Kumiko is another one of those places (like Obélix) that feels so familiar it can be hard to write about critically. At the same time, it is a place that remains so uncompromising in its vision—only growing more so during these past six years—it can sometimes perplex and polarize segments of its audience.
Wearing the crown of Chicago’s best bar for the past few years—with national and international eminence to boot (#5 in North America/#25 in the world in 2022, #8 in North America/#82 in the world in 2023, #19 in North America in 2024)—is no easy task. Whatever one thinks of the way William Reed’s 50 Best brand comes to its determination, the rankings guide consumer behavior and shape the perception of excellence by both those living within a city and traveling to it from afar. These rankings establish a set of expectations that, when considering the myriad roles bars play in public life (perhaps even more wide-ranging than restaurants if one considers their accessibility), almost seems impossible to fulfill.
Still, Kumiko has never wavered, never diluted its distinct way of doing things, never looked to leverage acclaim in pursuit of what’s expedient, mainstream, maybe even better-equipped to rise on that hallowed leaderboard. This concept, as with every transcendent expression of hospitality, flows from somewhere within. It does not look to capture the public’s fickle taste but is grounded sincerely, authentically in a sense of self. Awards, thus, only form a byproduct rather than a goal. They simply affirm that something about this bar’s singular vision—formal, informed by a distant culture, yet unmistakably true—does, in fact, resonate with the majority of people coming through the door. They confirm that there exists a quality of love that permeates the space and surmounts any sense of the unconventional or unfamiliar to make patrons feel cared for.
To speak of Kumiko is to speak of its partner and “creative director” Julia Momosé. The latter title, somewhat atypical in a hospitality context (usually connoting a concern with visual branding), has almost become hackneyed in its most amorphous, corporate usage. Here, the term comes closer to its use in high fashion: the living embodiment of a brand, not just defining it at the level of style but a master of its foundational crafts and creator of the very substance (a blend of quality and innovation) on which a lasting identity is built. Creative director may even be considered an understatement here, for Momosé plays the part of designer, handywoman, hostess, lead bartender, manager, and (recently) even chef.
She’s acts as the kind of proprietress so rarely seen: the leader of a talented team, yes, whose presence is still felt even during (rare) absences and, indeed, is synonymous with the experience offered at Kumiko. I can only think of a few fine dining concepts in Chicago that are defined, night after night, by the same engagement from their headlining creative force. Of those, only one chef doubles as the head of his beverage program (though he’s certainly not dabbling in cocktails). Considering that Momosé defines Kumiko as a “dining bar,” I think it is fair to say she is working more intently, across more dimensions, in satisfaction of higher expectations, than any hospitality professional in the city.
It wasn’t always this way, and that’s why the present moment—really an inflection point in Kumiko’s history—is worthy of some deeper analysis. The concept, resting more than ever on the efforts of its creative director, is expressing itself with a real clarity of voice. It feels particularly, prototypically Japanese: cohesive and complete in a manner I associate with the one- and two-(wo)man restaurants operating at the highest level there. Certainly, the scale here remains larger, yet the degree of ownership over the experience shines in the same fashion.
I never knew Momosé’s work when she was at The Aviary and The Office. I also only went to GreenRiver once—despite the Michelin star and the bartender’s growing reputation. I patronized Oriole, of course, but was hardly one to order cocktails or mocktails there. Yes, I can recall doing the non-alcoholic pairing just once, enjoying the drinks, but filing the experience away under the scope of the larger restaurant: this was a two-Michelin-star caliber offering from a two-Michelin-star concept rather than from a distinct, separable talent (however true that was to anyone paying attention). What can I say? I have tunnel vision when it comes to beverages and am often guilty of overlooking anything that isn’t wine (by the bottle, from certain regions, and from a small cohort of producers—if left to my own devices).
This is the context in which I came to know Kumiko: an accessory to Oriole, located just across the street, promising the same level of quality, with greater accessibility and repeatability. Indeed, I visited the bar during its opening week (late December of 2018) ahead of a tasting menu at the two-Michelin-star mothership. I left impressed, finding it possessed a sharp aesthetic, the right mood, an elegant touch to its drinks, and a decadence to its food. All the better, tables could be reserved, making it a reliable stop before or after another meal. That is the role (particularly in conjunction with reservations at Oriole) that Kumiko played every couple months. It formed a convenient option—but also a contextual one—rather than forming the main event.
When Kikkō opened on May 22nd of 2019, I was there (even paying it a follow-up visit that same June). This omakase counter, located in the bar’s basement, promised more of the kind of “destination” dining I was maybe seeking: a headlining meal that could help the concept surmount being more of a place for drinks and snacks. By then, I was already a devoted fan of Otto Phan’s work at Kyōten. However, I appreciated what Momosé and chef de cuisine Mariya Russell had built: an immaculate space, manned by a warmly engaged staff, with a diverse, best-in-class approach to pairings. The menu comprised sashimi and nigiri, and it can always be a sticking point when a chef (no matter the level of talent) looks to compete with those who specialize only in those forms. Still, I thought the textures and flavors used to highlight the chosen seafood were distinct and delicious—embracing a degree of novelty to avoid directly competing with other restaurants. Furthermore, the meal focused predominantly on plated fare (caviar with scallop, tofu with ramps, cooked seabream with sabayon, A5 wagyu with mushrooms) that really impressed.
Michelin awarded Kikkō one star in September of 2019, and I felt the honor was well deserved. Mako and Yume, each being focused more narrowly on sushi, fet more surprising given the direct comparison with Kyōten’s approach to this specific craft. Yet Kikkō, like Yūgen (a fellow winner that year), represented a more singular take on Japanese cuisine. It colored outside the lines a bit more while offering depth (in beverage) and an aesthetic grounding that were totally winning.
Kumiko, in its own right, had a banner opening year: being named one of the “World’s Greatest Places” by Time and one of Food & Wine’s “Best New Restaurants 2019” while impressing local critics and claiming top spots on Chicago publications’ year-end lists. The pandemic, as it did to so many concepts, robbed Kumiko of its momentum. Kikkō would permanently close with Russell’s departure for Hawaii, but Momosé would keep the core business going during this difficult period via a carryout café.
2021 is the year my relationship with Kumiko really blossomed. Maybe it did have something to do with the time apart: all the uncertainty and longing for an experience as simple as sitting in a bar (let alone one so beautifully appointed). But, nostalgia aside, the year was marked by a series of key changes. When Momosé fully reopened the concept in August, its menu had evolved from the steam buns and larger plates of fish and short rib that once defined the offerings. Taking inspiration from local haunts like Rootstock and Webster’s Wine Bar, the creative director sought to more strongly embrace the original “Japanese dining bar” vision and adapt the kind of comfort food (based on family recipes) served out of the café. It is at this moment that many of the dishes I most closely associate with Kumiko—like otsukemono (assorted pickles), karaage (fried chicken), potato salad, and tonkatsu/wagyukatsu sandos—came into existence.
Momosé, at the time, noted that she “absolutely” could have “elected for continuity with Kumiko and Kikkō’s menus,” and the shift toward more approachable, straightforwardly pleasing fare did not reflect “any sense of the food being lesser than it was before.” Indeed, just as the finest wines are sometimes best enjoyed with the simplest dishes (a plate of oysters, a shard of aged cheese, a nub of saucisson), the drinks here—unparalleled in their elegance and depth—need not compete with elaborate plates. Instead, the libations can take a starring role and be enjoyed alone, yes, or contrasted by flavors that are direct and unpretentious. This is a strategy shared, to this day, by other North American bars like Martiny’s, Double Chicken Please, and Katana Kitten that rank alongside (or higher than) Kumiko on the 50 Best list. They all proudly serve fried chicken, wagyu sandos, and the like (sometimes even taking these forms to further extremes of decadence).
Again, chasing these rankings has never seemed to be the goal (only Katana Kitten had really come to prominence at this point, and Kumiko would not debut on the list until the following year). Rather, Momosé shifted the cuisine toward something more homey: the warm hug that helps the relative creativity and experimentation of the cocktail program to shine. As a consequence, the concept became more approachable and adaptable. It could better sustain snacking—scaled to the size of each party’s appetite—and growing, thanks to the quality with which these new dishes were executed, to the size of a full meal if desired.
In this context, I began viewing the bar more as a standalone destination (or, at least, a failsafe whose karaage and tonkatsu sando were sure to please if some new restaurant or tasting menu I had tried that night didn’t). When Oriole “2.0” launched later that fall with its own bar and lounge (boasting a unique range of cocktails from Momosé and that fabled ham sandwich to eat), Kumiko no longer needed to serve as a convenient landing pad. It had become a favorite place to digest and digress in its own right.
2021 would also be marked by the publication of The Way of the Cocktail—Momosé’s James Beard Award-winning work on “Japanese traditions, techniques, and recipes” (and a fixture on year-end lists of the best cookbooks). This tome did not only educate readers in the foundations of the author’s chosen craft and introduce the world to some of Kumiko’s signature drinks. It takes one on a personal journey and plants the seed of a personal connection that sprouts upon visiting the bar and actually meeting its owner. Compared to many flashy fine dining cookbooks whose chef is nowhere to be found when visiting the hallowed restaurant, The Way of the Cocktail conveys an emotional quality that is actualized and multiplied when readers finally make the trip. The book also introduced me to my favorite drink: one with an amusing history, that’s also a bit labor-intensive, but is kindly made for me despite not featuring on the menu.
With a new approach to its cuisine and the success of Momosé’s book behind it, Kumiko won two of its biggest honors in 2022: the aforementioned #25 in the world ranking (from 50 Best) and Michelin’s Exceptional Cocktails Award (granted to its creative director). Bibendum did not see fit to transfer Kikkō’s former star over to the main space, but he did praise “a lineup of creative plates” (i.e., the potato salad, tonkatsu sando, and a maitakedon) while appending the (now defunct) “Plate” symbol.
Having established a core range of comfort food offerings, the bar would begin to pursue more refined, seasonal dishes (generally offered as specials) that pushed the boundaries of its cuisine. The departure of chef de cuisine Emery Ebarle (who worked under Russell) at the end of 2022 allowed Alex Cochran (now chef de cuisine of Cellar Door Provisions) to put his stamp on the menu. Alex Ching and Josh Mummert would begin jointly leading the kitchen around the midpoint of 2023. They would launch Kumiko’s first tasting menu of the post-pandemic era in December of that year (earning a feature—as a restaurant and not just a bar—from 50 Best Discovery), with the latter rising to the position of sole executive chef in 2024.
Mummert would earn Michelin’s Young Chef Award in December of 2024—a second individual honor granted to the Kumiko team—but stepped away from the kitchen at the end of the same month to focus on his health. This development has led Momosé out from the bar and placed her squarely in the kitchen, where, stepping wholly into the role of chef, she has looked to build on the tasting menu’s momentum and adapt it even more intently to her palate.
This was quite a turn: transforming the creative director’s usual role (overseeing the culinary side of things and leading the cocktail program firsthand) into something like the inverse (personally executing the food menu while entrusting the shaking and stirring of drinks to her team). Certainly, I’ve grown accustomed to seeing Momosé work any role, as needed, over the years. But this marks a semi-permanent shift—a reshuffling and reimagining of how Kumiko has operated and where its headlining craftsperson’s expertise has been traditionally deployed. It also won’t last forever, which has inspired me to pay special attention—at this very moment—to what is coming out of the kitchen.
Though I have sampled Kumiko’s tasting menu a few times since its launch in 2023, I will focus only on the present offering. Therein, beverages certainly play an important part. However, I will also look to interpret this meal as a discrete fine dining experience (with possible Michelin star aspirations) rather than just an extension of this renowned bar.
Let us begin.
Kumiko occupies the ground floor of a handsome, three-story brick building at the corner of Lake and Desplaines. Its front door actually faces diagonally out toward the street: an original feature of the space that once housed Grand Stage Lighting Company. Now, frosted glass, a trio of metal columns, and a blue, five-paneled door suggest something exclusive, something refined waits inside.
The bar is not quite hidden like its big brother Oriole (tucked away on a street called Walnut, located halfway up the block, that feels closer to an alley). But it shines as part of a quiet stretch that is flanked by Fulton and Randolph but not quite marked by all the excitement flowing further west. Yes, though Kumiko can count neighbors like Alla Vita, avec, Bon Yeon, Noriko, Omakase Yume, PERILLA, Proxi, Saigon Sisters, Sepia, and Wishbone in its vicinity, the establishment stands apart. Even MONEYGUN, perhaps the closest peer in terms of scope (if not style), feels more like an extension of what’s found on the other side of the highway than a candidate for a two-stop crawl.
With the “L” tracks, a print shop, an office building, a barbershop, a BJJ gym, a med spa, and a construction site (where the Fast Track hot dog stand used to sit) forming its real closest neighbors, Kumiko is a beacon. Stepping through that front door is always transporting. It is not one among many in the heart of Fulton Market or Restaurant Row. It is not sullied by the mass of revelers that descend upon the West Loop. Kumiko remains out of the way enough—an establishment of global renown amidst quotidian condo buildings, day cares, dog parks, and a Jewel-Osco—to retain some emotional impact. It maintains a sense of being traveled to, of rewarding one’s journey, even as it sits in prime position just east of many of the city’s greatest (to say nothing of those that are merely popular) restaurants.
Once one finally reaches the bar’s paneled blue door (marked only by an understated geometric logo), the excitement is palpable. Peeking through the glass yields little sense of what’s going on inside—no drinkers, no drinks, no dining. Instead, one is confronted by a small waiting room with a host stand set against white walls that are punctuated by stretches of wood paneling (the kumiko technique after which the establishment is named) that allow only a glimmer of what goes on behind them. Though this antechamber frequently overflows with prospective patrons, I always feel lucky when I find myself here alone. Even the host, tasked with escorting guests to their tables, may sometimes be away. I can’t say the effect is suspenseful (though it may remain so for first-timers) so much as it is peaceful.
High ceilings (with unfrosted glass allowing for natural light), innumerable potted plants, and a few key accents (a copy of The Way of the Cocktail, a whiff of incense, the latest 50 Best plaque, a couple of hanging red scarves signifying the same awards) enliven the neutral tones of white and brown that define the space. Under cover of darkness, a hanging lantern and series of candles build a moody, mysterious effect. Yet Kumiko’s first impression is ultimately calming: marrying the simple elegance of nature and traditional artisanry with the kind of careful curation—details that delight without screaming for attention—that has become a hallmark of Momosé’s personal brand.
The greeting from the host, when the time comes, is warm and considered. They’re accustomed to having to quote long wait times (or, for the occasional customer that stumbles in, articulate just what the concept is about). But they treat each party with the utmost patience, relieving them of burdensome belongings then guiding them around the corner into the bar itself. This winding path—one turn, then another, then one more—through a dark, narrow corridor heightens the effect of the kumiko slats. They tease the viewer until the very final moment: arrival in the main chamber, with its two rows of tables (seating 10 and 12 respectively), its eight bar chairs, three levels of shelves lined with spirits, and a centerpiece expression of kumiko—four screens, displaying two different radial patterns (not unlike the business’s logo), backlit by a semicircular frame that forms a window into the kitchen.
It’s ironic that this signature, titular piece of the concept’s design once acted as a backdrop for Momosé’s enrapturing work behind the bar. Today, it forms the barrier through which guests may only get a glimpse of the creative director in her new role as chef. Still, as with all fully realized expressions of self, the boss’s presence is felt even when she is not on the floor. I think of the carefully chosen glassware (including some singular pieces of crystal), the artwork (some canvases featuring further kumiko designs, others depicting geishas with bottles or shakers), more greenery, more candles, and an additional set of shelves (embedded into one of the walls) lined with bar tools, more 50 Best plaques, more copies of The Way of the Cocktail, and that Michelin Exceptional Cocktails Award.
White walls—in concert with that light shade of wood—continue to lend the room a clean, airy feel (all the more when sunlight shines through the lacy curtains that hang above the windows overlooking Desplaines). However, one finds more blue (the plush banquettes, the base of the bar) and black (the seats) here along with a few surfaces of exposed brick. Once the sun sets, the lanterns and candles and backlighting (reserved for the shelves of knickknacks and glassware) cast the environment with a combination of comforting warmth and romantic shadow. Kumiko is a bar worthy of soaking up and savoring. The space just feels right. Yet it operates with a subtlety—a certain reserve and a kind of quiet dignity—that centers one’s experience on whom they share the table or counter with. This makes the concept, despite its many awards and the prominence of its creative director, a flexible, adaptable space. Kumiko waits to meet guests, to show them its wares, and to surprise them with a depth of quality that can only be known intimately, in accordance with one’s personal taste, once patron and bar finally meet.
I recently read a largely complimentary review of Kumiko that, nonetheless, noted a cold, clinical style to the hospitality that disinclined the author from wanting to return. It’s true that sitting at the bar, where one can interact directly with Maddy Morrison (a top talent in her own right) and take a closer look at the spirits being utilized, promises more engagement. The tasting menu, in its earliest iteration, was actually staged there too. Nonetheless, the experience was quickly transferred to the tables—presumably allowing more patrons to partake in it but also, maybe, detracting from some sense of a “show.”
For what it’s worth, I do find the tables to be more comfortable given the extent of this meal. One need never think about the customer seated next to you when maneuvering plates, glasses, or utensils. Yet you are out there, among the crowd, and subject to the same service as everyone else. Faced with a demographic (of all backgrounds and walks of life) that includes “best bar in Chicago” chasers (and their accompanying expectations), fans of Momosé’s book (with expectations of their own), Oriole regulars, special occasion imbibers, and relative neophytes (seeing a highly rated, stylish establishment and deciding to just give it a try), the staff does a good job. Of course, nothing can compare to having the creative director herself on the floor, and the front-of-house team, bittersweetly, has inevitably changed with the passage of time (with many familiar faces now to be found at spots like Elske and Obélix).
Momosé, nonetheless, has continued to cultivate servers who reflect her particular savoir faire. There’s certainly a formality to this style (confirmed by the dark suits and shirts they all wear) that can come off as rigid. However, I think any tension comes from the mass of information the staff must retain, with education (their classes often being pictured on social media) being a top priority. Any member of the team must not only direct customers when it comes to the core menu items (food and a few pages of cocktails/spirit-free offerings) and another couple pages of rotating specials. They must also be versed in sake, tea, wine, and an impressive collection of whisky—sharing technical details and flavor profiles while also nailing pronunciation. This is not an insurmountable task in theory, but it does come closer to the skillset of a sommelier or one of the actual bartenders in practice.
If one does not ask for recommendations or solicit information from their server, it is easy to miss this depth and perceive the team’s precision and efficiency for a kind of disregard. In truth, there’s a learning curve to this job: an ability to juggle the basic demands of each table (perpetually filled) with the particular assistance or attention some may require while sprinkling in some moments of special warmth that leave a lasting impression. Again, nobody strikes this balance better than Momosé herself, and the rest of the staff has had to grapple with not having her touch and her example out on the floor.
Still, I do overhear and observe connections being made between parties and their servers. The customers are the ones that push for it, yet they quickly discover the wealth of knowledge and patient guidance (translated by each distinct personality) that stands at the ready. Tables that know exactly what they want may be given more space, but I have always considered the sharpness (in terms of refills, pacing) shown to be its own expression of care: allowing guests to enjoy the night, on their own terms, with the least interruption or impediment. One might assume a “best” bar is necessarily going to be extroverted and hands-on, but this quieter expression of hospitality is equally valid. It rewards repeat patronage in its own way by fostering an introspective, meditative appreciation of craft in a world of boisterous drinking establishments. Foundations of kindness and acceptance open this experience up to all, and, even as favorite servers come and go with the passage of time, it is witnessing the continual growth of Kumiko’s vision that has proven most fulfilling.
When it comes to the tasting menu experience (a selection of dishes and drinks that are totally distinct from what is offered à la carte), the level of description and explanation offered is naturally higher. This imbues the meal with a degree of inertia that helps parties (who might not otherwise ask many questions when drinking here) feel engaged. For what it’s worth, the descriptions for many of the courses were a little shaky on this occasion. But—and this is important—the server kept at each one and conveyed the full scope of information intended despite tripping over their words. Someone who was slicker might have cut the spiels short or allowed for a certain degree of inaccuracy out of self-preservation. However, conscientiousness undoubtedly shone here. Indeed, there’s a prevailing respect—a primacy—granted to ingredients and techniques at Kumiko, and this deference (even if it can be read as coldness) forms a key part of the brand.
Kumiko’s tasting menu currently costs $180 per person (up from $135 during the winter of 2024, $150 in the spring, and $165 in the fall of that year), exclusive of a 20% service charge for “fair living wage and benefits” that comes with the reassurance one can—but need not—“leave something extra” via the tip line. This evolution in pricing means the bar’s premium offering has moved beyond a peer group that included restaurants like INDIENNE ($125-$135), Elske ($135), The Coach House ($135-$160), and Jeong ($150) toward one that now counts places like Kyoten Next Door ($159-$169), Topolobampo ($165-$185), Atelier ($175-$200), Schwa ($175-$245), EL Ideas ($185), Boka ($195), Feld ($195), Valhalla ($198), Cariño ($200-$220), Warlord ($205), Mako ($215), and Omakase Yume ($225) as roughly comparable options.
This is rarefied, Michelin-starred (or Michelin hopeful) territory for Kumiko to be in, and Bibendum has already signaled that he’s watching: not only due to Kikkō’s past acclaim but the individual talent that has continued to mark the concept. When one adds caviar or truffle supplements to the tasting menu (~$30 each), the total price can rise close to the very top of the one-star bracket—a clear sign of intent.
Pairings bring net expenditure even higher, and, while they always present an option at other restaurants, these flights are particularly salient here. Momosé curates “Spiritfree” ($90), “Cocktail” ($135), and “Nihonshu” ($135) lineups that speak to the areas of expertise she is most known for. Of these, the middle option is split into “Shaken” (“lighter and brighter profiles”) and “Stirred” (“a touch more spirit-forward”) variants, allowing for a degree of customization. The latter term (nihonshu) denotes Japanese sake.
Having sampled the “Spiritfree” and both versions of the “Cocktail” pairing over the course of my visits, I would say that choosing one of these options is essential. Certainly, the cuisine should be able to stand on its own, but I think a great deal of the fun in doing the tasting menu (as well as an incentive for those who are already familiar with the bar) is seeing Momosé create unique drinks that harmonize with distinct flavors rather than mixing and matching as one does when ordering à la carte. On this occasion, I went with the “Shaken” style of the “Cocktail” pairing. Given the unique role beverages play at Kumiko, I will describe each of the resulting libations in the context of their accompanying course.
Apart from choosing a potential pairing, guests need only make one other decision before the meal begins. It’s actually a consequential—and somewhat provocative—choice to be presented, and it represents one of the clearest innovations Momosé has made since transitioning permanently into the kitchen. Truth be told, this question strikes right at the heart of why Japanese cuisine can be so polarizing and looks to remedy the situation by anticipating and graciously acknowledging a fundamental divergence in taste.
Those doing the tasting menu are asked if they would prefer for the food to be made in accordance with either “Japanese” or “Western” seasoning norms. The former is said to “let the ingredients shine,” but I think the truth is a little more complicated. Salt sensitivity is influenced by genetics and certainly shaped by one’s surrounding culture and foodways (Chicago being somewhat stereotypically known for preferring stronger seasoning when compared to the coasts). Chefs, whether foreign or simply representing another country’s cuisine, must tangle with representing flavors “authentically” (running the risk of them being perceived as too bland) or interpreting them more for the native audience (running the risk of them being labelled heavy-handed or “inauthentic”).
Momosé herself possesses the “Japanese” palate and a preference for food executed with a lighter touch. Just the same, she savvily knows that trying to bend the audience to her will (or splitting the difference and pleasing no one) is not a path worth taking. Instead, the chef lays all the cards on the table and empowers guests to get the exact kind of seasoning they prefer. This admission—that, indeed, the two cultures do fundamentally differ in what is considered “balanced”—encourages greater mutual understanding beyond the narrow scope of this meal. Without any sense of judgment, one might realize that what they find lacking from other examples of Japanese cuisine can actually, easily, be remedied. I would only suggest that those choosing the “Western” option are not looking to muddle the purity of the ingredients but, at a basic level, simply require more seasoning to perceive the same level of expressiveness.
I think Kyōten has succeeded in part because Otto Phan has acknowledged a Chicagoan preference for maximalism and used larger grains of rice, larger slices of fish, and pronounced punch of vinegar to suit local tastes while still playing in the sandbox of traditional ingredients and techniques. Kumiko, in this era, is embracing a similar strategy. However, I think it is right to say that the bar (under preceding chefs) has generally favored a generous seasoning style. The present change actually means that Momosé can now finally represent her own personal preference without running the risk of disappointing diners who might not share it. Ultimately, based on my own experience with Japanese cuisine in Japan, I opted for the “Western” style of seasoning tonight.
The tasting menu begins with a short presentation. A wooden tray, held by delicate arched handles, arrives at the table. It holds a candle (no doubt essential when staging this display later at night) and a ridged plate set with two deposits of pellets and three rectangular stacks. The server introduces these assembled ingredients (sanshō, nori, kombu, mochi, and koji), noting where they were sourced from and even what each (in terms of texture and flavor) provides to the dishes that are set to arrive.
This kind of gesture is not unheard of in fine dining, but it remains rare enough to retain its impact here. It certainly helps that the chosen substances look a bit otherworldly (even to those who have come across their names before), and that they are arranged with such care. The presentation helps center the meal on expressions of Japanese terroir as well as the chef’s own worshipful approach to craft. It provides the menu with a narrative framework that encourages active, thoughtful consumption—a sense of education and discovery—as opposed to the kitchen simply sending food out.
That being said, the first salvo does indeed follow shortly after. This “trio of the sea” (as the bites are titled) begins with an “Oyster” (sourced from Massachusetts) that has been dressed in concord grape ponzu, a few dabs of sorrel granita, and some shiso oil. On the palate, the bivalve is clean and plump, imparting a flavor that balances sweetness, citrus, and brine with a nice underlying umami quality.
The ”Aburi” (a term that actually refers to a method of flame searing) comprises lightly torched chunks of artic char that are mixed with yuzu mayo, green onion, and ichimi togarashi—a “one-flavor chile pepper” seasoning that offers a simpler profile than the popular shichimi (or “seven-flavor”/seven-spice) alternative. This combination sits at the center of a standing curl of tempura nori, providing a delicate crunch on entry that yields to a tender, creamy mouthful of fish. When it comes to flavor, the more characterful notes of chile, citrus, and allium are subsumed by the mayo and rounded out. Thus, there’s nothing jagged here: just a long, delicate expression of seafood punctuated by the smoky, savory quality of the searing.
Lastly, the “Ikura” sees its titular salmon roe coated in wasabi crème fraîche and stacked atop a toasted mochi cracker. A few slices of pickled myoga (Japanese ginger) complete the preparation, which is defined by the interplay between the crisp—then chewy—vessel and the subtle pop of the orange orbs. The textural effect is unique and enjoyable, yet the resulting flavor is fairly simple. Yes, I get the salt and brine of the roe but not much of the pungent wasabi or tangy ginger. This might be a case where the “Western” seasoning style doesn’t necessarily extend to the production of these supporting components (e.g., two separate batches of pickles with varying intensity). However, while I found this bite to be the weakest part of the trio, it was by no means bad.
The “Martini” that pairs with the “trio of the sea” combines ginger shōchū, Fukucho’s “Forgotten Fortune” junmai sake, fino sherry, and dry vermouth. This yields a drink of real spirit-forward weight and depth that nonetheless remains smooth and approachable. Indeed, while there are martinis on the à la carte menu I favor more, the ginger, fruit, and oxidative undertones found in this blend join seamlessly with the sweet and salty notes of the seafood—enhancing (rather than just contrasting) what appears on the plate.
The next course, “Kani no Sunomono,” is said to be inspired by Momosé’s childhood. The recipe’s title combines the word for crab with a term (literally “vinegared thing”) typically used to refer to a cucumber salad. However, the chef builds this dish around mikan (or Japanese mandarin), the top of which forms a cover for the chilled bowl that arrives. Inside, one finds shreds of Dungeness crab, slivers of daikon, wedges of the aforementioned citrus, and ogo nori (a reddish, frilly kind of seaweed). These ingredients are dressed in orange juice and brown rice vinegar.
Guests are invited to dig in using an accompanying vintage Japanese spoon, yielding small bites that are characterized by the almost pickled crunch of the radish, the plumpness of the mandarin, and the fine, cushion-like consistency of the crustacean. Indeed, while the crab’s subtle sweetness comes through clearly, the preparation ultimately feels fresh and cleansing without too much of the sharp acid one might expect. If I were to be critical, the crab pieces could perhaps be a bit larger. Nonetheless, it’s also nice to see and taste the fruit be the star.
An accompanying “Mikan Chu-Hi” blends the same ginger shōchū used in the previous cocktail with sparkling mikan juice and Fukucho’s “Seaside” sparkling junmai sake. Compared to the martini’s bracing (but still enjoyable) character, this drink is more understated. There’s no longer any ripe tropical fruit at the forefront but more of a creamy, citric, and tingly quality to be found. However, this relative precision (akin to an actual sparkling wine) is enhanced by a notable length on the finish, where the mandarin juice resonates beautifully with the same notes found in the food.
At this point in the meal, guests transition to the use of chopsticks and are invited to choose from a colorful array of designs. Again, this sort of touch is not totally unique to Kumiko (who also offers diners their choice of sake glass when applicable), but it still stands as a welcome flourish: a moment of personalization and deeper consideration for the craft that shaped these everyday items.
With chopsticks in tow, two dishes arrive at the table next. The first, titled “Tai,” refers to red seabream. The fish is prepared in the matsukasa-yaki style—a cooking method in which hot oil is poured over the unscaled, scored skin of the fillet so that the scales become crisp (jutting out like a “pinecone”) while the interior remains moist. The resulting morsel, every bit as flaky as promised, comes dressed with sudachi, lime zest, and fish salt. If diners choose to purchase the caviar supplement, a dollop of Kaluga forms the finishing touch.
I’m more accustomed to seeing this kind of matsukasa-yaki preparation at high-end omakases (where it forms a pleasing contrast to all the raw fish). However, at Kumiko, the technique is executed faithfully: yielding a brittle-crisp bite of seabream that proves tender and meaty with further mastication. When it comes to flavor, I find the degree of salt and tang at hand to be perfectly judged, amplifying the otherwise mild sweetness of the flesh. Even the caviar (these supplements often seeming superfluous) comes through nicely on the finish, where its butter and nut tones meld with a lasting note of citrus. Overall, this makes for one of the best dishes of the night.
The ”Ara Jiru” that accompanies the “Tai” refers to a soup made from the “scraps” or “leftovers” of the fish. In short, it’s a kind of bone broth that Momosé accents with kombu, citrus zests, and negi (spring onion) oil. The resulting flavor is perfectly enjoyable, being clean (i.e., not “fishy”) and offering a good depth of allium and umami enlivened by a bit of tang. I’m not sure the broth rises fully to the level of being memorable, but it forms a nice companion to the crispy seabream: an elegant echo of the flavors I so enjoyed there.
The “Sea Flower and Soda” paired to the preceding two dishes represents a reformulation of one of the à la carte menu’s most popular cocktails. The combination of Nikka Coffey Gin, white vermouth, yuzu koshō, kabosu juice (a citrus fruit related to yuzu), lime, and “ocean dust” (a sweet, salty coating applied to the rim of the glass) yields a drink of brightness, botanical fullness, a hint of tingly spice, and dangerous quaffability. By incorporating club soda, this version of the recipe demonstrates a bit more restraint and elegance. It lets the flaky fish take the lead—only to come through with a second dose of yuzu and salt that helps this great bite reach an even higher peak. In sum, this is a beautiful pairing!
After several courses celebrating seafood, the menu’s shift toward heartier fare is positively explosive. Kumiko’s “Teuchi Udon” refers to a “handmade” or “homemade” example of the titular wheat noodle, whose slick, chewy mouthfeel forms a singular delight. I’m used to these toothsome strips being on the thicker side and being served in soup. However, this particular dish renders the udon as a slimmer, spaghetti-like tangle. As it happens, Momosé situates this recipe within the Itameshi (or Japanese/Italian fusion) tradition, and the noodles come dressed in cream, nori, simmered kombu, and shichimi (seven-flavor) togarashi. Microplaned black truffle (if one purchases the supplement) may also appear at this point.
On the palate, the udon feels smooth and al dente rather than being dense or pronounced in its chew. This quality works nicely with the cream sauce, which lusciously coats the noodles and lends them a rich, almost melting quality. At this point, the nutty, numbing, tangy, and hot notes of the kaleidoscopic togarashi come to the fore—along with a boatload of umami. Yes, the degree of savory power on display here is immense. However, these flavors are elegantly subsumed by the cream’s subtle sweetness (helping to delineate their diverse characters) and further boosted by the earthy truffle. There’s so much going on here, but it all melds into a pinpoint of pleasure: mouth-coating, lick-the-plate hedonism that calls Oriole’s famous “Capellini” to mind. Overall, this dish was a triumph. It not only ranks as the best of the night but marks a stylistic shift toward decadence that gives the menu (dainty and delicate as it may first seem) a totally different dimension.
The “Walk Softly” that pairs with the “Teuchi Udon” comes straight from the à la carte menu. This may seem underwhelming to those expecting novelty, across the board, from this set flight. But, in practice, it’s not a drink I’ve tasted in quite some time (given how many specials and other options there always are to choose from). The combination of Suntory Haku Vodka, yuzu liqueur, dry vermouth, lemon, and Champagne makes for a tangy, bright, and cleansing companion to one of the meal’s highest peaks. I’m not sure there’s any other way to follow a dish of such quality (one does not want to compete with the sweetness of the cream or double down on the umami), so it’s a nice opportunity to appreciate one of the creative director’s classic recipes. Indeed, the resulting refreshment helps prepare diners for what comes next.
“Daikon,” as this course (one Momosé is said to be homesick for) is titled, is certainly the most visually arresting construction of the night. When one considers that the dish is comprised almost entirely of the titular radish, this aesthetic appeal may seem like a kind of trick: food for the eyes that, nonetheless, does little for the stomach. But the alternating pieces of daikon, formed from a single segment of the vegetable’s “sweeter” heart, serve to express two different intensities of dashi (or stock). The lighter-toned pieces, topped with pickled kumquat, display a clean, mild sweetness framed by hints of umami and tartness. The darker pieces, topped with pickled ginger, are marked by the deep, savory flavor of tamari (a soy sauce made as a byproduct during miso production) and a tangier kick on the finish.
Texturally, both flavors of radish display a shockingly soft, potato-like structure, and alternating between the pieces (as guests are instructed to do) feels both comforting and intellectually appealing. The less intense and more intense dashis work, from both directions, to bring the star ingredient’s essential character into sharper focus. Upon reaching the end and drinking the remaining broth (as also recommended), the notes reach their climax: a long, lip-smacking wave of umami totally intertwined with the daikon’s own sweetness. The sum effect is soothing, memorable, and makes for one of the surprise hits of the night.
The ”Kinkan” cocktail served alongside this course combines shōchū with a carrot eau de vie (the carrot eau de vie), taru sake (sake aged in barrels), ginger cordial, and lemon. Though the drink looks crisp and refreshing upon arrival, its flavor profile actually matches the notes of the darker dashi well. It doesn’t compete with or obscure the sweetness of the radish either, given that the eau de vie expresses the fresh, earthy, and almost fruity side of carrot (resonating intriguingly the daikon) with no trace of sickly concentration. This is one of the pairing’s boldest creations, but it matches the chosen dish effortlessly.
This meal’s starring savory course takes the form of “Miyazaki-Gyu,” a term denoting the kind of wagyu (cultivated specifically in Miyazaki Prefecture) that has become a fixture of Western fine dining. I have long argued that this prized beef (and other totemic luxury ingredients like it) work to sap a chef’s creativity: encouraging a soft touch, and thus a lack of distinction, and a feeling that one is tasting the same worshipful (or is it bland?) construction over and over. Kumiko serves the kind of A5 Miyazaki striploin, grilled over binchōtan, I’ve seen before, but the portion (seven plump, rare slices leant against each other) is generous. The presentation, too, is minimalist: the beef being paired with a mound of wasabi (dosed with preserved lemon), a sprinkle of salt (flecked with black pepper), and some pickled sanshō.
On the palate, the wagyu delivers all the tenderness and melty fat the word promises. It also arrives nicely salted, leaving behind a pleasing, meaty once it disappears. I find the wasabi, cut with lemon, to be on the mild side. Perhaps I miss some pungency, but the effect is elegantly sweet. The same goes for the sanshō, which is not noticeably numbing but rather tangy and sharp. The additional salt is not really needed, but the wagyu can withstand it (becoming even more powerfully savory while also benefitting from the touch of black pepper). With each bite, switching between the various toppings, a sense of carnal satisfaction and overarching decadence builds. Yes, despite my reservations, I cannot fault this dish. It offers a pitch perfect representation of the starring wagyu, in a more or less traditional form, that is engaging to eat and just novel enough (in how the accompaniments are treated) to avoid feeling hackneyed.
At a two- or three-Michelin-star level, I might expect something more. However, in the context of this meal (a craft- and ingredient-driven dining bar putting out a tasting menu defined in part by its pairings) I think it’s acceptable—especially because the kitchen executes this dish flawlessly.
It’s also more than acceptable because the accompanying drink is so good. The “Rosetta” (served with both this and the following course) combines black sugar shōchū with Pineau des Charentes Rouge (a blend of young Cognac and barely fermented grape juice), an aged plum liqueur, some preserved plum, lemon, and clover honey. Though this blend of sweeter brews sounds like it could be overdone, the balance here is impeccable. There’s plenty of ripe fruit and acid and a captivating caramelized, woody quality to soak up all the sugar, yielding a decadent tipple that matches the richness of the wagyu while preparing one’s tongue for the sweeter fare to come. For me, the “Rosetta” ties the “Sea Flower and Soda” as the best cocktail of the night.
Closing out the savory section of the menu, one finds the “Gohan.” This term signifies cooked rice but is also used interchangeably to describe a meal in general. Thus, the course looks to cement a feeling of satiation by providing guests with what is traditionally viewed as a staple food. In practice, that takes the form of three onigiri (or rice balls): one flavored with vegan dashi and shitake, the next with grilled sesame seed and katsuobushi (i.e., bonito flakes), and the last with a combination of dashi and ponzu. These are joined by a kaiseki-style fish broth (filled with a few daikon and carrot trimmings) and selection of pickles (shishito pepper, cucumber, and more daikon), making for an attractive, balanced platter.
While this course is meant to provide warmth and satisfaction before dessert, it represents the only miss of the night for me. The rice balls themselves are soft and pleasing with a mild amount of umami and increasing intensity (from left to right) but no fireworks. The pickles, also appearing on the à la carte menu, offer a clean crunch with a good balance of sour and sweet. The broth, I expect, will enliven the other two components: providing the kind of savory depth that amplifies the onigiri’s subtler tones and necessitates the contrasting notes of the pickles. Nonetheless, the liquid is rather understated (tasting closer to tea than fish soup), not only needing salt but displaying a strange aftertaste. Ultimately, the broth is not awful (just weird), but it does undermine what should be a slam dunk denouement.
Moving on, the first dessert of the night is titled “Satsuma Imo” (literally meaning “potato from Satsuma” but, more specifically, referring to sweet potato). The tubers are roasted and used as the base of a tartlet styled after a traditional “Mont Blanc” (a dish that enjoys a surprising degree of popularity in Japan). A kinako (roasted soybean flour) Chantilly and koshian (red bean paste) purée—formed into vermicelli-like threads—serve as toppings with a dusting of grated chestnut forming the final touch. On the palate, the tartlet base is crumbly but also somewhat biscuity and dense with only a semisweet flavor. However, the nutty notes and more concentrated sugar of the soybean and red bean elements help to accentuate the rich, caramelized quality of the sweet potato. The combination works nicely, but I am left wanting more textural finesse.
The second and final dessert, “Deglet Noor,” centers on the date cultivar of the same name. This fruit is prepared in the wagashi tradition (plant-based confectionery generally served with green tea), being stuffed with matcha butter, candied pistachio, and Okinawan brown sugar then seasoned with a bit of flaky salt. The resulting bites are rich and jammy in texture, leading to layers of earthy, nutty, and honeyed flavor that achieve even greater richness and intensity than the “Satsuma Imo.” Though simpler than the preceding dish, the “Deglet Noor” is also more seamless, ending the menu on an elegant note and matching the tone Momosé sought to establish at its start.
Accompanying the two desserts is a drink titled “Imo and Kokutō.” It draws on the same black sugar (kokutō) shōchū used in the “Rosetta” but blends it with a 16-year aged sweet potato (“imo”) shōchū, green cardamom- and peppercorn-spiced Okinawan brown sugar, and lime. The resulting cocktail is potent, rich, and somewhat oxidative (brilliantly matching the nutty notes of the first dish as well as the honey/pistachio of the second), but it retains enough citric lift and florality to be sipped alone. In that case, the drink also works well as a digestif—a final whisper of the desserts’ flavors and a bracing tonic for one’s return to reality.
After two hours and seven minutes (the time from the opening presentation of ingredients through the arrival of the “Deglet Noor”), the tasting menu reaches its conclusion. With 12 dishes and seven cocktails being served across nine distinct courses, this makes for a pacing of about 14 minutes per course: a perfect sweet spot as far as I’m concerned (that could easily grow closer to 15 or 20 minutes, which some diners might prefer, if one eats more slowly). Of course, guests are also granted the chance to order more food and drinks à la carte before departing, which is not an admission that they might still be hungry so much as it is a promise that those signing up for this premium experience (perhaps visiting Kumiko for the first time) are free to sample all of the bar’s wares.
Otherwise, the server brings the check by (accounting for any pairings or supplements one might have chosen and, again, including a 20% service charge that carries no expectation of an additional tip). They also leave you with a small blue envelope containing separate food and drink menus—a classic keepsake, yes, but rendered here with beautiful typeface and a degree of detail (especially when it comes to the cocktails) worth preserving.
After a warm, gracious goodbye, I make my way back toward the kumiko-paneled hall. At this later point in the evening, the space buzzes more like a bar than a staid tasting menu spot. Larger parties toast over bowls of fried chicken while dates cozy up at the counter. Still, I do spy other guests taking the same journey: the peak expression of craft in a place defined by it, the longer, quieter path amidst the chaos. When I reach the lobby, a sense of calm again reigns. Yet I step outside, met by horns and screeches, and remember how much Kumiko itself—even at its busiest—is a haven. It’s a world of its own worth discovering (and rediscovering) even as the team’s duties, talents, and personalities are destined to change.
In the final analysis, I have found this unique chapter in Kumiko’s history to be both intriguing and inspiring. The transition that occurred in December of 2024—the high of Mummert’s Young Chef Award, the pain of his departure, and the creative director’s adaptation to the role of full-time chef—marked a massive change in the concept (but one I think hasn’t quite been noticed or comprehended beyond those who frequent the bar). Indeed, Momosé remains the star: the person The Way of the Cocktail’s readers and all those tracking the establishment’s cavalcade of awards have come to see. But, apart from appearing to grate truffle on the “Teuchi Udon,” she was scarcely seen. Though, to be clear, I just mean on the floor. Should anyone peer through the kumiko that adorns the center of the bar, she can now always be seen at the pass, executing food, leading her team where they need her most.
Certainly, the creative director must have felt the temptation to dial things back: to maintain her usual role (which includes a bit of everything but certainly allows for more time mixing drinks and meeting customers) and serve a simpler menu of classic fare while allowing the kitchen to regroup. This might have been the safer move—centering the face of the business and the sense of celebrity patrons (especially travelers and 50 Best voters) respond so positively to. Yet it would have meant abandoning all the momentum Kumiko had built with its tasting menu over the past year. It would have meant sacrificing a capacity for growth that has always proven to be one of the establishment’s greatest virtues.
Momosé met the challenge head on, putting herself in a position (relative to the bartending and hospitality sides of the business) she has less experience with while also entrusting the rest of her staff with representing those aspects of the business she is most famous for. Though I am sensitive to the fact that something—a certain energy, however subtle—is necessarily lost by this kind of reshuffling, the team has done an admirable job. They have maintained the high standard I have come to know and, rather than shrinking under pressure, continued to empower the kind of creativity that has made Kumiko so rewarding to return to.
The silver lining to be found in this upheaval is best found via the tasting menu. Now being fully realized by the creative director, it expresses her voice and nostalgia even more clearly. The meal, though still a collaborative effort, brings a new dimension to the table: bartender acting as chef, approaching the harmonizing of these two crafts from the opposite direction.
Looking back at this evening’s offerings:
I would rank the “Teuchi Udon” and “Miyazaki-Gyu” dishes, along with the “Sea Flower and Soda” and “Rosetta” cocktails, as truly great creations. They each balanced novelty with a sense of generosity and comfort, yielding vividly memorable sips/bites that I would be thrilled to have again.
Below these, I’d place the “Tai” and “Daikon” dishes alongside the “Walk Softly” cocktail. These were very good preparations that delivered both novelty and pleasure. Nothing was out of balance—I’d enjoy encountering any of them again (and do find them memorable too)—they just fell a bit short of providing the same emotional reaction the preceding category provoked.
Next, I’d rank the “Oyster,” “Aburi,” “Kani no Sunomono,” “Ara Jiru,” “Satsuma Imo,” and “Deglet Noor,” in combination with the “Kinkan” and “Imo and Kokutō” cocktails, as merely good. The ideas underlying these preparations were all sound, and the presentations in particular were almost uniformly charming. I noted no clear flaws either (with the desire for larger pieces of Dungeness crab in the “Kani no Sunomono” and a more refined tartlet shell in the ”Satsuma Imo” probably coming closest). However, these items just missed that extra degree of refinement or intensity to really distinguish themselves. Thus, they were pleasant but not particularly eye-opening.
Finally, I’d put the “Ikura” and “Gohan” dishes, as well as the “Martini” and “Mikan Chu-Hi” cocktails, in a category of slightly above average (or, for the “Gohan,” slightly below average) creations. These items expressed some interesting, valuable ideas worth pursuing. However, in practice, they didn’t quite come together—either demonstrating minor flaws (the dashi served with the “Gohan”) or simply provoking a reaction of “huh, that’s interesting” rather than “I like this.”
Overall, this makes for a hit rate of 79% (clearly successful dishes and drinks) with 37% of offerings landing in the “very good” to “truly great,” memorable stratum. It is also worth considering that what I judged as “unsuccessful” was close enough in quality that it could please other palates. The caviar and truffle supplements, it should be mentioned, also proved to be worthwhile (being combined with two of the meal’s best courses—the “Tai” and the “Teuchi Udon”).
Priced at $180, Kumiko’s tasting menu more or less keeps pace with its (largely Michelin-starred) peers. Just the same, I don’t think it’s wrong to say that places like Topolobampo, Atelier, Schwa, EL Ideas, Feld, Valhalla, or Cariño are more self-contained and expressly gastronomic. What Momosé is doing must be understood as an extension and enhancement of a sensibility that has taken shape in a bar setting. The food offers a way to more deeply engage with the creative director’s beverage work and to explore a vision of Japanese cuisine that transcends omakase, traverses the chef’s memories, and proves most appealing when seeming simplicity delivers feelings of satisfaction and comfort.
To that point, I think the tasting menu shines as a turnkey introduction to what Kumiko’s about: a curated expression (allowing for a certain degree of personalization) of how Momosé marries the crafts of food and drink. It is one that also helps prospective diners avoid the pain of trying to form a cohesive order from an extensive (sometimes imposing) à la carte menu. On the other hand, I think the tasting menu also provides guests who are most familiar with Momosé’s work a chance to taste creations—some truly excellent—that cannot be otherwise ordered. This experience involves more submission (to a broader artistic goal) than regular customers might be used to, but it also rewards them with a renewed sense of discovery.
I think—and this is also true of Elske (one of my absolute favorite restaurants)—consumers in the middle are faced with a tougher choice. Anyone who can confidently peruse the à la carte menu would be equipped (using that same $180) to eat and drink like a king: ordering all the oysters, caviar, and wagyu they could want while washing it down with premium bottles of sake or what (for their palate) ranks as the very best cocktails of the bunch. No doubt, this is a different kind of experience—perhaps more conventional when thinking of a “dining bar”—and one that still honors the work this team is doing.
Proportionally, I find myself going this à la carte route more often than not, uncovering (even if I do not always take it to extremes of luxury) the same unique style and sense of comfort I get from the best dishes of the tasting menu. To be clear, there is temptation—I’d order the “Teuchi Udon” every time if I could—yet there is so much to enjoy here at Kumiko that it’s hard not to take total control over the experience once one gets a grasp of what they like.
So, I have come to think of the tasting menu as a form of enrichment: an occasional reminder to expand my horizons beyond those things I know and love. Having a sense of how boldly Momosé is pushing herself, at this moment in time, into a different domaine of the business makes the prospect even more appealing. This is a more personal, more complete picture of Kumiko than I have ever seen before: one in which the creative director’s spirit flows directly from the kitchen even as the bar, in its own right, is poised to possibly claim its biggest honor yet.
As I said at the start, this chapter won’t last forever. The recent addition of Evelyn Aloupas (formerly the chef de cuisine of John’s Food and Wine) to the team suggests that Momosé may be able to step away from the kitchen a little more. However, there’s no indication of that happening yet, and I will continue to savor this rendition of Kumiko—this full-fledged expression of Japanese hospitality from one of its luminaries—while I can.