I first visited Kyōten during its second week of operation, and, though I hate to admit this, the restaurant only came on my radar thanks to a post by Steve Dolinsky. For this reason, the concept’s whole opening saga—a bit of braggadocio that some speculate has disqualified Otto Phan from ever winning a Michelin star—escaped me.
Instead, I encountered an omakase of aspirational price, bare-bones ambiance, and surprising quality. The chef was quieter back then—being consumed by his craft (as many in this genre are) but not retreating behind any kind of stiff, performative sheen. It helped that one of his regular customers from Austin had come to visit that night, allowing some of the humor and friendly banter that now define Phan’s work at the counter to come to the fore.
More importantly, I liked the nigiri as much or more than anything else being served in Chicago at that point (what one could term the first wave of the city’s “omakase boom”). I visited Kyōten again a week or two later (wondering, at that point, if I might have found a place that could lure me away from Yume), and my first impression was confirmed. It was more than confirmed, for Phan’s work was not only consistently good. The chef had meaningfully evolved the entire menu (the kind of fish served as well as the aging and particular preparation of repeat items) because he knew I was coming back. The experience was reflexive, it grew more and more interactive, and, especially when considers the generous corkage policy, it was hard not to choose depth (going to this one restaurant time and time again) over breadth (splitting time between the city’s emerging concepts).
Omakase, after all, is a genre in which familiarity—and a certain degree of personal connection—between the customer and a chef-proprietor can really shine. Luxury and exclusivity have certainly come to define these spaces as we know them today, yet Phan (who worked at Masa and Nobu in New York City) started his own business in a humble trailer. At Kyōten, from the start, he captured a trusty, come-as-you-are feeling that relates more to the counter’s heritage as a dependable, everyday place. This no-frills style, sacrificing aspects of service and presentation other omakases rely on to impress, channeled guest expenditure solely toward ingredient quality. It deconstructed “omakase” (as an intimidating, fetishized form) and reoriented it solely toward fundamentals of texture and flavor expressed by a lone chef.
By ridding his work of any pretense (something that just comes naturally to the chef), Phan shaped an approach to high-end sushi that felt particularly attuned to Chicago. Of course, there were conscious choices like using larger Inochi-no Ichi rice grains (now also adopted by a Michelin-starred omakase in Brooklyn), larger cuts of exclusively wild-caught fish, and a pronounced punch of dark aged vinegar. Forming nigiri, one by one, for each diner (something Phan never compromised on) still remains a total rarity (lamentably so) in this city. But Kyōten’s tendency has always been to seek greater and greater refinement: maximizing sourcing, aging, and the chef’s own handwork in fulfilment of a personal vision, rooted in the tastes of a particular place, that need not look to Tokyo or New York for approval.
More than six years on, I’ve tracked this growth every step of the way—through pandemic carry-out, private seatings, a renovation, a dizzying increase in ticket price, a first spin-off (Hinoki Sushiko), and a second (Kyōten Next Door). I’ve seen the beverage program transform from haphazard (if always fairly priced) to deeper and more personal in its selections than all but the city’s very best wine lists. I’ve certainly seen the customer base change: omakase enthusiasts and adventurous locals making way for more tourists and conspicuous consumers. Yet Phan remains, toiling away, never satisfied with what he served yesterday, always in pursuit (thousands of meals later) of the next incremental improvement and an unattainable perfection.
The chef has said he looks back at his earliest work in Chicago with some embarrassment, calling those opening menus “rough.” Contextually, within a dining scene that could only count Juno, KAI ZAN, Sushi-san, Takeya, and Yume as alternatives, his work still excelled. I continued to feel the same way, relatively speaking, when Mako, The Omakase Room, Jinsei Motto, Sushi by Scratch Restaurants, Omakase Shoji, and Omakase Room by Kanemaru opened (though, when considering the difference in price, a couple of these offer good value). And, when I eat at top omakases in Tokyo or New York, I also often find myself missing the Kyōten style—more direct, sure, but texturally attuned and a greater guarantor of sheer pleasure. (Stripping away all the novelty and window dressing, one must either pay more than Phan charges or be more acclimated to a Japanese approach to seasoning to note a real divergence in quality. For me, the Kyōten style leaves most other chefs’ work, even those using top auction-grade ingredients, feeling flat.)
No doubt, it has taken time for Kyōten to reach this footing. Periods of growth and experimentation brought with them associated pains. Plus, the preparation and seasoning of rice as well as the slicing of each fish demands, on any given night, faultless technique. Despite getting to know Phan over so many years, I have always paid full price, always paid for corkage, and always made my own reservations through Tock. I have maintained every sense of the overall value proposition, and I offer feedback that blends understanding (of where the chef comes from and where he’s going) with some real skin in the game. High highs ensure that Kyōten, even if certain dishes occasionally falter, can reliably impress. One may ask if any faults are acceptable at this price point (though they surely must ask that of Alinea and Smyth as well). However, Phan has always taken criticism to heart, and, while the chef continues to push himself today, he has now achieved a level of mastery and consistency that is notable even when compared to the high standard set over the past couple years.
More and more Chicagoans have come to ask Bibendum, “what gives?” Why is Mako now the city’s only exemplar of “Michelin-starred omakase” (a prospect that, with the removal of Yume’s star, seems particularly laughable)? I never wanted to believe that the Guide would hold a grudge (though, certainly, it is not the paragon of honesty or objectivity it purports to be). Service, from a pure staffing point of view, and setting, the kind set for a special occasion at either the old or new price point, seemed like they could be Kyōten’s weaknesses. Whatever one thinks of Mako’s sushi, these are certainly two qualities the West Loop restaurant excels in. Kyōten, with its renovation, solved the latter problem: totally transforming its space via improved lighting, woodworking, artwork, and other creature comforts.
Service, boldly, continues to rest on the work of Phan and his right-hand man Jose Tejada (who also doubles in the kitchen) alone. However, I cannot say I’ve ever seen a guest left high and dry—quite the opposite, as Tejada connects naturally and sincerely with his patrons while simultaneously dispelling any sense of discomfort this genre or level of expenditure might entail. Phan, for his part, has become much more of a showman over the years without sacrificing any trace of his congenital authenticity. One has to respect a chef that actually heads his counter, night after night, without fail (something that cannot be said for B.K. Park). Plus, both Phan and Tejada have grown in their fluency when it comes to describing wine and sake pairings (one of the few areas for improvement I identified when last writing about Kyōten).
Overall, the operation reminds me of some starred omakases in Japan that are run solely by a chef-proprietor and his wife (or even mother). By comparison, New York’s hallowed names certainly benefit from a wealth of staff: always standing ready (just out of sight) to clear plates, refill glasses, and escort guests to the bathroom. This level of engagement would, in my opinion, run contrary to Kyōten’s charm as a more placid, casual-feeling omakase. Indeed, while the concept has run with a team of three in previous eras, it is hard to know where one would best fit today: a dedicated host/server? A sommelier/server? A kitchen assistant who frees Tejada to focus solely on front of house? Kyōten, as a once-a-night, three-hour, immersive experience, has constructed a mood and pacing and essential intimacy that I’m not sure anyone wants to tinker with. This is to say nothing of how another might affect pricing and the maximization of ingredient quality Phan has sought.
For Michelin, these dimensions of the meal shouldn’t even matter. They now insist (in an FAQ first published in 2023) that stars “are awarded only on the basis of the quality of the cuisine served by a restaurant at a given time” and “do not take into account the service, the tableware or the atmosphere at a restaurant.” This does not really ring true with Bibendum’s ratings as I know them (in fact, it smells like a ploy to restore confidence, at least on paper, in the Guide’s methods).
In fact, if we are to speak of cuisine, I must attest that, on any given night, the two or three pieces of tuna offered at Kyōten reliably rank as the most delicious bites being served in Chicago. In a given year, only the best creations from Smyth, Oriole, Elske, and Obélix (for my palate) really compete in terms of sheer pleasure. Not to mention, Phan has raised the batting average across the entire menu, easily matching the standard set (dish to dish) at restaurants boasting multiple stars.
Michelin will always be able to hide behind the opaqueness of their process, but it is most enlightening to interpret its actions through the lens of branding. Yes, Bibendum is a brand that wants to propagate himself throughout the world, as a trusted resource for tourists, aligned with other brands it can rely on to maintain a desired image. Locals often make the mistake of viewing the Guide as an authority for their own city when, in fact, it’s an outward-facing publication that looks to assure some kind of consistent standard (of comfort, of “luxury”) across cultures and language barriers. Thus, it will always privilege broad (i.e., international) appeal over the kind of raw quality local diners, rooted in a specific place with specific tastes, might perceive. At the lower end, “broad appeal” might mean following certain conventions while, at the higher end, it may increasingly demand a degree of distinction (think Alinea) that cannot be found elsewhere.
I think this explains why Mako (whatever one thinks of the food) has its star: it feels the most like a “high-end omakase” as the genre is conceived of globally (that is, a certain sleekness, number of servers, basic chef interaction, and serious tone that elevates middle-of-the-road fare for the widest audience possible). It informs why Smyth (producing a cuisine that is fairly singular at an international level despite being polarizing for some locals) has three stars and Oriole (serving a cuisine that reliably pleases locals but unable to rival restaurants on the coasts working in the same “international luxury ingredient” style) has two.
For the Michelin brand, awarding Kyōten means legitimizing an approach to omakase that is somewhat unconventional. It means signaling to its readers that the restaurant’s $440 to $490 price tag is justifiable when compared to all the sushi restaurants across the country that already hold stars while also charging less. It would mean installing Phan as the de facto leader of the genre in Chicago, in the eyes of the world, and affirming him as the kind of chef that accords with Bibendum’s vision for this city and the expectations of his audience.
Is it personal? I don’t know. Michelin’s listing of Kyōten Next Door would suggest Phan is not being totally ignored; however, the reference to “hearty pieces” that are “cut large, scored deep, sauced readily, and then pressed onto generous mounds of rice” signals the chef’s style is certainly viewed as atypical. Chicagoans might enjoy it. So, too, may a demographic of diners—well-versed in omakase at a national or international level—on account of how much it diverges from a mass of chefs operating within the same narrow framework and, save for those judged the very best, putting forth a forgettable product.
Bibendum wants to define Chicago’s omakase scene in accordance with his own vision and an “expertise” (the more impenetrable the better) that helps to secure his authority. If every American city was allowed to foster its own approach to omakase and awarded for doing so, an entire industry of “authentic” restaurants—cloaked in seriousness and tradition—would collapse under the weight of what local diners really desire. The fundamental question remains: should a sushi chef in a market like this one try (poorly) to imitate what is done in Japan or distill and adapt tradition in a manner that uniquely suits this population? Mind you, I am not talking about resorting to torchwork or zany toppings—simply, in Kyōten’s case, fundamentals of aging, sizing, and basic seasoning. What process—imitation or evolution—proves more valuable for the development of a city’s foodways?
For Michelin, awarding Kyōten would mean privileging local taste over international taste and totally inverting how the brand thinks of its chosen subjects. It would mean honoring how we—not jet-setters—eat and acknowledging that any attempt at framing a dining scene for the sake of outsiders, in accordance with a global standard, inevitably means erasing the nuances that matter most to insiders. Bibendum, ultimately, is interested in normalization (the kind that’s safer for the preservation of his own reputation) more than he is art—the expression of a people and a place looking within themselves for inspiration.
For what it’s worth, I do not think Phan is hung up about the Guide. Kyōten forms the glaring contradiction—the schism—through which Chicagoans have begun to question the entire Michelin house of cards. And Phan, through his repeat patrons and the wider support of the city (across both concepts), has earned an affirmation that means more than any outside honor. The chef has won the favor of local critics and, more recently and formally, the respect of his peers.
Kyōten has nothing left to prove, yet it remains a mystery for many Chicagoans who (and I cannot blame them) have misgivings about a pricey restaurant missing Michelin’s endorsement. It’s also an experience, no matter how many times I enjoy it, that always benefits from a step back and a sharp critical eye. What is this “chef of the year” up to at the moment?
Let us begin.
The stretch of Armitage Avenue on which Kyōten resides (just west of Milwaukee) has not changed all that much. One can see murmurs of refurbishment in some of the storefronts across the street, but the apartment building this omakase calls home remains this block’s most shining sign of development. The space that would be considered the anchor tenant remains empty, so Kyōten—and now Kyōten Next Door—command all the attention.
Certainly, there are other places to get maki, nigiri, and even omakase in the area (like Nomonomo or Sushi Taku), but none that have risen to the same “destination” status. With Manchamanteles, Margie’s Candies, and Redhot Ranch to its east and places like Table, Donkey, and Stick, Osteria Langhe, Bar Parisette, Gretel, and Bungalow by Middle Brow to the west, the two Kyōtens headline a series of blocks with some serious (if overlooked) quality.
Still, Phan’s spots remain comparably isolated: the Blue Line (screechy as ever) and a self-storage facility form their most notable neighbors to this day. Under cover of darkness, it can be especially hard for diners to know where they’re going, and I observe plenty of them walk down to 2513 W Armitage (that is Kyōten Next Door) before being directed, back up the street, to 2507. Why wouldn’t they assume that the friendlier entrance—framed by artwork with a counter clearly observable from the street—leads to their $490 omakase? After all, Kyōten’s doors, still being papered over, make it look like the business is under construction. If one peeks through the uncovered quadrant of the glass, the lobby looks more hospitable but hardly suggests a sense of luxury.
The chef maintains that the nondescript, perhaps even actively forbidding, design is more about “keeping the wrong people out” than ensuring the “right people” find their way in. The staff, for what’s it worth, handles the resulting confusion with kindness (Tejada, for example, will personally lead mistaken Next Door customers down the street even during service). Not to mention, anyone who closely inspects Kyōten’s blinds is sure to see Phan, prepping away, at the center of a counter that can only be called grand.
I’ve always known where I’m going, so it’s hard to get a sense of how the average customer, making a considerable splurge on a fairly unknown quantity, feels about this artifice. I like to think of it as a successor to the hallway from Alinea “1.0”—an optical illusion, lending a sense of uncertainty, that is suddenly relieved with the opening of a sliding door. At Kyōten, the effect is much more subversive: this is not a trick at a three-Michelin-star restaurant known for its alchemy, but an omakase that looks rundown, inaccessible, even closed. Surely, some people must begin to question if they’ve been scammed—if all those reviews were astroturfed and they’ve entrusted their money to some fly-by-night operation.
But the door opens, it chimes, and guests find themselves in a lobby with a couple benches and some sporadic artwork. Suspicion begins to subside, especially as other diners (predominantly middle-aged, dressed for a special occasion) enter this waiting room, yet the design is not exactly convincing or commensurate with the sum being spent. Through the slats of a wooden door, one feels the warm glow of the dining room and the promise that some sense of refinement, indeed, is close at hand. Soon enough, Tejada opens the portal and greets the assembled guests with warmth and total ease. Some final alarm bells may ring: where’s the rigid professionalism? The too-cool coyness? The feeling of intimidation this stratum of restaurant (and this particular genre) so often entails?
Party by party, Tejada leads diners into the space, and, at last, a feeling of wonder takes hold. Here, they find the degree of detail they might have imagined: soothing materials, soft lighting, more cohesive artwork, flowers, shelves filled with countless knickknacks, and all the knives, utensils, and ceramic vessels one loves to see wielded during the course of an omakase. Guests immediately recognize the centrality of the counter, how Phan works it as a stage, and how intimate—how special—those six or eight seats perched before the chef are. Yume and Mako (and especially places like The Omakase Room and Sushi by Scratch Restaurants) have their aesthetic charms, but Kyōten shines as the visual expression of one man—not an entire hospitality group—whose personality permeates the entire space.
Favorite bottles of wines, nods to Phan’s Vietnamese heritage, photos of his wife, a hint at his Texan origin, and (the one item retained from 2018) a depiction of the trailer that started it all form natural conversation pieces. They clarify and reinforce that guests will be spending the next three hours with a chef-proprietor who has made his home here, who is uniquely knowable, and who has built his business not just on craft but on a particularly transparent, authentic approach to being a sushi chef—exposing the key decisions and rationale underlying his particular style in a way that is hardly ever verbalized.
I don’t think Phan would disagree when I say he’s not a natural showman. Just the same, it is this very quality (off-the-cuff honesty and deep insight combined with an utter lack of ostentation) that makes the chef’s tableside manner, in this age of superficiality and careful personal branding, so appealing. He even waded into the Feld debate at its most volatile moment, affirming that the beleaguered restaurant had, indeed, improved after two months open (a view that not only accords with my observations but those echoed, later in 2024, by local critics). One may be tempted to label Phan a contrarian—and, indeed, some may find him abrasive to this day—but I have come to know him simply as a man of sincerity and originality that looks to challenge convention and undermine pretense at every turn.
As a testament to the chef’s singular style, one might share the counter, on any given night, with repeat customers from Chicago, the wider Midwest, back in Austin, or—and this is surprising—as distant (and awash with great omakases) as California or New York City. Just the same, though the crowd tends to be white or Asian and middle-aged, I have seen people of all races and ages (at all levels of sushi appreciation) enjoy their time at Kyōten over the years. In this regard, though Phan is well-traveled and likes to drink well, it is important to note that he abhors “bromakase” culture: an obnoxious manner of behaving, typically rooted in a sense of superiority serial, conspicuous fine diners may feel, that can easily spoil the mood in such a small space. Chicago, luckily, has not been widely afflicted by this conduct (yet), but it does occasionally crop up. Faced with this conduct, Phan and Tejada manage the counter conscientiously: defusing, rather than indulging, such conversation in order to maintain an inclusive, enjoyable experience for all.
Upon taking my seat, I note this evening’s chopstick holders (a perpetually rotating selection that, for repeat diners, is always a joy to behold) and grapple with the sole decision diners must make: choice of beverage. As always, I am partial to paying the corkage fee ($40 with no limit on bottles). There’s also a “Beverage Pairing” (~$100 as best as I can remember) that many guests opt for: a turnkey solution I have praised for its unique selections and affordability (relative to the cost of the meal). These options affirm that Kyōten does not view drink expenditure as a profit center or some further way to squeeze customers who have already committed to an expensive meal. I get the same sense from the restaurant’s wine list, one that has undergone notable growth over the past couple years and now represents an even clearer expression of the chef’s personality.
Here are some representative selections:
- 2022 Keller “Von der Fels” ($84 on the list, $59.96 at local retail)
- 2022 Chanterêves Bourgogne-Aligoté “Les Monts de Fussey” ($89 on the list, $82 at national retail)
- NV Huré Frères Champagne “Invitation” ($96 on the list, $52.96 at local retail)
- 2017 Benanti Etna Bianco Superiore “Pietramarina” ($140 on the list, $130 at national retail)
- 2017 Immortal Estate “Slope” Cabernet Sauvignon ($144 on the list, $79.99 at national retail)
- 2019 Jean-François Ganevat “Les Grands Teppes” Pinot Noir ($150 on the list, $130 at national retail)
- 2022 Walter Scott “X Novo” Chardonnay ($183 on the list, $99.95 at national retail)
- 2020 Margherita Otto Barolo ($200 on the list, $109.99 at local retail)
- 2020 Pierre Morey Meursault Perrières 1er Cru ($300 on the list, $299.99 at national retail)
- 2015 Keller “Morstein” Großes Gewächs ($400 on the list, $493 Wine-Searcher average)
- 2013 Egly-Ouriet Champagne “Millésime” ($500 on the list, $699.96 at local retail)
- 2017 Arnoux-Lachaux Vosne-Romanée ($600 on the list, $395 at national retail)
- 2017 Domaine Dujac Clos Saint-Denis Grand Cru ($700 on the list, $925 at national retail)
- 2002 Krug Champagne “Clos du Mesnil” ($2,002 on the list, $1,650 at national retail)
Whereas the corkage fee, the pairing, and a selection of tea, beer, sake, and wine available by the glass are meant to offer guests a sense of flexibility and value, Kyōten’s bottle list has always been likened to a kind of “chef’s cellar.” It comprises the producers Phan himself likes to drink or dreams about drinking (should one notice the $15,000 Domaine Leroy Romanée-Saint-Vivant that caps off the selection): a blend of well-known names like Keller, Krug, and Dujac alongside rising stars like Arnoux-Lachaux, Chanterêves, and Ganevat.
Diners can get a bottle of Champagne or Burgundy for under $100, but the list is really weighted toward the $150 to $300 and higher (much higher) category—a level of expenditure that more effectively matches the expectations of consumers choosing to forgo the friendlier, entry-level options. There’s enough breadth (domestic whites, Italian reds, even a California “Cab”) to satisfy certain preferences (whether or not they are conventional matches for omakase). However, the chef’s love of Burgundy and wines with a bright, weightless “natural” style comes through clearly. Unless a bottle clearly catches one’s eye, I would always recommend engaging with Phan and asking what he’s excited about or what might match a favored style/price point. There are always selections to be found off the list, and seeing the chef leave the counter to dig something up out of storage feels charming and personal.
Beyond expressing Phan’s particular taste (a detail, among many others, that makes the experience feel holistic), the wine selection has a clear philosophical grounding. Markups, for this particular sample, range from 83% on top of retail price to 29% below retail price. A mean of 28.5% and a median of 18% confirm just how little Kyōten tacks on: at most, the restaurant still makes less than the standard 100% premium while, in many cases (and especially for the best bottles), one is paying less than the going market rate. One should also consider that, like everything here, the service charge is already included in the price. Yes, one need only pay tax at the end of the night—a break with convention (whether the 20% is mandatory or added as gratuity by the guest) that means these selections are even more affordable they already seem.
Ultimately, Phan collects wine because he himself loves it and not with the intention of offsetting the cost of his ingredients or wildly profiting from bottles that may increase in value. Fundamentally, he believes these libations are meant to be shared and celebrated as the cherry on top of a superlative omakase. The chef honors the craft of winemaking as one that is kindred to his own, and he has made Kyōten that rare kind of luxury establishment that, once one pays the high ticket price, surprises and delights guests with hidden value.
This extends to Phan’s stance against offering or charging for supplements. One price secures all his best ingredients and all his best work on that given night. I must also reiterate that any service charge or gratuity is already wholly included in the displayed pricing (with no line for tip even being printed on the restaurant’s receipts). This means that Kyōten’s $440 to $490 price point (depending on the exact day of the week), can be thought of more as a $367 to $408 range. Thus, while the concept still outpaces its competition ($250 at The Omakase Room, $225 at Yume, $215 at Mako), it also lands above both Ever ($325) and Oriole ($325) and below both Alinea ($435-$495) and Smyth ($420-$550). Certainly, this is rarefied air, but Phan is not pushing (though he once was) at being the most expensive meal in Chicago. Rather, when one considers the money saved on beverage, the level of interaction being offered, and the exclusivity of one seating per night, the overall value proposition may prove attractive in comparison to these Michelin-starred peers.
To close this section, I will offer my own suggestions on what to drink. Of course, one cannot go wrong with Champagne, but a hint of oxidation or some fruit (from a rosé style) might provide more intrigue than bubbles displaying a softer touch. With whites, I favor ample acidity but try to avoid leanness. Rather, my favorite wines (i.e., Meursault, Savagnin ouillé) are bracing on entry but retain a sense of flesh and texture that fades into flavors of nuts and honey on the finish. Some oxidation may also be welcome here. Skin-contact is an intriguing option, with “orange” wines forming a bold match with some of Phan’s richest white fish. I’d sooner recommend a rosé: either lighter (playing the part a white might) or heavier (looking to strike the same balance I seek from the right red). In that latter category, transparent (often younger) expressions of Pinot Noir, Poulsard, or Nebbiolo tend to be preferred: providing pure red fruit, a whisper of tannin, clear acidity, and not too much in terms of earth. These choices enrich the menu’s servings of tuna without overshadowing them. Aged reds can work even better, but these choices are best left to experienced drinkers who know exactly what tertiary notes they may be signing up for.
When pairing wine with an omakase at Kyōten, guests should consider the depth and intensity of dark aged vinegar in Phan’s rice as well as the relative size of his pieces (yielding a more persistent mouthfeel and, sometimes, a sharper sense of the soy sauce, citrus, or allium that can be used). The former is why I favor a baseline of acid (and generally find richer, waxier whites, however well they sometimes match seafood, a bit flat). The latter is why I encourage a bit of personality—not just clean contrast (as a Champagne may deliver), but harmonizing and intensifying notes (of nuts, honey, oxidation, red fruit, or tannin) that unlock a deeper savory expression from the fish.
Certainly, one shouldn’t ever risk spoiling their pure enjoyment of what Phan serves (after all, adventurous pairings present me with a means of adding novelty to a familiar meal). Clearing one’s palate, with a sip of something one really enjoys, then embracing the umami on its own terms is a total thrill. And, at the end of the day, Kyōten is an experience of intimacy, comfort, and indulgence above all else. I’ve seen other regulars drink whiskey throughout the entire menu, and I salute them for it. They’re just about the kindest customers one could hope to be seated next to at this kind of counter.
With the beverage order settled, the meal begins.
First on the docket: a serving of “Kue” (also known as longtooth grouper), a deep-sea “phantom” fish of impressive size and rarity. Phan renders it in the form of a few irregular chunks that have been simply dressed in Japanese fish sauce and lemon juice. The resulting pieces display a slight firmness and chew on entry that yields to a pleasing richness with further mastication. Their flavor, likewise, is rather tangy at first but grows in subtle sweetness and umami through the finish.
Overall, this makes for a good—not great—start characterized by an intriguing, likely (for many guests) novel texture backed by just enough enjoyment to make it work. I have never seen this prized ingredient served elsewhere in Chicago, and, after enjoying it several times here, I think of it as a conscious challenge from the chef: one meant to stoke intellectual, rather than hedonistic, appreciation at this early point in the meal.
Perhaps with that strategy in mind, Phan quickly turns toward total decadence. The “Live King Crab” that arrives next is sourced from the Toyosu Market. The crustacean is steamed, and three generous, deep-red chunks of its leg are served in a “butter dashi.” This sauce imbues the meat—remarkably tender and almost melting in consistency—with a clean, yet lasting umami character. Along with a touch of citric tang and dairy richness, the dashi helps to reveal a degree of sweetness in the king crab that totally surpasses the usual steakhouse preparations. On paper, the balance struck here is not all that different from the one sought with the “Kue.” However, guests immediately come to understand that each piece of seafood will look to express their own unique character. Those they don’t recognize may be a bit challenging, but those they do will be downright delightful. This counts as the latter.
A preparation of “Monkfish Liver” (ankimo in Japanese) that follows certainly sounds like it might fall on the “challenging” side of the spectrum. This ingredient, which Phan calls the “foie gras of the sea,” usually arrives frozen. However, here, the chef cures it, marinates it (in sake), and braises it himself. He serves the resulting slab in a bowl filled with ginger sauce and garnishes it with some pickled gourd. A 12-year Junmai Genshu sake called “Ancient Treasure” is offered (often even to those not enjoying the pairing) as the meal’s one strictly ordained combination.
On the palate, the liver feels flawlessly creamy. It richly coats the mouth and is only punctuated by the subtle crunch of the accompanying gourd. The liver’s resulting flavor is charged with an incredible degree of umami but matched by an even deeper sweetness that resonates through the finish. The ginger, for its part, helps to uplift these elements (preventing the dish from ever feeling cloying) while the accompanying sake (though a bit too boozy for my taste) matches the recipe with salty, caramelized tones. Despite surely catching some guests off-guard, the “Monkfish Liver” is a total crowd-pleaser: delivering a pristine texture and lip-smacking decadence that surpasses any encounter I’ve had with this ingredient elsewhere. It ranks as one of the best bites of the night (or any night) and has rightfully become one of Phan’s signatures.
The ”Fugu Shirako” that arrives next is known to elicit some snickers. Most diners have heard of the hallowed poisonous pufferfish that exists, sushi connoisseur or not, in the American culture consciousness. Maybe some have dreamt of one day rolling the dice themselves, but what about eating its shirako (or milt), which is not poisonous and “nearly impossible to find” in the United States? Phan describes this item as the “most luxurious” bite of the night and tends to tiptoe around revealing diners are, indeed, eating the pufferfish’s sperm sac. The idea is to ensure guests give it a try, without any preconceived notions, before more thoroughly explaining what the ingredient is. Nonetheless, those who already know may enjoying spoiling the surprise for their companions once the first piece has been eaten.
All things considered, the dish actually impresses thanks to the tempura coating Phan uses to frame the shirako. This crisp layer naturally counters the creamy, somewhat dense, but clean and totally singular mouthfeel delivered by the milt. Here, a warm (not too hot and especially not too cool) temperature helps ensure a certain lusciousness and approachability. However, an accompanying serving of pickled daikon—loaded with sweetness and tang—does the most to influence the dish’s flavor. The radish counters the shirako’s pervailing mildness with an invigorating brightness that ensures diners are left with a sense of pleasure. This transforms the recipe, however shocking in its identity, into something more like a fried treat. Doing so, it ranks as a clear success and one of the most challenging yet rewarding preparations in the city.
The last of the items to arrive before the nigiri sequence is a “Hokkaido Scallop.” This is one of the chef’s newer recipes, and it utilizes an ingredient he’s traditionally stayed away from (believing this mollusk to be so naturally delicious that it permits little manipulation from his own hand). Phan serves the scallop in two sizable pieces that have been warmed (though not seared) in a brown butter ponzu. This sauce, with its combination of tang and umami (opposite the natural sweetness of the shellfish), is spellbinding—even in comparison to some of the others (the butter dashi or ginger sauce) used tonight. However, the scallop itself is just a bit overcooked and chewy. While not horrendous, this error robs the preparation of the succulence and butteriness that would really make it sing. This counts as one of only two real (relatively minor) missteps tonight.
At this point, Phan presents his signature rice (Inochi-no Ichi), noting its larger grains and the dark aged vinegar used to season it. The chef may reiterate (or be prompted by one of the guests to explain) that all his fish is wild-caught, that it comes in fresh (not flash-frozen), and that it arrives whole. He advises diners to eat the nigiri with their hands and not to wait on their neighbors to dig in—something that would undo the extra effort required to make each piece one-by-one (and, to avoid confrontation, should ideally be monitored and enforced by each host). After the first piece is served, Phan will also volunteer to adjust the amount of rice or wasabi being used to better suit individual preferences.
With that, the main event begins.
Knowing that many diners spend traditional omakases just waiting for those headlining bites of tuna, Kyōten has always sought to put its strongest foot forward (a strategy that also ensures guests derive peak pleasure from these most coveted morsels without the risk of being too full later on).
“Chū-toro” (“medium” fatty tuna), from a fish sourced in the waters off of Boston, starts things off. Its ruffled folds of flesh, laced with fat, melt effortlessly on the palate and deliver an explosive degree of umami that is nearly matched by wasabi. Nonetheless, the pungency subsides just in time for the tuna’s richness to unfold, leaving me to meditate on a savory finish that lasts a minute. This ranks among the most delicious things I will eat this year.
The ”Akami” (lean or “red meat” tuna) that arrives next is said to represent a particularly fatty example cut just before the chū-toro. The resulting piece certainly looks the part, displaying a few central, vertical folds and a tight gradient of fat throughout the flesh. On the palate, this bite is, indeed, about as soft as its predecessor but trades some of the same explosive flavor for a smoother, more cohesive experience that slowly builds rather than skyrocketing. Ultimately, the interplay of vinegar, wasabi, and fat yields much of the same pleasure (i.e., a succulent, savory finish). However, while still excellent, the “Akami” proves just a bit less memorable and, thus, ranks a whisker behind what came before.
A serving of “Buri” (wild mature yellowtail) displays some of the evening’s most intricate knifework. The fish arrives scored at an angle in two directions, yielding a gridded pattern made up of small squares each streaked with veins of fat. On the palate, the buri displays more firmness than the preceding bites (not quite melting to the same degree), but its weight and comparably lasting mouthfeel actually prove engaging in this context. The yellowtail is still remarkably smooth, yet it does not look to compete with the tuna. Rather, its sweet, mild character offers pleasing subtlety after experiencing the raw power of the “Chū-toro” and (slightly more restrained) ”Akami.” In terms of quality, the “Buri” ranks right among these pieces while forming a key contrast with what comes next.
The “Ōtoro” (“big” fatty tuna) has earned a reputation as the star of any omakase; however, this status is so commonly acknowledged as to inspire rebellion. A proportion of diners, looking to distinguish themselves, may proudly champion slightly less fat (chū-toro) or the unique flavor and texture of an entirely different fish. Kyōten’s ōtoro, nonetheless, satisfies every expectation ascribed to the form. The reddish flesh arrives scored horizontally, yielding glistening ribbons punctuated by pockets of fat.
On the palate, this tuna delivers an absolute peak of decadence: a gushing, melting, seemingly formless cut of flesh whose only reminder (seconds later) comes courtesy of ample, mouth-coating richness. There’s plenty of wasabi on entry (an almost overwhelming amount), but, again, it is perfectly subsumed by the concentration of umami on offer. Pungency gives way to a surprising sweetness and, at last, a profound savory finish that continues to resonate a couple minutes on.
I always feel a bit silly trying to translate what a bite like this—so small but impossibly mighty—delivers from a sensory perspective. To be fair, Phan’s “Ōtoro” doesn’t always reach this height, but it always come close. And, on occasions like this one, the piece goes straight into the pantheon of the best things I have ever tasted.
The “Kinmedai” (golden-eye snapper or, more technically, splendid alfonsino) that arrives next has a tough act to follow. However, even after deploying his most mouthwatering pieces, Phan maintains a high standard of quality. This particular bite is one of few that receives some extra garnish. The chef applies a few shavings of lemon zest but, otherwise, chooses not to crisp the fish’s reddish skin (as is sometimes done).
Instead, the kinmedai displays a slight chew on the palate that proves rich and tender with further mastication. Its flavor, overall, is quite mild, but the notes of citrus (along with the usual interplay of vinegar, soy sauce, and wasabi) ensure that the piece’s umami depth comes through clearly on the finish. Though undeniably a lighter, brighter, less obviously indulgent piece, the golden-eye snapper is confidently handled and succeeds in keeping diners’ attention.
Almost on cue, the “Uni” treats guests to another one of omakase’s most coveted ingredients, and it’s also one whose irregularity Phan has consistently decried. I’ve seen the chef source all manner of fancy boxes over the years, but he has increasing favored the ensui style of Hokkaido sea urchin that comes preserved in saltwater solution rather than laid out in a tray. The idea is to avoid a different preservative (alum) that helps the lobes keep their shape but some say can impart a metallic or fishy flavor over time.
Without having to make any comparison to the trays, Phan’s use of the ensui uni has yielded a consistently delicious piece (served on a ball of rice wrapped in nori) that combines a beautifully brittle crunch with oozing creaminess, mild (but lasting) sweetness, and no trace of iron. Though I love what restaurants like Smyth do with sea urchin, nobody expresses the ingredient’s essence like Kyōten.
A bite of “Iwashi” (or sardine) is one of the meal’s surprises. Hearing the translated name causes many diners to think of cheap, canned fish, but, in fact, this particular piece can rival the meal’s very finest. The iwashi arrives sliced down the middle with a series of vertical cuts draping it, in a fan-like manner, over the rice. Its silvery skin hides a reddish flesh (observable due to the fish’s bisection), which also hides a garnish of green onion (that the chef says he can “never put too much” of).
On the palate, the sardine feels oily on entry, but this tends more toward a sense of richness as one chews on the meaty flesh. Though the iwashi is naturally briny, its latent sweetness is also revealed thanks to the allium, which helps build a balanced, savory finish. Nothing about this fish is as effortless as the earlier expressions of tuna, yet it delivers a kindred boldness of texture and flavor that is quite enjoyable—especially with a robust red wine—at this later stage of the omakase.
Phan’s “Saba” (or mackerel) is one of the chef’s more involved creations. He wraps the fish tightly along the sides of a seasoned (with shiso and sesame) clump of rice and places the resulting package at the end of a segment of nori. Guests are instructed to fold one side of the seaweed over to the other and take the resulting bite “like a taco.” Doing so, the nori displays a perfect crispness that yields to the dense, oily fish and cushion of rice. Again, a sense of richness and fattiness comes to the fore as the ingredients combine. However, the bite is really distinguished by a strong fish (not “fishy”) character that joins with hints of sweetness, nuttiness, and tang to be quite complex on the finish. The “Saba,” like the “Iwashi,” can be a more polarizing piece, but, here, the chef achieves total balance.
The “Akamutsu” (or blackthroat seaperch) that arrives next is introduced by Phan as one of his most luxurious fish. In fact, it is so replete with fat and oil that the chef busts out his torch (a tool more widely used during Kyōten’s first years yet only rarely seen now). The resulting bite, adorned with a browned (slightly black) layer of crackly skin, delivers a pleasant sense of richness and density but, for my palate, just seems a bit one-dimensional in its mild, buttery flavor. By all accounts, the fish was prepared successfully—it just doesn’t capture my attention like many of the other pieces tonight.
Thankfully, a preparation of “Anago” (saltwater eel) represents a return to form. Here, the fish (which arrives from the kitchen having been gently cooked) is formed over rice and handed to guests in a “taco” handroll style. Flavored only with the usual vinegar, shoyu, and wasabi, the eel displays a remarkable sweetness (unblemished by any stereotypical dark sauce) that charges every bite of its soft, smooth flesh and lasts through the finish. Here, the nori, as always, offers perfect crispness to punctuate the bite, which ranks as one of the meal’s best.
Turning toward dessert, guests are first treated to Kyōten’s “Tamago,” the rolled omelet or quasi-soufflé that enjoys iconic status in omakases. Phan conceives of this bite as more of a custard, combining its traditional base of eggs, ground shrimp, and soy sauce with a boatload of corn juice. The resulting take on the recipe, intended to please a particularly Midwestern palate, is soft and smooth with a maddening depth of sweetness I still cannot get enough of today. Other than the “Pan de Elote” at Mariscos San Pedro, I am not sure corn, in a sweet preparation, can get any better.
Lastly, the chef serves a “Green Tea Ice Cream” dressed with blueberry compote and olive oil (replacing a basil and strawberry version that was favored for quite some time). Though, here, the flavor combination is fundamentally sound—combining notes of grass and earth with vivid sweetness—the texture is a tad off. Namely, the is a touch too frozen, lessening the degree of creaminess I otherwise expect. To be fair, this doesn’t ruin the dish, but it stands as a second (minor) misstep tonight.
At this point, Phan thanks the assembled diners for coming (while noting, should they wish to come again, they can book directly—ahead of the Tock release—by reaching out to him). Tejada, in short order, brings over the check: free of any service charge or tip line. The chef explains that the deposit used to secure the reservation will be refunded rather than applied to the total amount (a move he says is meant to facilitate splitting). Then, he retires to the foyer and waits for guests to finish their drinks and conversation and say their goodbyes.
Sitting there—and opening himself up to praise, constructive (or not so constructive) criticism, questions, and mere chit chat—cements Kyōten as a singular, human experience down to the very last moment. Phan, despite the price tag and the reputation, is not a larger-than-life “chef.” Rather, during this quiet moment, this personal audience, one can sense a trace of fatigue and even a wariness, no matter how great the meal might have been, regarding whether or not the guests enjoyed themselves. One sees the craftsman, six years and many honors on, that remains ever skeptical of his work, ever striving to make it better, truly touched that Chicago supports him in this journey, and committed—more than ever—to rewarding this city for its faith.
I’m tempted to tell the chef how I felt about the scallop and the ice cream tonight, but he tends to already know, to already be giving himself a hard time about it, on the back of a tireless performance filled with a great many hits. Instead, I compliment Phan on the quality of the tuna tonight: trying to express that the “Ōtoro,” really, was oh-so-good (even compared to his usual standard) yet struggling to deliver the right sense of conviction. At the end of the day, there’s no better praise than returning, down the line, and continuing to support Kyōten’s vision. So I leave the chef to receive the other diners and forge more of the bonds that have fueled his humble omakase from the trailer, to the bare confines of this space, to renovation and luxury and a place at mountaintop in his adopted city.
In the final analysis, I hoped—upon choosing to write about this experience—that I would be granted a representative Kyōten meal, and I feel satisfied that this was the case. Of course, the mistakes I noted with the “Hokkaido Scallop” and “Green Tea Ice Cream” dishes prevent me from calling this menu “flawless.” Just the same, these minor errors—being counterbalanced huge displays of quality—speak to a deeper truth.
I am not referring to the peak–end rule or any sense of wabi-sabi, but of the fundamental variation that one chef, cooking one meal, with a kindred (yet forever shifting) range of ingredients will yield. Buying a ticket to Kyōten means investing directly in Phan’s mastery: one that can never be perfect, never be final, but has reached a considerable level and, as long as he is behind the counter, will make itself clear.
Tonight, as I have already explained, the “Ōtoro” ranks in a category of its own as a bite of legendary, lifetime status.
The “Monkfish Liver,” “Chū-toro,” “Akami,” “Buri,” “Anago,” and “Tamago” rank in the next category: superlative bites that stand among the best items I will be served in any restaurant this year.
The “Live King Crab,” “Kinmedai,” “Uni,” “Iwashi,” and “Saba” rank as very good bites I would always be happy to sample again.
The “Kue,” “Fugu Shirako,” and “Akamutsu” rank as merely good items that land more on the side of intellectual appeal (or, otherwise, do not quite rise to the level of being memorable).
Finally, the “Hokkaido Scallop” and “Green Tea Ice Cream” rank as below average due to their textural flaws but, nonetheless, still demonstrated enjoyable flavors.
All things considered, a hit-rate of 88% is very impressive, and, when considering just how exceptional the seven bites within those first two categories were, I would happily weather a few more flaws in exchange for that degree of pleasure. More often than not, Phan avoids any tiny errors and hits 100% on his execution, but even that does not guarantee a cut of “Ōtoro” like the one I got on this occasion. Certainly, it would still rank highly (among its tuna brethren) if that were the case. Yet part of what makes Kyōten so attractive, for a returning customer even more than a newcomer, is that the consistency of the chef’s headlining pieces (tuna, yellowtail, and uni that outclass anywhere else in the city) only acts as a baseline for when they are truly transcendent.
Put another way, Phan always performs well enough to justify Kyōten’s high ticket price, but, on certain occasions, the fish he gets is just so good—treated so perfectly—that I would pay any price to get another taste.
This accords with a particular position within the overall dining scene that the chef has tried to embrace. To wit, Kyōten scorns the kind of ambiance and theatrics that help atone for the uneven fare at places like Alinea and Ever. The restaurant also resists the kind of rampant experimentation that have made Smyth so special (but also so polarizing). Phan wants to offer consumers a kind of guarantee, like Oriole, rooted in always serving his strongest bites on any given night. This is not exactly uncommon for an omakase—what would guests say if they didn’t get their tuna or uni? But, also like Smyth, there’s a careful channeling of resources toward a singular vision. The food doesn’t need to be pretty; it must only be distinct. Phan’s style proposes that a healthy dose of vinegar, a larger grain of rice, and a generous cut of fish make for the best nigiri—the best for Chicago and for his own palate. And any money diners spend is devoted, not toward a menu that will please the lowest-common-denominator, but toward pushing ingredient quality as far as possible in fulfillment of this vision.
Just as some consumers may find Smyth’s obsession with kelp and nut oil to be overdone, some may find Kyōten’s take on omakase to be heterodox and heavy-handed. However, like Oriole, they can trust that they will be seeing the best of Phan’s efforts (not an attempt at boundary pushing) every time. They can trust they are not paying for a veneer of luxury or “exclusivity” (no matter how true the latter term may ring given the number of seats). Rather, Kyōten remains an authentically human, wholly interactive experience of the highest caliber. It continues to speak to a clear perspective—an uncompromising one—on hospitality and craft that Chicago could use more of.
Whether or not Michelin ever grants Phan its stamp of approval, his work will help guide the city’s dining scene toward a conception of quality and a future it defines on its own terms. For now, I am just happy that more diners, little by little, are coming to appreciate it firsthand.