Hatch - Los Angeles

What a Valentine's venue, with a luxuriously focused menu, and an intimate ambiance to make you forget you're in the middle of a mall. 

We want a strong start with their famous Black Chicken Karaage, a bowl of fried thighs brined for two days. It's a bowl of juicy coals, but I'm sad to say it's bland. The black garlic ranch dip is too creamy to compensate, and I conclude that it looks like coals but doesn't have the fire.

Broccolini is better, a perfect vegetable with glamourized garlic chips.

They're out of the beef tongue, a tragedy, and a skewer of Chicken Heart doesn't sub. It's tender but nothing special. Perfectly cooked, but nothing I need again. 

But the Chicken Meatball is such perfection, so tender the juices drip. Dip excessively in egg yolk for extra extravagance. 

Forget the sweets, the perfect ending here is savory. An entire foot of buttery Bone Marrow, sizzling from the grill, drizzled onto a garlic mochi bread with a crispy-chewy contrasting texture. 

It's so pretty, but almost too pretty, clean but a bit too sterile. The preparation is perfect but the flavors seem muted, and it dampens the experience of this beautifully sexy place. I liked it, but I didn't love it - give me the nitty-gritty of the South Bay's Shensengumi and the dark boisterousness of Torihei any day. 

Torimatsu - Gardena

Chicken. Every kind of chicken, every part of the chicken, every preparation of the chicken. If you do not like chicken...find a different restaurant and why are you still reading?

We only tried three things that did not contain chicken. First, this complimentary appetizer with soft soaked potato in a sweet, palate-opening broth.  

A side of Grilled Rice Ball, a cohesive triangle of crispy rice coating a cod roe core. This is the best rice ball...in the world. 

A happy ending, digestif bowl of Miso Soup in lieu of dessert. 

Now the chicken. The offal. I don't even eat anything skeletal any more, and I'll even give the wings a hard pass. The Skin is the first organ, gone crispy by the grill, though the middle is more like rubber. 

The Gizzard is the best organ. Its plump and chewy texture hold in so much juice and finishes with a rebound savor. 

The Liver is lush with globules of creamy bile.

The Heart is another favorite - I like how they flay them into a thin splay with maximum surface area for all the sauce. The Meatball is soft and delicately sweet. It's never my favorite, but I have yet to have one that doesn’t wow. 

Even the Lotus Root is stuffed with chicken. White meat and peeks behind the eyes, and the flavor permeates a neutral root to enhance its basic fragrance.

The Chicken Sashimi. GULP. I haven't been this adventurous since I scooped the guts out of a silkworm when I didn't know better at the wise old age of 5. The sashimi is barely seared on the outside, and it tastes so slick and raw, like a creamy baby hamachi on neutral. It’s delicious if you can repress your fear, and it’s worth experiencing at least once in your life. Just make sure it’s at a restaurant with impeccable sanitation. 

The fastest way to heart is my stomach, and the fastest food is yakitori. I don’t know what they do at Torimatsu, but there has to be a technique and a hidden secret to their trade. They’re masters of their grill here, and they’re the only place that’s ever made me dream about a rice ball. 

Yardbird - Hong Kong

Night number one, venturing out of our hotel, but too timid to venture far. The centrally-located Yardbird is only a few walking blocks away, and have zero regrets about getting lost three times. This may be the sexiest restaurant on earth.  

Yardbird plays your sense of exclusivity against your desire for inclusion. The wait is an epic and integral part of the experience, and your evening starts at the standing counters, not the bar. But the counters are sleek, and when you place your cocky sticker to stake your claim, you're far more excited than annoyed, and you can’t help but flirt and banter as you look over the food and drinks. 

They serve a scrumptious list of whiskey, full of smooth Suntory and flowing Nikka. I try their house made Umeshu, a plum liquor that reminds me of sweeter soju. It finishes feather-light and transitions seamlessly to anything you choose to eat.

Servers in casual black weave swiftly between the standers and the seated, hands always full of smaller plates. They serve food and drink to the seated and the standing, and TBH, skewers might taste better when you're standing.

The Chicken Heart peeks through piles of green onion, tiny tender muscles that pump savory juice into the chambers as you chew. Their seasoning mix is distinct, and they highlighting the flavors without overpowering. They’re not ginger with the ginger; it’s the acid that tempers the fat.

Chicken Skin hangs from the skewers, stiff penants wave a victorious flag of melting fat. Each piece makes a definitive crunch.

The Gizzard is grilled like the rest, but it’s so soft it's it tastes confit. Rivulets of fat sweat slickly down the sides, and we got the last one before they ran out.

The Meatball is their signature skewer. It has to be because there can't be anything better in the world. The ground chicken is so delicate; the small ball stays moist beneath the grill-kissed crisp. A rising sun egg yolk breaks and thickens a tare dip, and it slathers on the meatball like a salty, gooey paint.

We break from the skewers for the Chicken Katsu Sando, a special for the night. A perfect cutlet, battered and fried, the fluffy brick of white bread seduces with a dark n’ sour barbecue sauce.

The Scotch Egg is our heaviest item, and it is a great among the greats. Battered and fried in chicken, it sits lighter than pork, but the stripes of mayo change that for the better. The bed of cabbage beneath isn’t just for show - it catches the egg drippings and tastes like scotch egg cabbage.

We finish with a few shared skewers - we're full but we just can't stop. The meatball gets another go, and we bend the Knee to a craving for cartilage.

The Thyroid is last, a strong suggestion from our server. It's creamy yet supple, with a texture as springy as tendon and a juice that tastes like it was cooked in savory milk.

There is something irresistible about Yardbird, and I can't describe it, but you'll feel it when you're there. The ambiance is unforgettable, and you inevitably soak in the air of playful sophistication. The flavors are serious, yet they flirt with your senses and tease your sensibility. I don't know what got into me that night, but standing at that counter with a skewer was the most fun I’ve had in years.