One night only · Wednesday, 23 September · three seats left
Say it like hello. The h stays at the door.
One table. One menu. One seating.
One night, one table, eight seats. Seven courses, about two and a half hours. Doors at 6:30, we sit at 7:00, and we finish together.
Slatted oak over the table, running up the wall and folding across the ceiling. The light sits inside it, so nothing points down at you. Eight seats underneath, close enough that the table talks to itself by the third course.
2702 Guatemala Brgy San Isidro, Makati City 1234The canopy, drawn as you go
Forty seconds in hot oil. The crust sets, the middle stays cold and still tastes of the sea. Salt on top and nothing after it.
Custard steamed soft enough that the spoon goes straight through it. Dashi underneath. The scallop goes in last so it stays sweet.
Glazed and turned over the fire until the edges catch. The fat renders back into the lacquer. Eat it with your hands if you want to.
Same fish, cooked twice, served next to each other. One is about smoke. The other is about sugar.
Skin blistered black over Japanese charcoal. The flesh underneath flakes at the first touch.
Cut thick and seared hard. The glaze reduces in the pan and goes back over it.
Gindara · about smoke
Japanese white charcoal burns hot and clean, with almost no flame and no smoke of its own. The smoke here belongs to the fish: the fat drips onto the coals and comes back up through it. It goes on skewers and gets turned by hand. The skin blisters black and goes crisp. The flesh underneath stays soft enough to flake at the first touch. Salt, and nothing else.
Gindara · about sugar
The same fish, cut thick like a steak and seared hard in the pan. Soy, mirin and sugar go in after it and reduce until they coat the back of a spoon. Then the glaze goes back over the fish, again and again, until it shines. Sweet at the front, salt at the back, and the fat of the gindara holding the two together.
Live coals until the crust is nearly black, rested twice, carved at the pass. The fifth course always comes off the fire, and the chef always brings it out himself. It is the one rule the menu never breaks.
Japanese short-grain rice, washed until the water runs clear, steamed, and left alone. Nothing on it and nothing in it. The last savoury thing of the night.
Churned that morning and kept right at the edge of setting. Four spoonfuls, cold and sharp, and that is the end of it.
The pairing
One red, one white, chosen against this menu and nothing else. Both open from seven. We don't print the labels — ask at the table and we'll tell you what you're drinking.
The non-alcoholic pairing is made in the same kitchen, over the same seven courses, by the people who cooked them.
We set the table once, for eight people who mostly don't know each other. Doors at 6:30, we sit at 7:00, and we finish together. Paid in full when you book, and there is no second night.
Tell us what you can't eat and we'll build around it. One party can take the whole table — ask, and we write the menu with you.
Wednesday,
23 September