Sushi Dai – Tokyo

First day in Tokyo, and I’m greeted by pouring rain. I’m silently berating my own foolishness as I wait under my 7-Eleven umbrella, which is perhaps the only smart decision I made this morning. The umbrella keeps me dry because my cotton hoodie sure as hell doesn’t, but the umbrella does nothing for the feather-light, paper-thin Toms that I thought could substitute for a proper pair of rain-resistant sneakers. The Toms are more like a sponge, and I’m squelching with each languished step in a long line that moves a couple of steps every hour. Still, it’s nothing compared to my knees, which are so stiffly straightened that even the slightest bend is now excruciating.

I thought that 9:30 AM would be a sure seating at a restaurant that closes at 2 PM, but I am so wrong. We are actually the last of the line with only 6 people behind us before the “so sorry, no more” sign goes up as Sushi Dai is packed to the gills.

By the time we’ve entered, I’m so famished I could lick the counter. I contemplate stuffing the small stack of pickled ginger into my mouth I as let the green tea defrost my hands.

The tea warms my fingers, and each slow sip spreads across my chest, but it does nothing for my freezing feet. Here, the first slice of sushi picks up the slack. They get right down to business with a marbled slab of Toro. Slick segments are separated by strips of fatty, fishy gristle unfolding with a flourish.

Our chef is sweet but shy. His methodical manner and responsible demeanor are easily overshadowed by the more boisterous chef on the right. He makes his sushi silently and skillfully, announcing each piece in easy English.

The second piece is a stark contrast to the first. The Flounder hits subtler notes, more slight with a zest of palate-cleansing citrus.

A bowl of Miso Soup provides constant inter-nigiri comfort, thickened with seafood for a savory stew. A square of Omelet lavishes in layers, like a sandwich to the soup.

The Red snapper is a flakier filet, lightly-bound, buttery bits that dissolve after a memorable moment.

The Uni came earlier than expected, a gooey hint of brine with a creamy caress.

The Aji illuminates, a meaty morsel beneath a silvery sheen.

The Surf Clam comes without a struggle. It curls on the counter as it draws a last, settling breath before falling into forever sleep. The flavor is seamless, stimulating while it rests.

The chefs are stern about the shoyu. They tell you no with every slice of sushi, lest you slather a single drop on a flawless nigiri. The O-toro Roll is the only time it’s permissible, and even then you only need a couple drops to unveil the umami.

Cutlassfish is long and sharp, a first for me. The silvered skin is more crisp than sinew, more smooth with a hint of sweet.

The Bonito is barely-there. It’s light and flows almost imperceptibly into the next.

The Sea Eel is always a flaky favorite, and it crumbles into tiny, sweet little bits.

Abalone was a cartilaginous curiosity, the last piece of my choice, and it makes a satisfying, teeth-clacking crunch.

An epic meal at negligible cost. Worth every minute in the rain, worth every penny and half a Tokyo day. There’s a damn good reason Sushidai earned itself a Bib Gourmand, but I don't need Michelin to tell me it's good.