by Anne Gabriel
I joined a friend (as well as Rita Ora, Taika Waititi, and several of the brighter stars in the city’s culinary firmament) this past weekend for the opening night of Rokusho, a new Japanese food concept restaurant in Hollywood created by touted Michelin-starred chefs under the aegis of LA native Carlos Couts, formerly of Sushi by Scratch. I arrived having already eaten some street tacos to lessen my hunger lest my credit card not survive the evening. My friend was excited. The sake was excellent.
As a “meat lite” eater looking at Rokusho’s meat-heavy menu, I elected to start with fish set + vegetables located under the “Modern Kishikatsu” menu portion (Kishikatsu means meat dipped in panko and deep fried—on a stick). My companion ordered the same albeit a meat version. As my companion’s meat set arrived, and I waited, I decided to try his “+ vegetables” which came with his meat set. The “+ vegetables” was comprised of three slightly larger than marble-size balls of panko-dipped deep fried corn balls garnished with what seemed to be crunchy, spindly thread delicately placed on top.
“Perfect,” I thought as crunch is always a welcome sensation with anything touted as deep fried. I placed one of the corn balls into my mouth ready for a juicy crispy bite of panko bursting with sweet corn, only to be met with a mouthful of hair. Whatever flavor might have been, was quickly, quickly swallowed down so as not to create cat-like hacking sounds in the middle of such a fine establishment.
The thread garnish adorning the corn balls was in fact NOT crunchy, but decidedly soft, as if it had been brushed a thousand times. A sensation and texture that I’ve spent many a year trying to actually keep out of my mouth. I grimaced as my friend asked what was wrong. I said it felt like hair. His response, “it’s a play on texture.” Fine, a rather large, nickle-size ball of “texture” that I never want in my mouth again. I elected not to try another while I watched my friend devour his meat skewer. I waited.
Finally, after watching my friend eat for a good 10 minutes, my deep fried fish skewers finally arrived. As I inspected my fry, I noticed that instead of being “deep fried” the fish were lightly seared which I assumed was the “modern” twist as the name suggested. As I removed one chunk of tuna from the bamboo skewer, checking it for hair-like thread garnish, of which there was none—I was met with, well, a chunk of warm-ish bland tuna. I’m an optimist so I moved onto the second skewer of salmon. I cannot tell you what sauce was placed onto each salmon chunk, but it tasted and looked a lot like mayonnaise, albeit with no tang or salt but with all the white. These meat chunks also proved to be warm, and bland, with a lovely warm mayonnaise flavor and “play on texture.”
Ok, I thought, let me have some vegetables, because after all the dish was fish set + vegetables. But alas, the vegetables were missing and in their place was a large prawn covered with… hair-like thread garnish. I gagged.
I sat and chatted with my friend as I bitterly watched him savor every morsel of meat that crossed his lips. He explained that apparently there is a specific wagyu-beef farm in Japan that will only sell to this chef. He then offered me a piece of fish that had been delivered under a smoke filled dome which was removed by the waiter with a theatrical twirling of the wrist to ensure that the smoke spiraled upwards—you know, for taste.
This smoke-infused fish chunk may also have been bland, but I’ll never know because I was strongly encouraged to smear it with its accompanying mustard seed sauce—which when coupled with the smokiness, from the meat dome, actually turned into a rather bright bite full of pops of mustard seed offset by an essence of forest fire. “Oh, here is the flavor that was wholly absent from my own meal” I thought.
I decided for the sake of my friendship with this person—to stop there and down my sake, that was until I was intrigued by my companion’s final dish—the Wagyu Aburi, Sukiyaki style.
As it arrived I watched the staff grinning excitedly for him to try it knowing that it may very well be his favorite of the evening. I looked down at his plate—which was full of three chocolate-brown gushy piles of meat? Swimming in a sea of two different colored sauces. I took my chopstick and I dipped it in one of the colors—it tasted sweet. I dipped into the second color hoping that the sauce would contain a spice or citrus note to offset the sweetness—nope, sweet again. In fact both sauces tasted exactly the same—like a one-note maple syrup without any of the flavor profile of “tree” or nature.
Fine. I took a piece from one of the piles, which I was told was wagyu, and dipped it into the sweet sauce, I forget which color, and put it in my mouth. A mouthful of fat is what I received, although it was perfectly thinly sliced.
I looked over at my friend who was overjoyed with his meal, and forced a pleasant smile, the bastard.
Photo: Rokusho Los Angeles