When You Dine Omakase, the Sushi Chef’s in Charge There are rules when dining omakase: trust your sushi chef, don’t ask questions, and never, ever, ever ask for soy sauce. Would You Like Your Octopus Grilled or Still Moving? This Fish Could Kill You, If You’re Brave Enough to Eat ItNow open at Hudson Eats at Brookfield Place, Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar offers New York City's finest Sushi to the Financial District with a 16 seat sushi bar and to-go menu. Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar offers eat in, take out, delivery, corporate catering and private chef.They say that it’s not worth the trouble. You have to fight rush hour traffic all the way over to the Inner Richmond –and forget about finding a place to park.They say the owners are particular, aloof and unwilling to speak English. The place has rules — lots of rules — ranging from strict to draconian.Hell, they say sometimes the couple doesn’t even show up and you’re left standing there like a chump, hungry and cold.

They say it’s just too hard.For better or worse, we expect a certain, decidedly American style of treatment when we head into a restaurant. Big smiles, friendly chit-chat, maybe even some light toadying. It might be hard to get a reservation at some hip, new place, but once the hour is at hand, you’re basically the Sun King, right? Specials are announced and menu substitutions are happily made. The staff is at your disposal. sushi in oxford streetThe food is important, but the diner’s experience matters most. jiro dreams of sushi partThere’s a reason they call it catering, after all.  jiro dreams of sushi menuPersonally, I crave food with a higher degree of difficulty. sushi making kit as seen on tv

Secret passwords, odd hours, bizarre ingredients — anything to give the dilettantes pause. Metaphorically or not, I have no problem singing for my supper as long as whomever’s preparing it keeps up his side of the bargain. So when I heard about Tekka, I knew it was just my kind of place.For over twenty years the proprietors of Tekka, an older Japanese couple, have been quietly turning out some of the best food you might ever have the chance to eat. jiro dreams of sushi videoShe waits on tables and handles the glorious cooked dishes, the fare “from the farm” as she put it. buy sushi rice online canadaHe mans the bar, slowly but surely dispensing divine pieces of fish.   order sushi waterlooDreams wrapped in rice and seaweed.

I know their names, but I’m not going to tell you. If you don’t like it, find your own impossibly amazing sushi restaurant. And remember when I said the rules were lies? That was a lie. There’s one, big rule: You have to do things their way.You could drive right by it, wedged in between a well-worn flooring showroom and a nondescript apartment building. There’s no sign, except for the one that reads ‘closed.’ And the lights are probably off. If you want to eat, they’d better be.  We get there at 6:30 and we’re 8th and 9th in line. There are only two sittings a night, at 7 and 9:30pm, and the place is tiny. I’ve heard it holds 10 tops, but they’re happy to do less. I let out a relieved sigh and my girlfriend lets me know that, despite her assurances to the contrary, she would NOT have been happy to wait for the later service. A few minutes later a couple arrives after fighting two hours of traffic. They count the bodies in front of them and the grim reality sets in.

Finally, the owners show up, bearing a few shopping bags that hold integral components of the night’s meal. They go inside, the lights come on and we continue to wait, thrilled at the privilege of standing in the cold. I couldn’t be happier. She disappears into the kitchen. He puts on his chef’s uniform and goes to work behind the bar. We wait, trying not to look like we’re watching as closely as we are. Seven o’clock comes and goes, with no sign that we will ever get to eat. Locals walk by the line, small smiles on their faces. They must see it all the time.Finally, she appears and flips the sign over to ‘open.’ Then she hangs a small banner over the door and turns around without a glance at us. Befuddled, the line tentatively files inside, instantly filling the small space. The stragglers come in as well, hoping against hope that they can somehow find seats. The rest of us shift uncomfortably, feeling something halfway between compassion and entitlement. The Proprietress notices their vain search.

“Come back at 9:30,” she says in a tone that implies she does this a lot. They disappear into the cold night, still hungry.The Chef enters from the kitchen, barely acknowledging us — his customers. He sets up a few things while his wife circulates, taking orders. The couple next to us tries to order the omakase — chef’s choice — only to be told that it’s available strictly by reservation, made at least ten days in advance. “But we called for weeks,” he says. “Nobody ever picked up.” Across the bar, the Chef fires up a small TV, starting a DVD of The Three Tenors. His wife comes over to us and I try to order almost everything on the menu. “First time here?” she asks. “The pieces are very big. Already planning on Tekka and its owners becoming important parts of my life, I cut our order in half. On screen, Zubin Mehta takes the stage to rapturous, Italian applause.Beer and tea appear. A foolish soul asks for soda, only to have the Chef point brusquely at a placard above the bar that lists the ‘House Rules.’

“No soda,” his wife says as the Chef goes to work. (Of course there are more rules! But they’re all part of that big rule I mentioned before.) As Plácido, José and Luciano trade arias, we watch a man no less talented practice his art.  Here is the thing that makes everything else OK. The rules aren’t there to annoy us, just to make sure we’re really ready to appreciate this experience. The Chef carefully slices beautiful slabs of fresh fish — ruby red tuna, golden salmon, fluorescent orange sea urchin. He takes his time and our food comes slowly, as it is meant to be eaten. Have somewhere to be? Brother, are you ever in the wrong place.She was right — the pieces are extraordinarily big, and almost comically so. The fish hangs over the sides of the small mounds of rice, all but obscuring it. I couldn’t be happier about the oversized portions, because everything is thrillingly perfect. I’d heard that, given his seniority among San Francisco’s sushi chefs, Tekka’s proprietor has first choice at the fish market.

And now having eaten there, I completely believe it.The salmon is thick and creamy, the scallops firm and subtle, the tuna — my fucking God, the tuna. It’s presented perfectly and melts away in your mouth. I moan loudly and the Chef finally glances at me. “Bluefin,” he says, with a proud look. Then he returns to his work.Here’s where I could tell you about the conversation that followed. How we talked to the couple about their restaurant, about the fish, about any number of things. But I’m not going to. Like everything else at Tekka, you need to earn it for yourself. Just know this: before we left, I tell the Chef that I am writing an article about the place and ask if I can interview him sometime. “No,” he says firmly. “We have enough customers.” Which is just fine with me, because I know he is counting us among them.Want to try the Tekka experience? Head over to 537 Balboa Street and look for the tiny restaurant with no sign. First sitting is at 7pm — be in line at least 30 minutes early to have any hope of eating.