Here is a snapshot of what we ate on our first leg in Tokyo, in between the big dinners. Five places. Tokyo, October 2026.
Our first night after landing. Jet-lagged, so we had booked Poivrer.
Our first lesson in finding restaurants in Tokyo. We are used to them being at street level. This one was on the tenth floor.
The dressed-up one of the five, a bistro with a proper wine list, but still a bistro. À la carte, no dress code.
Poivrer is French for “to pepper”, and steak au poivre is the dish that gave the restaurant its name. Japanese Black wagyu over charcoal, bought as whole animals direct from the producer in Miyagi.
We liked the layout of the restaurant, with an open kitchen at the far end. Service was good. The steak took some time to prepare, but it was worth the wait.
The sirloin melted in the mouth. Oh my. What flavour. Our first taste of what Japan could do with beef. The quality throughout our journey would turn out to be just mind-blowing.
I wish I had taken more pictures. I took only one. Jet lag, probably.
We have all seen the cooking programmes on TV where they always say more salt, more salt. Here, salt and pepper came on the side, for us to decide. We did not feel the beef needed either.
Almost an obligatory visit. You know the futuristic belts where the food comes out. We went to the Ginza flagship.
One belt where you just pick a plate. An overhead belt for what you order on the “iPad”, drinks included. It is just fascinating to see.
Afterwards, you put the plate into the slot. It counts. Five plates and you get a go at Bikkura Pon, a game where you can win a prize.
The slot is Kura’s own invention, from 1996. It counts the plates for your bill and floats them off to the dishwasher on a stream of water.
Press another button and you get your bill, then you pay at the counter on your way out.
One warning though. At some point it felt like a birthday party for 100 schoolkids.
Loud announcements, numbers on a screen, we never worked out what for. So brace yourself and bring earplugs.
Go again? No, it was not that good food-wise. But bullseye for the experience.
A note on the name first. This is not a hamburger place.
Hamburg, or hambagu, is the Japanese hamburger steak, minced beef without a bun, served with rice. A home-cooking staple in Japan, and at Yoshi it is the whole point.
My wife said, prepare to queue. She said that a lot on our trip. It is true, popular places always have a queue. Although this time we had a reservation.
The man in charge of the queue did not seem to understand what a reservation meant. So I went to the side and into the restaurant, got someone’s attention, and the reservation worked. Back out, first in line.
Inside again, you order everything from a machine, drinks included. Hang your bag on the wall behind you. Take your seat and give them your ticket.
I cannot remember all the options, but we chose three patties.
Think of a hamburger rolled into a ball, then flame-grilled. Not the usual flipping of burgers. Actually, it made sense.
The chef in the glass or Perspex box had a system. Rolling them from A to B, and when ready to C, the small hatch where the staff pick them up for the guests.
You get some pickled greens, miso soup and a divine sauce. And of course rice, cooked in a traditional pot, as much of it as you want. Eat it however you like.
They grind the beef in the morning. When it runs out, they close.
The patties were juicy and full of flavour. Sitting at the long counter, watching the chef while eating one of the best “burgers” I have had, was a joy. The service and the pace were part of it too.
This was fun. Tempo. And delicious.
Hamburg Yoshi Omotesando
1F Daiichi Minamiaoyama Building, 5-9-3 Minamiaoyama, Minato-ku, Tokyo 107-0062
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Reservations
My first yakiniku, together with so many other firsts on this trip. Sometimes I wonder what rock I have been living under.
Yakiniku Ushigoro Ginza is on the seventh floor of One Ginza. By now we knew the drill, find the building, find the lift.
Love the concept. Put your apron on. A gas grill built into the table, and you decide how to cook the meat.
Decide what cuts you want, rice, salad, kimchi and so on, and a bottle of wine. We went for sirloin, ribeye and shoulder blade, all wagyu, no offal. We like it when the slices are thin.
They insisted on grilling the fattiest wagyu for us. I think that was a good idea, otherwise we would probably have set the restaurant on fire.
The rest we grilled ourselves, and we enjoyed the control. Being able to let the edges get a little charred before dipping the meat in the sauce. I am far from a yakiniku expert, but I liked that.
They even change the grate during the meal. And surprisingly, no smell of barbecue. Some Japanese magic? The magic has a name, smokeless roasters.
At home, I change the grate every other year. Perhaps I should raise my standards.
The sommelier, after some pointing and trying to explain across the language barrier, worked it out really well. We chose a Blank Canvas Escaroth Vineyard Pinot Noir 2020 from Marlborough, New Zealand. It was sublime, and finished too soon.
We decided to go for one more glass. The wine was not available by the glass, but there was an easy solution. He opened another bottle, and we could take the rest with us when we were done. Not something we are used to in Sweden.
A new kind of doggy bag, and we liked it.
A ramen chain from Fukuoka, with no reservations. The speciality is tonkotsu, pork bone broth with thin noodles.
The Shibuya branch is in a basement two minutes from the crossing, open 24 hours.
Again my wife said: there is going to be a queue. And there was, of course. This time on the stairs down to a basement. It moved slowly.
Me, with no patience (better now after the trip), standing on the stairs for 20 to 30 minutes felt like an eternity. I thought, I am too old for this shit. Classic, I know. But I think I was the oldest one queuing.
Our turn. We got a paper form to fill in. Easy. Pork, extra pork, broth, spice level and so on.
We ordered and paid at a machine, then went back to the lady watching a panel of lights that looked like it came from the seventies.
Then you are assigned to your booth. Ichiran calls them flavour concentration booths. Here you sit alone with your sins, or thinking of your day, until suddenly the bamboo curtain goes up and a beer comes out.
You do not see the kitchen staff. It is just a strange place to eat. Forget the conversation around the dinner table.
I find it kind of sad, but I can also understand it. You work, you just want a good lunch for yourself. Sneak in, pay, eat, then leave.
How was it? My wife finished her bowl.
Me, I chose too little spice, and the broth was too creamy for me. It developed an odd taste the further down I ate. I did not finish. But that is me.
We both agreed the noodles were fantastic.
Five places, two queues, one bottle to go.
Everything runs on a system. A belt, a ticket machine, a paper form, a hatch, a booth with a curtain. The only thing that did not work was the man in charge of the queue.
And the beef. The sirloin on the first night was a preview. The rest of the trip kept the promise.
