The battle of a gastronomic journey is joined ninety days before the meal is served.
That tempura counter in Tokyo, with only ten seats, releases them at ten o’clock on the first of each month, by telephone only, in Japanese only. Our partner sits down by the phone at nine fifty, as though waiting for a flash sale. A certain ryotei in Kyoto is more discreet still: it takes no strangers and requires the introduction of a regular — and it took us three years to become that regular.
Securing the booking is only the first half. The second half is the carrying of information: the guests’ dislikes, allergies, tolerance for drink, and the occasion being celebrated, all translated into Japanese and faxed ahead. One guest was allergic to prawn, and the chef adjusted three dishes on that day’s menu a week in advance, remarking lightly in Japanese as the guest sat down: “As it happens, we are using no prawn today.” That as it happens was a grace we had checked with him over and over.
There are misses, too. When a place in Milan closed suddenly for refurbishment, we set our fallback in motion: a small restaurant run by the same chef’s apprentice, its owner forewarned. The guests said afterwards that the fallback was in fact the better meal — free of the burden of reputation, the cooking more at ease.
We have been asked many times: it is only a meal — is it worth so much trouble? Our view is this: the memories of travel fade, but the memory of taste is the most stubborn of all. Ten years on you may not recall the façade of some church, but you will recall the sea-bream broth of that evening, and the chef’s as it happens.
Ninety days for a single as it happens — by our reckoning, a fair price.