Murakami, Mishima and Yakumi

I can only imagine the vast expanse of nature. The sublime beauty of the world confronted with a lone person’s utter insignificance. A man has left everything in search of a sheep. He wanders around the island of Hokkaido, the strong angry seas, the lush forests, peaceful yet ominous mountains.

“Mountains, according to the angle of view, the season, the time of day, the beholder’s frame of mind, or any one thing, can effectively change their appearance. Thus, it is essential to recognize that we can never know more than one side, one small aspect of a mountain.”

The existential surrealism of writer Haruki Murakami’s world tends to suffuse itself onto my plate of grilled crab — a strange world of soulful speaking animals that collides with Yukio Mishima’s angry, cold sea.

“Suddenly the full long wail of a ship’s horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room — a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale’s back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming.”

A sea where I find some peace offered to me on a platter of toro (tuna belly). Images flash by my inner eye. Vintage Japanese prints come to life like a rudimentary animated film depicting tall, violent waves on which a vulnerable wooden fishing boat is perilously perched. Large, monstrous crabs. Mad, giant fish. An epic and treacherous journey that ends between my chopsticks. A darkness that results in light. A simple clarity of just being.

There is a sincere profoundness in true Japanese cuisine that is blatant and inescapable. A deliberate rawness, a stark freshness … a true simplicity that cannot be masked by ornate adornments. I have never really been one for the overly rich, bastardized, mayo-nified, tempura-battered nouvelle cuisine creations. I like the honesty of a lone piece of raw fish. Let nature speak for itself. And yet for something so seemingly effortless, it is rather difficult as the integrity of the product comes into play.

A meal at Yakumi is an existential experience. Large, high ceilings, minimalist décor and artwork. No faux Japanese fountains, little dusty pieces of cloth with calligraphy hanging from the ceiling, no lattice wood work and muffled sliding doors. There are no tatami mats or waitresses with split socks and obis. The only things reminiscent of the typical Japanese Disneyland are the large, straw-covered barrels of sake lined up against one wall. Then again, they really are filled with sake.  Here they let the food speak for itself.  And there they serve without a doubt some of the most spectacular food I’ve had in town in a while.

I skipped the usual rich beef, and while I must admit the fancy new-style sushi rolls were really quite tasty and the fact that I could eat that crispy salmon skin salad every day of my life… heck, even for a non-dessert fan like myself, I truly enjoyed their wasabi panna cotta and yuzu crème brulee. Like I said, an existential experience. The true standouts, though, were the seafood.

The first sign of a great Japanese restaurant is when the wasabi is grated fresh right under your nose. No pasty green stuff that comes from a tube or powder but fine, grainy, fibrous micro-bits that bloom elegantly in the little puddle of soy. Pungent with a hot bite, yet gentle and warm. Just enough to hug the sleek pieces of fish, kiss them with passion, not drown them in a rage.

That fish. That seafood. Little gifts from a cold, angry sea. How can anything so dangerously unpredictable yield such beauty? A sashimi platter lights up the center of the table like a beautiful mosaic of curated color and vibrant flavor. Different shades of neutral, buttery opaque raw scallops, pink-tinged hamachi, purple-lined octopus, stark white ika, offset by the fleshy red tuna and bright salmon. A sunny dandelion, happy green shiso leaves, burgundy micro greens … each so clean-tasting and yielding to the bite. No gumminess, no chewy texture. The slick beauty of fresh fish.

Then came the toro. A good toro should not be streaky red but it’s marbling should be so prevalent the fish itself is the softest shade of pink. The kind of discreet flush that comes to the cheeks of a young schoolgirl when her crush whispers sweet words in her ear. It should melt in your mouth like she would so gladly melt in his arms. As you should feel the world melt away with each lingering bite, as if in this cycle of life, all else is insignificant except you and that fish, and you let the reality of its disappearance into the depths of yourself sink in as you bite hard on the soy-soaked wooden chopsticks.

What could be better than toro? Perhaps a large scallop, grilled in itself. Standing alone, cooking in its own salty juices … rich and buttery, touched by a wafting smoke of special coals of hardened wood from distant places. Or a grilled crab that is so nightmarishly large and yet hides a dreamlike flesh. My love affair with crab must be genetic, as my father can deftly take apart a crab and all its flesh in record time, leaving absolutely nothing to waste. As a child he would crack open a claw and lovingly hand it to me like a special gift. I love the fight a crab puts up before you can actually enjoy its offerings. Not meant for the lazy or the meek. Your fingers are often raw and painful yet off them you are triumphantly licking off the sweet juices. Here, however, in this surreal world where the crab is much bigger than my head, the cloudlike flesh surrenders with no contest, sensually gliding off the shell. There are no garlicky bits, no hot black pepper sauce, no sticky sweet chili. There is no salt except that of the seawater, imbibed in its shell, absorbed in the meat, evaporated by a gentle heat … a perfection made unto itself.

Beautiful food has a price. And by no means does this meal come cheap. Once again the existential crisis begins. As you bite down hard against that empty chopstick staring at an empty plate, pondering your full belly, is it worth it, that split second of pure, unadulterated pleasure? That’s a question only you can answer for yourself. Speaking for myself? It is most definitely not an everyday experience but one that deserves to be repeated, and not just once. Good food has no compromise and offers a moment of indulgence that is worth the pain my wallet would probably endure. Yes. I am that kind of person. And as Murakami so aptly says, “No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories.”

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Yakumi is located at Solaire Resort and Casino in Solaire Boulevard, Entertainment City.

For information, call 888-8888.