Bright white and uber-modern, this place houses the kind of people you'd expect (you know, the guys that pretend to know everything with the women that pretend to eat), but with the big bonus of not having to compromise your dignity to get a table.
And there, in the temple of good lighting...we laughed in the face of death! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!
What does death taste like? Not much. Mostly like the lovely besprinkled shiso flowers (though flesh itself was pleasingly melty-tissue-thin). The skin was chewy and didn't really register on the palate either, but hey--waste not, want not.
The deep-fried fugu bones (fugu karaage) and fugu hotpot (fugu-chiri, also comprised of blowfish bones) proved to be tastier than the pristine sashimi. The hotpot was the fave, with a limpid dashi soup base scented with shredded scallions and mushrooms, rich with blowfishy collagen. Momma sipped and fished for the poached fugu bits, temporarily relieved of her frostbite blues.