Narisawa

Leaving Narisawa, my main feeling was that I had experienced something that must have been extraordinary… fifteen years ago. You can still understand why the restaurant became so influential: sustainability, hyper-seasonality, locality, and a nature-driven narrative executed with precision and intelligence. But many of these ideas have now become part of the common language of contemporary fine dining, so what once felt groundbreaking now feels almost canonical. While I respect Narisawa’s historical importance, the meal itself often felt more like a culinary manifesto from the past than something truly exciting in Tokyo’s current dining scene. The experience also felt surprisingly rushed for a restaurant of this level — at one point coffee arrived before we had even finished dessert, giving the impression that service wanted the evening to end. Some dishes were also simply unbalanced: the fried fish early in the menu was unpleasantly bitter, and even the bread leaned oddly sweet. What I also found ironic is that, contrary to what is suggested in many international write-ups, including The World’s 50 Best Restaurants, there was barely any real exploration of Japanese wine on the menu. In what is presented as a temple of deeply rooted Japanese gastronomy, it was surprising to see almost a single producer representing Japanese wine. That contradiction probably summarizes my overall impression better than anything else: an experience built around an important idea whose execution now feels strangely disconnected from the contemporary reality it helped create. Considering the price point, the overall experience ultimately felt difficult to justify compared with other Michelin-starred restaurants we’ve visited.

The forest-inspired courses felt like edible storytelling. Impeccable service throughout.

One of the most thoughtful tasting menus I've had anywhere, not just in Tokyo.

Beautiful and inventive, though pricing reflects the occasion-dining experience.