Hinoki and the Bird - Los Angeles

Hinoki and the Bird has fallen upon uncertain times. New management, new talent; all that was tried-and-true about this Century City staple will change, and the future has never been more unclear.

If the Chili Crab Toast becomes the taste of future, there will certainly be a crash to go with the burn. The chili was a lighter, less sticky version of what comes on Buffalo Wild Wings, and I could hardly eat the tiny, abrasive toast.

I tasted my insecurity personified in the crab toast as I looked around the table at my friends. This was a group of my co-residents, people who would, like Hinoki's chef, would move onto supposedly bigger and better things. The victorious reprieve from slogging through three long years is cool and soothing, a smooth slice of persimmon-ous Hamachi, a plate full of promise that delivers.

In just four short months, we'll ascend upon greener pastures of hospitalist life or fellowship. Underneath a cavernous crisp, the light at the end of the tunnel hits the Hokkaido Scallop, a bit of brine, sweet with pomegranate and enhanced by yuzu.

The journey ahead is promising, but not nearly as certain as the tenderly grilled Octopus. What you see is what you get here, warm, tender slices of tongue-tantalization.

We don't really know what we're getting into, and we really don't know what the future will hold, but what worries me most is the fate of our friendships. We are almost familial, bound by trying times, forever connected by fighting for others' lives. Wholesome and sweet as a hearth-roasted Yam, motives always as pure as sterile creme fraiche.

Residency has been full of trying times, but the we sailed through the good and bonded through the bitterness. But bitterness is often what helps a dish come alive. Put the bitter Brussels Sprouts with a sour lemon and somehow two often-offensive tastes become a breath of fresh air.

There were often trying times, and sometimes the Butter Lobster Ramen would hit the proverbial fan, as a dense barrage of so many bold elements clash into a buttery-poached-chili-oil broth so overwhelmingly thick it should have been served as tsukemen.

But with the dark comes the light. Lobster Roll dusted with a bright hint of green curry sits airly atop a soft squid bread, a sweet teaser of better things to come.

And when the good things come, they really do come. The lows are well worth the highs, and the flat iron Steak bleeds a brilliant crimson that makes you close your eyes in delight.

We owe all those times to each other, to the people who stood united through thick and thin. A reaction forced by turbulence resulting in soft, creamy Cheesecake, a compulsory interaction required like a pairing of savory-sweet ice cream.

The friendships are earthy and not-so-sweet like the Red Bean Mochi, but making it through countless codes together is matcha-with-condensed-milk icing on the mochi cake.

The bonds forged in residency have a depth, a je-ne-sais-quoi quality indescribable to the observer, unfathomable to the outsider. We work like a well-oiled, sugar-coated machine, like fluffy Miso Donuts melting into an intensely sweet honey caramel dip.

There are still the small squabbles, the petty tiffs, and sometimes personalities and cultures clash. At Hinoki and the Bird, when they fused Japanese cuisine, a world of unspeakable subtlety and immaculate, minimalist mastery with the loud-and-proud, boldly beautiful, dare-to-be-different New-American, some of it got lost in translation.

Like the end of residency, the famed Hinoki and the Bird was a bittersweet experience, tarnished by inexplicable bobbles, garnished by bits of brilliance. We face a lot of uncertainty in the months leading up to our graduation, but I think our futures are somewhat more secure than that of Hinoki and the Bird.