Some meals at Kyōten, like the one I shared in July, are characterized by tentpole moments. That could mean an engaged, inquisitive audience who compel chef Otto Phan to share his greatest hits (regarding his life, his ingredients, his process) and shoot from the hip (when it comes to pop culture or what else he likes to eat). Otherwise, the restaurant itself might take the lead: toasting patrons with obscure, Japanese-made Burgundies or directing their attention to a dramatic unboxing of that night’s sea urchin.
These are not conceits that have been dreamt up at a corporate level—the kind of frills that can make Sushi by Scratch Restaurants or The Omakase Room so memorable for diners who might otherwise find the genre leaves them cold. They’re not even the kind of performative quirks one would find at Sushi Nakazawa (in its heyday) or Yoshino (today): flashes of personality that crystalize and even memeify craftsmen who might struggle to communicate or connect with much depth.
Phan has always been authentic to a fault, and, through remodels, expansions, and dizzying increases in price, that hasn’t changed. Indeed, nothing at Kyōten feels contrived. There’s never been the time or inclination to develop such devices when everything about the experience, for so long, has been weighted solely (and precipitously) toward the best fish, rice, vinegar, and overall concentration (of texture, flavor) possible.
Yes, though the chef’s stage has grown in its luxuriousness (his counter now framed by shelves filled with sculpture, the space behind diners dominated by bottles and cases boasting the names of top producers), nothing gets guests talking like those first bites of octopus, or maybe tempura, or—for the most difficult—tuna. Next to the food, only a photo of Phan’s original sushi trailer (hanging since Kyōten opened) commands the same attention: no glitz, just humble beginnings.
True to that ethos, the chef’s performance never looks to dominate. It never imposes. Rather, reflexively, it flows (as it did in July) when Phan gets swept up in the excitement of his audience and/or has something he naturally wants to share.
In turn, as it did here in August, the performance may ebb: offering friendliness and precision yet being wholly comfortable with fading into the background—letting patrons set the rhythm and tone of how they’ll spend these three hours of indulgence.
For the repeat diner, this is a fun shapeshifting to take account of: a testament to Phan’s supreme sensitivity despite his early reputation for brashness. It also offers a renewed perspective on Kyōten’s cuisine: a quieter, more conventionally solemn pitch through which bites of such bountiful pleasure land and those one or two which might be flawed dramatically flounder.
Let us begin.
For its opening course, tonight’s meal sees the return of the “Sungold Tomatoes” that featured back in June. On this occasion, Phan sources the produce from Froggy Meadow Farm out of Beloit, Wisconsin, and he looks to do more to bridge the gap between land and sea.
Two tomatoes, perfectly peeled, sit in a broth of their own juices as before. Now, however, they come joined by a tangle of mozuku: a kind of Okinawan seaweed the chef terms “slimy” but “not gross slimy.” Opposite the plump, juicy Sungolds, these strands (nicknamed “sōmen” like the noodles) provide a fine sense of crunch and—yes—a mouthcoating, gelatinous consistency. This intriguing sensation does seem to extend the presence of the tomatoes (even if by trickery). Yet it is really the seaweed’s trace of brine and umami that makes the dish sing: driving the sweet tang of the fresh produce to a higher peak of intensity. Overall, this makes for a clear improvement on Phan’s original recipe—one in which the elegant addition of this solitary accompaniment yields such greater depth and persistence of flavor. Well done!
The “Aka Ebi” that arrives next is also a familiar sight. The chef served this variety of red prawn, sourced from Hawaii, alongside some cherry tomatoes last time. Here, they anchor the dish on their own: benefitting from nothing more than a dressing of lemon juice and dashi intended to replicate a kind of ceviche.
In truth, I’ve seen these Hawaiian prawns served at restaurants throughout Chicago over the past few months, and they do not demand all that much finesse to taste delicious. As a consequence, the ingredient naturally lacks some of the novelty, rarity, and skill ceiling that typically justifies the Kyōten price point. I ask myself, “what can really be done to make it shine in a way that other concepts haven’t discovered?”
Nonetheless, Phan succeeds by fine-tuning his “Aka Ebi” in a way that feels distinct from other examples. Texturally, though the crustacean can possess a pleasing creaminess in its raw state, the prawn here displays a firmness on entry that many diners will find both familiar and enticing. The interior of the shellfish, in turn, still feels juicy: delivering a clean, sweet, lip-smacking flavor that is set off—just enough—by notes of citrus and umami that work to deepen and lengthen its finish. While simple, this preparation is totally convincing, and it testifies to a Kyōten “house style” that impresses even when the restaurant works with ingredients others can source.
I suppose one could include “Octopus” in that same category (given how prominently the cephalopod features at all kinds of concepts throughout the city). Yet, at Kyōten, the eight-armed creature forms a signature: being wild-caught in Japan, massaged, boiled, fried (in the karaage style), and served with a coating of avocado ponzu.
On the palate, this dish has long distinguished itself with a subtle crispness and chew (on entry) that frames delectably rich, tender flesh. Tonight, however, I get little sense that the octopus was fried and, even worse, find none of the melty interior that is typically so appealing. Instead, the bites are just straightforwardly chewy—an average, as opposed to a superlative, representation of their potential texture. The flavor here, balancing the butteriness of the avocado with the bright, umami tones of the ponzu, remains good, but it is not enough to overcome a clear lapse in the preparation of the starring ingredient. Given how reliably this recipe usually pleases, the “Octopus” represents a missed opportunity this time around.
After a few familiar courses, Phan presents something entirely new: “Sheepshead” that is sourced from California and prepared in a tempura style. The chef actually compares the ingredient (in terms of shape and structure) to amadai, the tilefish he typically favors for this kind of dish. Otherwise, a dollop of grated daikon laced with ponzu forms a familiar condiment.
Texturally, the sheepshead combines a brittle, flaky exterior and warm, meaty interior in a manner that is highly satisfying. Indeed, Phan has done a great job in untapping the potential of a fish I wouldn’t expect to see here. That being said, the daikon lets him down tonight, as the condiment offers none of the usual sweetness or umami that brings its partnering bites to life. Yes, for whatever reason, the condiment just tastes vaguely tangy and kind of flat—meaning that the tempura’s own latent sweetness gets lost. It’s hard to know what went wrong here, but I trust that the dish can easily be fixed given the quality that the fish itself has attained.
On the back of a couple unfortunate missteps, the chef can take solace in the fact the next course—the last before the sequence of nigiri starts—really impresses. In fact, the “Akamutsu Broth” represents another dish that is entirely new for me. It comprises chunks of the titular blackthroat seaperch (always introduced as one of Phan’s most luxurious ingredients) in a clear consommé made from the fish’s roasted, collagen-rich bones.
As far as broths go, this example comes close to the pinnacle: being warm and weighty (despite its clarity) but matched by a tremendous concentration of umami leavened by quasi-sweetness and an expert, restrained dose of salt. The actual pieces of fish, soaked in this liquid, harmonize beautifully via their fatty, melty flesh and own latent savory character (tinged, I sense, with smoke). Plus, with their introduction, the flavor of the soup feels particularly buttery and sweet. Overall, this makes for a surprising, enchanting dish—good to the last drop—that excites me for what Kyōten might serve when the weather cools. Of the many techniques the chef dabbles in, building these broths (which have appeared very infrequently over the years) stands as one he has always excelled at when doing.
The turn toward nigiri arrives, as it always does, with a bang: “Ōtoro” (the fattiest and most prized cut of tuna belly) from a wild-caught fish out of Boston. Responding to the sense of surprise that the prized cut’s origin typically elicits, Phan remarks that the best of these specimens are sent to auction in Japan. Slyly, the chef adds that he does his best to intercept the product before that happens.
Visually, this yields a piece of pale red to pale pink color with intricate ribbons of fat (more like webbing at its extremes) framed by horizontal scoring. On the palate, the ōtoro is supremely melty with whatever few pockets of flesh and structure there are being totally subsumed by the marbling. When it comes to flavor, the belly is matched by a pronounced punch of vinegar and a more measured, yet perceptible, dose of fresh wasabi. These touches, so perfectly judged, counter the surfeit of fat and uncover a deeply savory, tongue-tingling expression of tuna. The bite ends on a note of sweetness, which softens all that umami as one reaches the long, filigreed finish. This is about as good as “Ōtoro” gets—here or anywhere.
Phan’s “Akami Zuké” quickly follows, representing a leaner cut of the tuna that distinguishes itself from (and often even competes with) its fattier sibling courtesy of its brief marination and corresponding intensity. Tonight, the piece (having received a solitary, horizontal score down its center) looks particularly homogenous without many traces of sinew.
And, texturally, it delivers an impressive degree of softness: not the kind that collapses into melty ecstasy but, rather, retains traces of weight and structure that amplify a sense of meatiness. The flavor here, smacking of soy sauce and the fish’s own irony character (yet not, as it has been in the past, smoked), is similarly robust. Nonetheless, the bite achieves a remarkable balance: intense umami and a clear sense of the tuna’s flesh in an elegant package (backed by the same vinegar and wasabi but less noticeably so) that cries out for a pairing with one of the chef’s favorite red Burgundies. This is great.
Arriving next, the “Madai” (or Japanese red bream) has yet to feature this year. It is not to be confused with the “Amadai” (technically a tilefish and, thus, a different species) that has appeared during the course of my meals.
Served with an attractive layer of scales along its side, this piece’s pinkish, whitish flesh seems destined to suffer on the back of the headlining tunas. However, the madai displays a pleasing firmness on entry that proves smooth and succulent with further mastication. The fish is marked by a distinct brush of soy sauce, yet, rather than retreading the notes of the “Akami Zuké,” it reveals a pristinely sweet quality within the bream that lasts through the finish. Overall, this is quite nice—maybe not matching what came before but offering its own charms in a way that avoids any steep drop-off from serving to serving.
“Kinmedai” (or golden-eye snapper) has cut a familiar presence over the past couple months (and, generally, throughout 2025). In terms of quality, it typically lands somewhere in the middle of the pack, and tonight is much the same story.
The fish, like that which preceded it, also boasts a strip of scales and a visible application of soy sauce. However, as always, the kinmedai is distinguished by a touch of lemon zest that imbues the glossy, somewhat resistant, but ultimately fatty flesh with a particularly bright, cleansing flavor. To my taste, the bite is not savory enough to rank among the most memorable of the night. That said, this is still a good example of the form (relative to my other meals) that, through its contrast, helps to reorient and reinvigorate one’s palate for what else is to come.
A sharp tongue proves essential for what is to come next: a serving of “Uni” (unboxed with the usual flourish) that, for many diners, inevitably competes with tuna for the title of the most prized ingredient of the night. As with my last couple visits, Phan has sourced the “dry-packed” (i.e., without saltwater solution) version of the preserved ensui sea urchin he favors. Coming, tonight, from Nagasaki, this form of uni is said by the chef to be his “ideal.”
Served atop a ball of rice wrapped in nori, the resulting lobes retain some structure—and that dimpled, tongue-like texture—rather than melting over the edge of the seaweed. Nonetheless, the sea urchin proves remarkably slick and custardy on the palate: moistening the warm rice before striking with notes of transfixing sweetness and subtle iron (complicated by a few drops of soy sauce) that represent uni at its best. If Phan is able to continue sourcing the dry-packed variety, he’ll have transformed this coveted ingredient (damned to be so variable in quality) into something approaching a sure thing. I’m not sure any other example in Chicago comes close.
After appearing for the very first time in July, “Wild Alaskan King Salmon” returns to the omakase tonight. However, in a change of pace, Phan chooses to cure the fish in salt and sugar before searing and serving the piece. The result is a bite of attractive browning (along the side) and a deep, orange-red tone through the middle.
When it reaches one’s palate, the salmon leads with a fleeting firmness then quickly turns rather rich and fatty with a couple more chews. Any resulting flavor, despite the curing, is slow to arrive. I’d almost characterize the bite as muted. Nonetheless, toward the finish, a hint of sweetness comes to the fore. Ultimately, this piece impresses with its texture yet lacks deeper character. I arguably prefer July’s version, which wasn’t cured (and, in fact, was served a touch too cold) but benefitted from a more generous application of the familiar wasabi and soy sauce.
For his “Saba” (or mackerel), the chef draws on a process and a form that has become one of Kyōten’s signatures (albeit more of a cult favorite) over the years. After curing, marinating, and smoking the fish, he fills it full of ginger-, green onion-, and shiso-laced rice. Once sliced, the resulting chunks are placed at the end of a strip of nori, whereupon Phan instructs guests to fold the bite up “like a taco.”
I titled this piece “Mackerel Roll” in July (and, indeed, the chef always alternates between Japanese and English terminology depending on the night). Yet the saba, here, really is the star. Though the brittle crunch of the seaweed (always perfectly rendered at this restaurant) and inner cavity of rice frame the fish, the mackerel’s combination of structure and buttery fat works to cushion the ingredients. Blended together, the undertones of spice, allium, and mint help to cut through the dense, oily flesh. However, one is left with an unquestionable sense of the saba’s character—mildly (yet persistently) fishy, tinged with vinegar, robustly umami through the finish—what all is said and done. Overall, this is a very good example of this recipe even if it will not prove conventionally pleasurable for everyone.
The “Akamutsu” (again referring to the blackthroat seaperch) proved impressive when it featured, before the nigiri, in its “Broth.” Now, the fish takes center stage, and Phan is sure to tout the ingredient’s luxury bonafides: stating, “if the Japanese Prime Minister walked into a restaurant, this is what they’d serve him (if available).”
Texturally, the akamutsu (its skin having been torched) is beautifully warm and gooey. The fish’s own flavor is fairly mild, showing traces of sweetness, but the dose of soy sauce here is well-judged. The bite is just salty enough on the finish to draw a clear sense of umami out from all the ingredient’s fat, and, as a consequence, this ranks as one of the restaurant’s better renditions of this coveted catch. I may not taste what the prime minister tastes, but this is a worthy way to draw the nigiri sequence to a close.
“Unagi” (or freshwater eel) can stand among the menu’s heaviest hitters at its best. This makes the ingredient a particular revelation for those who have only encountered the fish in its sickliest, prepacked form. Phan, to be clear, does not reject the fundamental pleasure—and nostalgia—that eel dressed with eel sauce represents. Rather, he refines it.
The result is a generous serving of unagi—three pieces—layered over a mound of rice and drizzled with that infamous dressing. On the palate, the skin of the eel offers an uber-crisp crunch (marked but not blemished by charring), yielding to interior flesh that feels rich and tender. The fish’s flavor, while naturally sweet, is supercharged by the accompanying sauce, which trades excess sugar for rounded tang and saltiness that helps to build a sense of surprising meatiness. Bolstered by that scoop of vinegared rice, the preparation delivers an incredible degree of satisfaction at this late stage in the meal. To be honest, I find myself craving it just as much as though headlining bites of tuna and uni.
The ”Tuna Handroll” that sees out the savory portion of the meal would seem to guarantee pleasure. After all, it draws on the same lean cut of the fish that proved so delicious in the “Akami Zuké” and pairs it with the brittle nori wrapper that did so well to frame the “Uni” and “Saba.”
On the palate, the crunch of the seaweed leads to a tuna filling that feels a bit too cold (but is otherwise melty). Due to that temperature, the resulting flavor here—even accounting for the rice—feels muted. Ultimately, there’s nothing dramatically wrong with this handroll, but it falls short of the enjoyment that its constituents, properly dressed, should deliver.
Thankfully, the transition toward dessert is heralded by the arrival of a Kyōten classic: one last seen in May (and that only appears, irregularly, when Phan feels like being nostalgic and irreverent in equal parts).
The “Camembert” invokes the chef’s earliest childhood memory of cooking—that is, microwaving cheese over rice. His present take on the recipe sees the starring ingredient torched to a lukewarm, semi-melted consistency. This lends the bite an intriguing balance oozing decadence and cooler, richer texture opposite the rice. A drizzle of soy sauce helps to accentuate the camembert’s finely-woven fruity, earthy, and subtly sweet tones, which strike with tremendous length. Meanwhile, a pour of Macvin du Jura (offered complimentary to the entire counter) backs the cheese with honeyed, almost spicy notes that imbue this playful piece with an added layer of class. Overall, this makes for a thoughtfully executed offering that, even if it harkens back to an earlier era of Phan’s work, should really have a permanent place on the chef’s menu.
Kyōten’s “Tamago” is just that kind of staple, and this egg omelet—interpreted here as more of a custard—has won devotees with its concentration of corn and maple flavor. Tonight, the bite is served on the cooler side and, as a result, misses a bit of intensity. Nonetheless, the tamago’s creamy mouthfeel remains enjoyable, and I certainly welcome its arrival.
Closing out the meal, one finds the “Coconut-Basil Sorbet”—the latest in a long line of composed frozen desserts served at the restaurant (and one that indulges in one of Phan’s favorite flavor combinations).
Whereas the examples of this recipe I sampled in June and July made use of fresh fruit that had been macerated and stewed, the present rendition draws solely on a fruit sauce. Paired with the creamy sorbet (which eats like an ice cream despite the absence of dairy), the tart, moderately sweet notes of strawberry do well to enliven the subtly tropical, herbaceous base flavors. The overall feeling is fresh yet satisfying—a fittingly light way to end a meal that celebrates fat and umami to such an extreme degree.
In reflection, pitting months and months of Kyōten omakases against each other is starting to become a complicated task. The limits of sense memory—even when one is paying an estimable sum for the pleasure of dining here—make contrasting this tuna from that tuna rather difficult. This is not to mention all the supporting fish that already struggle to command attention within their particular menu (let alone after the fact). And how can I forget the one-off items that, however enjoyable, have no chance to cement themselves and are quickly forgotten (until they maybe come around again, in altered form, a year or more later).
At this point, it’s easiest for me to think in terms of broader, classic categories (by which to evaluate longstanding quality) and discrete creative movements (that allow me to think about growth from meal to meal in a seasonal, if not totally comprehensive, sense).
The former process might note that certain Kyōten pillars (like the “Octopus,” “Tuna Handroll,” and “Tamago”) fell short tonight while others (like the “Ōtoro,” “Akami Zuké,” “Uni,” and “Unagi”) justified the concept’s price point. Among these items, one could certainly try to pinpoint the best and worst examples over the past year. However, what matters most is one’s visceral, emotional reaction: either this is the Kyōten I romanticize or the kind, given such high expectations, I hesitate to recommend.
The latter process, even in the face of some slight disappointments, allows me to note that preparations like the “Sungold Tomatoes” and “Aka Ebi” have reached their highest quality to date. The “Wild Alaskan King Salmon,” in turn, might have fallen slightly from where it was before but, refreshingly, still reflected the chef’s desire to experiment with the fish. One must also mention the “Sheepshead” and “Akamutsu Broth”—dishes that both made their successful debuts.
It is only by grappling with these different trains of thought that some understanding of Kyōten and its value proposition can be shaped. On some level, it’s hard to stomach even a small lapse in a dish I know can rise to the level of excellence. At the same time, I must also acknowledge I am evaluating the work of one man, over and over again, that is subject to kind of vagaries of mood and focus that can afflict any human engaged in some perpetual enterprise. (Additionally, one must consider the curveballs that wild-caught fish and variable sourcing naturally entail.)
True to Phan’s philosophy, it’s on the basis of the best tuna, sea urchin, and eel I have tasted in Chicago that the concept—whether for newcomers or regulars—succeeds. In that respect, Kyōten clearly succeeded tonight, and it’s not hard to imagine the “Octopus” or “Tamago” (on a different night) adding to the fun.
Those faltered, but the “Sungold Tomatoes” and “Aka Ebi” stepped in. The “Akamutsu Broth” promised what the chef may build on in the future. The “Saba” and “Camembert” spoke to what has proven so memorable and delicious in the past. The “Coconut-Basil Sorbet” wrapped everything up in a bow.
Along the way, one accepts that bites like the “Sheepshead,” “Madai,” “Kinmedai,” “Wild Alaskan King Salmon,” and even the “Akamutsu” may get a bit lost in the shuffle. It’s no fault of the fish (at least a couple of which were really quite good).
Rather, the middle of the pack—situated between disappointment and delight—struggles, in the long run, to assert itself in one’s memory. And disappointment, when it’s so minor (no errant hairs or overcooking tonight), fades too. It all gets submerged by the dynamism—the fruits of Phan’s need to refine and experiment—meaning that only Kyōten’s peaks of pleasure, when one looks back, are really left standing.
In ranking the evening’s dishes:
I would place the “Ōtoro” (as I did in July) in that “legendary, lifetime status” of fatty tuna I encountered back in February. Once again, if I am being entirely honest, it probably lands a notch beneath that memorable example in terms of flavor intensity. However, the bite remains worthy of being placed in its own highest stratum. I dream of encountering pieces like this again.
The “Aka Ebi,” “Akamutsu Broth,” “Akami Zuké,” “Uni,” “Unagi,” and “Camembert” land in the next category: superlative items that stand among the best things I will be served in any restaurant this year.
Next come the “Sungold Tomatoes,” “Madai,” “Kinmedai,” “Saba,” “Akamutsu,” “Tamago,” and “Coconut-Basil Sorbet”— very good—even great—preparations I would always be happy to sample again (but that just failed to elicit an extra degree of emotion).
Finally, there’s the “Octopus,” “Sheepshead,” “Wild Alaskan King Salmon,” and “Tuna Handroll,”—merely good items that fell a bit short when it came to texture, flavor, or serving temperature. None of these bites faltered in more than one dimension, so there was still pleasure to be had (and, indeed, they could all easily be fixed).
In the final analysis, this makes for a hit-rate of 78% to 100% depending on how harshly one chooses to judge the dishes in the last category. (I might say 89% given that the “Octopus” and “Tuna Handroll,” being familiar offerings, carry higher expectations). However, as always, it is those 39% of items that land in the “best of the year” or higher category that tell the real story—alongside another 39% I would be happy to sample again.
Yes, when Phan hits (and he does so more often than not), he tends to hit big. And even those times that he doesn’t, months and years later, continue to provide the kind of modulation that makes Kyōten worthy of study. With summer ending, I look forward to where the chef goes from here.