These days if my parents are involved we only dine outside. That’s because Claude prefers sidewalk seating, and there’s no getting around inviting Claude. So we dined, one mildly sticky evening, in the Kamehachi garden, which is graced by a tiny tube-fed pool and is nestled perilously close to the Wells Street alley and its attendant perfume of refuse. Still, once Claude had sniffed the Golden Retriever tucked under a nearby table and panted greetings to all, we settled down for some of the best sushi in town.
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Softshell Crab: After a round of sake and a round of Kirin chasers I had gotten over my Claude headache and Claude had gotten over his interest in chewing the decor. We ordered this, which came heavily fried, overwhelming the delicate crab. Though we’d prefer ’em soft and sauteed, we munched every last little leg dipped in its bright ginger soy bath.
Goma Ae: While we waited, we admired the old-fashioned street lamp and the wood placards hanging along the wall, each featuring a Japanese character. We amused ourselves trying decipher the one near our table until the waiter informed us it was ersatz Japanese and actually meaningless. And this from a place that boasts “Tokyo, New York, Chicago” on the matchbooks. The spinach never showed up.
Tekka Maki: One of those first-date standards I’ve never outgrown. Here, it’s as good as it gets.
Oyster Shooter: Someone ordered one of these, which comes in a glass and looks like something Claude might cough up. Apparently an acquired taste.
