broth and bits of lobster. [The French Laundry does a version of
this dish, which is essentially egg yolks and infused cream baked in a bain
mairie (water bath).] Presented in pear shaped clay pots, the
scent of the lobster oil wafted around our table when we all lifted the lids at
once.
Our waitress was sent over to grate fresh wasabi for the forthcoming sashimi platter. The blobs of wasabi that usually accompany a sushi dish have about as much in common with fresh wasabi as imitation vanilla has with a vanilla bean. Wasabi paste is made from imitation flavors based on horseradish, mustard powder, and green food coloring. The wasabi plant (Wasabia japonica) is a member of the cruciferous family (of which brussel sprouts and broccoli are members). It is native to Japan the earliest known cultivation of the plant dates back to the 10th century. The root-like stem which grows above ground is called the “rhizome” and it is this part of the plant which is grated. There are two varieties: daruma, the most popular version which has a strong heat but sweet aftertaste, and the mazuma variety, which is hotter than its cousin. Chris has his servers use sharkskin graters; first, the root is washed under cold water, then the outer skin is scraped off, exposing the light green root. The server rubs the exposed root against the grater in a circular motion, using a chopstick to scrape off the fresh wasabi. Unlike wasabi paste, fresh wasabi has a sweetness and a lightness of texture that makes it a better compliment with sashimi.
And speaking of, there’s no need to describe the third dish
when a picture does better:
Suzuki, hamachi, salmon, tai, aji, and a symphony of tuna: maguro, toro, chu-toro and o-toro
Chris, knowing we are plebeians at heart, sent out as a finishing
touch, four spicy tuna handrolls, the nori
still perfectly crisp and crunchy to the bite.
I suppose it’s fitting that our last meal together in Atlanta should be over sushi because that’s how our friendship began. When four friends who can discuss every subject from classic watches to other people’s child-rearing practices to why R2-D2, who knew the whole saga of Anakin Skywalker, chose not to say a word to Luke (“who, by the way, can understand him. Beeep booop boop bup beep bu?”), cease to talk just to indulge in the joy of eating, it’s a good night.
