Another month, another visit to Chicago’s idiosyncratic temple of omakase: a place of contradictions (the decrepit storefront that hides a luxurious counter inside, the pricey meal that forbids adding gratuity, the affordable pairing that belies one of the city’s most thoughtful selections of wine, the cheeky chef who lives for his craft) but enduring quality.
Indeed, as pricing at Chicago’s two- and three-Michelin-starred spots continues to creep upward, I might contend that Kyōten’s value proposition—holding steady at $440-$490 per person (depending on the day of the week)—has sharpened. Of course, this only holds true for consumers with a taste for sushi (who, additionally, are willing to trade away some of the window dressing, special effects, and synchronization that characterize the “occasion” of traditional fine dining). Yet Otto Phan has always been a chef of extremes, and I think he continues to prize pushing texture, flavor, intimacy, and authenticity (of self-expression) to the limit even if it costs him in accolades.
I continue to cover this restaurant not only due to my own enjoyment of the food but, also, what I feel is a responsibility to provide the public with a peek behind this gilded curtain. Not every reader will necessarily be induced to take the leap of faith that plunking down this sum, without the sanction certain honors provide, demands. However, I hope each piece gives some idea of the dynamism and peaks of pleasure that make Kyōten, even in comparison to the dining scene’s most hallowed names, a singular experience.
Let us begin.
I’m running a few minutes behind when I arrive on Armitage Avenue tonight, so it’s a quick step through the perpetually papered-up door, then into the lobby, followed by a greeting from Jose Tejada, and a warm ushering toward my seat. The other diners are already here, and I make sure to apologize. However, truth be told, latecomers benefit from 15 or 20 minutes of grace time on any given night.
There’s only one seating, after all, and Phan’s habitually leaves a bit of his prep work for after patrons’ arrival. This provides the chef with a chance to casually greet and get to know his customers—perhaps helping them to select a bottle of wine—without the sense of pressure that just standing there, watching the clock, might suggest. If life’s tribulations cause someone to get here even later (or, lamentably, cancel altogether), Phan responds with good humor. This is the benefit of a chef-proprietor run establishment (unregimented, always responsive to clients’ needs), one that shines on occasions when other tasting menus, bound by strict “showtimes,” would abbreviate the menu or penalize emergency no-shows by charing full price.
Tonight, the other patrons include a group of brewers from Indiana. One member of the party brings along a bottle of Jacques Selosse Rosé (as good a choice as I can think of), but they otherwise opt for the beverage pairing. Throughout the meal, they demonstrate a wonderful degree of engagement: asking Phan plenty of questions about his personal history, the sourcing of ingredients, and the practice of his craft. The chef, in turn, remarks that he loves being in the Midwest because he “gets to introduce new things to people.”
Tonight, the meal begins in a uniquely convincing fashion courtesy of the “Buri Kama.” These two thick slices of aged wild yellowtail collar come coated in a green onion ponzu. On the palate, they display a fleeting firmness—the kind of weight one associates with animal protein—but quickly yield to bursting ribbons of fat. The resulting interplay of richness and chew is enlivened by the sweet tang of the sauce, helping (along with a savory kiss of allium) to express the collar’s depth of umami. Though a touch of astringency dampens the pleasure, this a great start.
The ”Octopus” that arrives next is a Kyōten classic. Sourced from Japan, the cephalopod is subject to a regime of massaging and boiling that yields a reliably degree of tenderness. (Phan gleefully explains the process once guests inevitably ask how he’s attained such a pleasing texture.) Avocado, dressed with ponzu, forms a coating for the resulting chunks of meat: lending the octopus an extra feeling of richness (and a mild buttery note free of too much tang) as it all but melts on the palate. On this occasion, I do sense a faint degree of crispness at one end of one tentacle (serving to somewhat spoil the effect). However, this subtle, caressing dish remains a welcome presence at this early stage of the menu.
“Lobster” did not appear during my meals in February or March, yet the shellfish makes a grand entrance here. Phan explains that he favors sourcing the ingredient from Maine because he prizes its more “bisque-like”—as opposed to the “shrimp-like” Japanese variety—character. For this dish, the chef very lightly breads then fries segments of the creature’s tail. He dresses the resulting morsels in a sauce made from the leftover shells and tops the whole thing with a pile of finely chopped chives.
On the palate, the pieces of lobster display a slight crunch on entry but are otherwise plump and tender. Their resulting flavor, backed by that reduction of their crustaceous essence and a mild dose of allium, is deeply savory with a rounded sweetness. The finish, which I am compelled to count out in my head, goes on for more than 30 seconds! Simply put, this is excellent.
“Ankimo” (or monkfish liver) did, on the other hand, feature as part of both my previous meals. This dish, in Phan’s hands, is pretty much a sure thing: that “foie gras of the sea” set piece that is sure to shock newcomers (either to the restaurant or to the ingredient altogether) with its smoothness and sweetness. Tonight, the chef coats the liver with the usual ginger sauce (made with mirin and sake) and tops it with the buckwheat that featured in March.
On the palate, the ankimo displays the clean, melty consistency I have come to love. The ginger sauce, in turn, delivers all the lip-smacking tang and concentration needed to carry such a rich ingredient. The buckwheat, with its roasted, earthy character, continues to form a fitting complement. However, some pieces of the seed are just a little too brittle and jarring in this instance, detracting somewhat from the dish’s textural pleasure. Still, this is a small gripe, and the liver—on the basis of its own mouthfeel and the flavorful sauce—still succeeds overall.
The ”Hotaru Ika” (or firefly squid) formed, alongside a serving of “Kue,” the opener of my meal in March. I must admit that I prefer seeing the “Buri Kama” substitute for the latter longtooth grouper (long favored by Phan and a bit firmer in texture). I also think the “Hotaru Ika,” though perhaps still not my favorite, makes more sense at this later stage. Here, the chef continues to pair the seasonal squid with a caper relish—driving the cephalopod, whose own flavor is likened to anchovy, toward a kind of “Caesar salad” sensation.
On the palate, the hotaru ika feels warm, plump, and tender. Nonetheless, when its head bursts, the tang and brine of the capers tends more toward an earthy, “brainy” sensation that is reminiscent of mussels tinged with a murky, deep-sea quality. For my palate, this note obscures all the salt and umami I would otherwise really enjoy. However, I will admit that the squid tastes more appealing on the finish than at first blush (and that others at the counter, in general, seemed to enjoy this more than me). If anything, I can appreciate that this pungent dish is now situated on the back of a few other, stronger flavors rather than forming one of the evening’s first impressions.
The final course in the run-up to nigiri comprises something totally new. “Wagyu,” especially during the restaurant’s early days, has been known to feature at Kyōten. Yet Phan has never sourced this kind before: a “mother cow,” vaca vieja-style beef from older Japanese cattle that have given birth. The chef serves four generous slices of the resulting steak, which he has pan-seared, with nothing more than its own jus.
The result is a bite of meat possessing less marbling and more chew than what one might associate with “wagyu.” Yet, in exchange, one is struck by a profound degree of beefiness that proves the old “fat is flavor” adage wrong. Indeed, though the slightest touch of salt could make this savory quality even more explosive, I actually like seeing this cut served unadorned. In this form, the steak speaks clearly to sourcing and to Phan’s persistent effort to challenge traditional hierarchies in pursuit of greater pleasure. In sum, this was an unexpected highlight.
Moving from beef to tuna will always represent a bold move, but the chef does not err by placing his headlining bites of nigiri in close proximity to the flavorful wagyu. Instead, Phan’s “Chū-toro” displays exactly the kind of stratospheric heights that cuts of the fish’s belly (wild-caught in Boston but sourced via Japanese auction), married with vinegar and Kyōten’s signature oversized rice, can achieve.
Tonight, the chef notes that the medium-fatty tuna has been prepared in the hagashi style, signifying that all the sinew surrounding the flesh (sourced from a particularly fatty part of belly) has been painstakingly removed. This results in a bite boasting cube-like ridges of immaculate, oh-so-finely marbled flesh: ones that seem to liquify after the slightest bit of force from one’s teeth. The resulting confluence of fat and rice is invigorated by a jolt of wasabi. It charges toward the point of excess but backs off at just the right moment, unveiling hints of soy and vinegar that frame a titanic expression of umami that grips the palate for more than 30 seconds on the finish. While not quite “once-in-a-lifetime” quality, this piece comes close. It immediately ranks as one of the top dishes—of any kind—I have tasted this year.
The cut of “Ōtoro” that follows is no slouch either. Of course, in theory, this even fattier cut of the tuna’s belly should automatically yield a better end product. However, in practice (as with the aforementioned wagyu), the realities of texture/flavor balance and personal preference are more complicated.
Visually, this piece is characterized by long, horizontal scoring that helps to break up thicker (than those seen in the preceding bite) streaks of fat that frame smaller cells of marbled flesh. On the palate, the ōtoro proves every bit as smooth and ephemeral as its medium-fatty compatriot. In fact, considering the different knifework applied to each slice (smaller cubes vs. longer ribbons), the way this wider tapestry of tuna melts may be even more impressive. Indeed, whereas the “Chū-toro” was all about power, this “Ōtoro” is the picture of elegance: less bursting wasabi, less mouth-tingling umami, but a more refined expression of the belly that many diners might very well prefer. For me, it ranks just a hair behind what came before.
Phan’s “Akami” (or lean tuna) is right there in the running as well. It’s probably sacrilegious to say so (when considering how prized and expensive those toro cuts are). However, the chef says he aims for a certain irony quality—“like steak”—with this piece, and I think his desire, here, to push flavor to an extreme comes off quite successfully.
Visually, the piece’s relative darkness, paucity of marbling, and simpler manner of scoring is immediately evident. However, its mouthfeel remains smooth—if characterized more by fleeting resistance than total disintegration—and offers a pleasing weight. Again, the expression of wasabi here is not as extreme as that found in the “Chū-toro.” I do not sense the soy or vinegar too clearly either. Rather, the akami offers a cohesive, deeply tuna-tasting bite with a well-judged irony quality that achieves a sense of meatiness without veering toward excess. Yes, the finish here is quite nice, making for a rousing end to this headlining sequence.
I was excited to sample the Phan’s take on “Yari-Ika” (or spear squid) back in March, and, while its texture was quite pleasing, the seasoning (namely, a bit too much tartness) detracted from what would’ve otherwise been one of my favorite pieces. On this occasion, I am happy to report that the bite has been brought into balance.
When presenting the yari-ika, the chef promises his audience that it is “not going to be chewy.” Indeed, courtesy of fine scoring, the squid is remarkably tender and seamless in its mouthfeel—displaying just enough of its expected firmness to tickle one’s tongue. Dressed with nori (i.e., dried seaweed) and lemon zest as it was last time, the cephalopod now strikes with a pristine sweetness (unspoiled by any jagged acidity) that joins with a drizzle of soy to form a lip-smacking, savory finish. Even on the back of that trio of tuna, this ika really impresses. It lives up to every cherished memory I have made (across omakases) that has transformed squid into one of my most welcome sights.
The sudden arrival of the “Uni” (a course ahead of where it usually appears) lends this menu a particular sense of luxury. It seems like all the most totemic ingredients are arriving, one after another, without any filler. In reality, this meal just happens to be weighted more toward heavier than lighter fish. Nonetheless, it’s a treat to encounter the sea urchin—coming in the same wet-packed, preservative-free ensui style seen back in February—while my palate feels particularly fresh.
Visually, this uni is a picture of perfection: a solitary lobe, with unblemished papillae, hanging temptingly over its nori wrapper. Texturally, too, the sea urchin is as soft and creamy as can be. Its flavor is totally pure—free of the metallic undertones (sometimes creeping toward excess) that can make or break this bite. Tonight, I might even say the uni is too clean: that is, too subtle in its bewitching sweetness because it lacks even a trace of that contrasting funk. Still, those who are particularly sensitive to those metallic notes will love this characteristic, and any encounter with sea urchin of this quality (even if I have my own preference) remains worthy of admiration.
I haven’t seen “Sayori” (also known as Japanese halfbeak) served at Kyōten in quite some time, and the piece, when it arrives, is hard to miss. Its ridges of off-white flesh—laced with strips of silver skin and burnished with soy sauce—seem to glimmer. Underneath the fish, a thicket of chives cascades over the surface of the rice, promising an added burst of flavor.
Despite forming one of the lesser-known bites of the night (at least for a mainstream audience that has just devoured tuna, squid, and sea urchin), the sayori represents an unexpected highlight. On the palate, the halfbeak’s texture is firm, plump, and pleasing. Its resulting flavor—sometimes described as “strong” or “fishy”—is fairly clean and mild. This is where the chive comes in: imbuing the piece with a refined note of allium that, in combination with the soy, emphasizes a subtle sweet quality in the fish. The finish, when all is said and done, is fairly understated. However, both the mouthfeel and seasoning here show real finesse.
Though mackerel like “Saba” and “Sawara” featured during my meals in February and March, “Aji” (the so-called “horse mackerel” that’s actually a kind of jack) appears on the menu tonight. It’s an ingredient with some degree of name recognition that one also sees quite regularly at sushi restaurants of all stripes. This means Phan has his work cut out for him: delivering a bite that transcends whatever guests think they know about the fish.
Visually, this piece more than fits the bill. It comprises larger, somewhat irregular segments of reddish flesh (split down the middle) with an encompassing covering of silvery flesh. On the palate, the unique dimensions of the slice make for a decidedly textural bite that feels rich and oily on entry. The flesh, nonetheless, goes down easily, leaving a flavor that is largely mild but a little sharp and almost spicy on the finish. While there’s nothing decidedly bad about this aji, I did not find enough intensity of flavor (relative to the pronounced mouthfeel) to feel much pleasure. Thus, it ranks alongside the “Hotaru Ika” as one of the menu’s more interesting, intellectual offerings tonight.
Diners (especially first-timers) love to ask Phan which of the pieces served is his favorite. The chef, in turn, usually likens the question to picking a favorite child (that is to say, an impossible task). However, he will then gleefully admit his preference for the “Iwashi” (or sardine): noting the degree of fattiness (likened to toro) that this humble fish can attain. The bite usually ranks near the middle of the pack for my own personal taste, but I appreciate the fact that a relative dark horse is even such high status. Certainly, it prompts guests to think twice about omakase’s conventional hierarchy.
Visually, the iwashi possesses an attractive, ruffled pattern of scoring with bits of chive sprinkled over the surface (being particularly concentrated within the grains of rice). On the palate, the sardine does indeed display a remarkable degree of softness that nearly matches the melty quality of the earlier tuna. However, it retains a bit more presence on the tongue, one that is also conveyed—in terms of flavor—via smoky, moderately fishy depth. Though the allium (and any pleasing sweetness) fades more into the background here than it did as part of other pieces, this bite keeps its boldness in check and remains fairly approachable. Still, for me, it falls short of the evening’s best offerings.
The next item represents something totally novel for me at Kyōten. I do not speak of the “Kawahagi” (a kind of filefish) itself, but of a serving method that sees the ingredient (accompanied, as is often the case, by a sauce made from its liver) mixed into a ball of rice with bits of chive and sesame ang longer strips of seaweed. Phan, in his inimitable fashion, invites guests to pick up the bite and shove it into their mouths.
Doing so, one is met by a surprisingly cool, rich, and creamy sensation that marries the offal’s savory concentration with the filefish’s own milder, subtly chewy character. The chive, on this occasion, does well to emphasize an enjoyable dimension of sweetness. However, there’s also a trace of bitterness at hand (perhaps also stemming from the allium) that detracts somewhat from this pleasure. Overall, I do think the kawahagi is successfully (if not totally convincingly) rendered here—particularly when it comes to texture. I am also a fan of this deconstructed rice/seaweed form and would like to see it used more often. However, on this occasion, the dish’s flavor did not go beyond basic palatability to achieve the kind of memorable expression I might expect.
The last fish on offer tonight is a longstanding favorite: the “Akamutsu” (or blackthroat seaperch) that featured in February and is often touted by Phan as one of his most luxurious pieces. Back then, I found the bite to merely be “good.” However, on this occasion (paired with lemon), I think the ingredient does more to live up to its status.
Visually, this cut of akamutsu displays less crisped skin and more of a chunkier, gridded pattern of scoring than the prior example. As a consequence, the seaperch feels buttery, rich, and completely seamless when it hits the tongue. There, the oozing fat marries well with the tang of the citrus. This steers the mild flesh toward a sweeter expression, one—compared to the fishier and more livery bites that preceded this piece—that is far more pristine. Still, the akamutsu’s weight does well to anchor this late stage of the meal without overwhelming one’s palate. This proves important once diners see what comes next.
As it happens, “last piece of fish” does not necessarily mean “last piece of nigiri.” Tonight, Phan decides to bring one of his signature Kyōten “1.0” creations out of retirement: a bite of total irreverence that, touchingly, references the earliest culinary moment in the chef’s life. He speaks of melting Kraft Singles over rice in the microwave as a child and, with the “Camembert,” looks to capture (while also enhancing) the same sense of wonder.
The resulting expression of cheese is beautifully gooey and rich, melting into the rice (as so many of the fish seemed to do) but also lasting longer and yielding more satisfaction. In terms of flavor, the piece is neither too sweet nor too savory. Rather, the accompanying brush of soy sauce is carefully measured so that the funky, earthy character of the Camembert takes center stage. As the finish builds, guests are invited to take a swig of an accompanying pour of Tokaji. When they do, the expression of cheese explodes with kaleidoscopic depth.
At the end of the day, this bite is really not the gimmick it seems to be. Yes, though the recipe conceives of the nigiri form somewhat playfully, it also treats the starring ingredient as thoughtfully and worshipfully as all others featured throughout the meal. This results in a closing expression of the chef’s philosophy that feels totally faithful: a bit wacky on the surface but surprisingly sincere and unquestionably, uniquely decadent.
Dessert, tonight, proceeds in a familiar fashion. The “Tamago” feels cool on the palate—but not to the same extent (which seemed to slightly mute its flavor) as back in March. Thus, the custardy bite of egg delivers all the concentrated corn and maple sweetness that has made it a perennial favorite among diners old and new alike.
Arriving last, the “Vanilla Ice Cream with Kirschwasser” looks to repeat the success this complex composition had when debuting during the previous meal. Here, the supporting touches of stewed blueberries and shaved chocolate remain the same. This time, Phan admits he poured the Schwarzwälder Kirschwasser brandy with a heavier hand. However, the result remains the same: impeccably smooth vanilla ice cream backed by layers of cherry and almond that find, in the blueberry and chocolate, a beautiful balance of tangy, sweet, nutty, and cocoa notes. Considering how many omakases see guests off with something simple or subpar, this dessert stands as a real accomplishment from the chef!
When comparing this experience to the ones from February and March, one must note the exit of ingredients like “Kue,” “Crab” (both king and snow), “Hokkaido Scallop,” “Buri,” and “Kinmedai” that were common to both meals. One must also acknowledge that a whole host of bites that were unique to one or the other menu—“Fugu Shirako,” “Saba,” “Anago,” “Amadai,” “Royal Red Shrimp,” “Sawara,” “Kohada,” “Amadai with Caviar,” the “Fatty Tuna Handroll”—disappeared too.
In their place, I found new pieces like the “Buri Kama,” “Octopus,” “Maine Lobster,” “Sayori,” “Aji,” “Kawahagi,” and “Camembert.” Yes, these were products of seasonality: the ebb and flow of what Phan gets from his “fish guy” on any given week. But they also reflected the chef’s desire to play around with old, nostalgic favorites and entirely new forms rather than just swapping, slice for slice, what gets formed onto the rice.
These novel offerings joined dishes like the “Ankimo,” “Chū-toro,” “Ōtoro,” “Akami,” “Uni,” “Iwashi,” and “Tamago” that have proven to be fixtures across all three meals. They also joined items like the “Hotaru Ika,” “Wagyu,” “Yari Ika,” and “Vanilla Ice Cream with Kirschwasser” that were carried over from March and the “Akamutsu,” which had not featured since February.
Broken down in this manner, one can say that Kyōten’s menu (as demonstrated by this meal) is composed of 37% staple offerings (your tuna, uni, and tamago along with a couple unique signatures), 26% core offerings (items that frequently, if not always, appear depending on season or chef’s inclination), and 37% new offerings (whether utilizing a novel ingredient or simply preparing it in a distinct manner).
Arguably, the “Octopus” and “Camembert” could be moved from the third category to the second one (being that they stand among Phan’s all-time classics). The “Vanilla Ice Cream with Kirschwasser,” for what it’s worth, may also be a “staple” in the making. Classifying Kyōten’s dishes in this manner will always be imperfect, and it will certainly demand more time and observation.
However, I think it is fair to say that around 60% to 75% of Phan’s bites on any given night are the product of repetition and refinement rather than wanton experimentation. Of these, the staple offerings are like crown jewels: the “home runs” (through which many omakases compete with each other) meant to immediately, convincingly satisfy the high ticket price. By comparison, the core offerings may undergo more tinkering from visit to visit, but tonight made clear just how quickly the “Akamutsu” (served in February), the “Wagyu,” and the “Yari Ika” (the latter two served in March) went from merely “good” to truly great.
Framed another way, only around 40% to 25% of the chef’s bites on any given night are novel, emerging, or still in the very first steps of being perfected. This accords with Phan’s philosophy of “always having his strongest players [i.e., pieces] on the field.” Yet, for repeat diners, this is still a healthy amount of experimentation that helps to engage the mind and grow the palate even as one waits for the arrival of the meal’s headliners. Hell, items like the “Buri Kama,” “Maine Lobster,” and “Sayori” actually shone quite brightly tonight despite appearing for the first time (in this exact form and/or in many months).
Ultimately, it’s right to think of sushi chefs as working within a kind of canon: the range of techniques and harmonizing ingredients they use to approach the movements of the season and the vagaries of each individual fish. At Kyōten, Phan knows what he values (textural finesse married to a striking concentration of flavor) and ensures that the pieces most clearly expressing this style always have a place on the menu. Importantly, he also adapts them as necessary: not working by rote but always conscious of how the bullseye, from moment to moment, moves.
These bites form the guarantee through which the chef rewards customers who take the leap of faith and join him. Nonetheless, they also form a foundation on which he can further challenge himself—and guests—in a way that grows his own craft and may even someday yield entirely new signature creations.
This push-pull (with the balance carefully weighted toward reliably enjoyable bites) has long distinguished Kyōten from the other omakases in Chicago. It has situated Phan’s work somewhere between the paths forged by Smyth (a singular, dynamic style) and Oriole (a broader, hedonistic approach) and also placed it in conversation with restaurants like Cellar Door Provisions, Elske, and Feld that take big risks while relying on certain classic dishes.
Truth be told, I’ve said this all before. I only reiterate it here as a means of reflection after writing this third piece on Kyōten in 2025. Nonetheless, in continuing to cover the chef’s work within this shorter format, I think that tracking the introduction of new dishes and retention of old ones will be a worthwhile avenue to pursue.
To tie a bow around this meal, I will rank the dishes.
While no bite has yet measured up to the “once-in-a-lifetime” level “Ōtoro” from February, the “Lobster,” “Chū-toro,” “Ōtoro,” “Akami,” “Camembert,” “Tamago,” and “Vanilla Ice Cream with Kirschwasser” served tonight all land just below it: superlative items that stand among the best things I will be served in any restaurant this year.
I would place the “Buri Kama,” “Ankimo,” “Wagyu,” “Yari Ika,” “Uni,” “Sayori,” and “Akamutsu” in the next category: very good—even great—bites I would always be happy to sample again (but that just failed to elicit an extra degree of emotion).
Finally, I would place the “Octopus,” “Hotaru Ika,” “Aji,” “Iwashi,” and “Kawahagi” at the bottom: merely good items that land more on the side of intellectual appeal than sheer enjoyment (or, otherwise, do not quite rise to the level of being memorable).
Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of 74% to 100% (depending on how harshly one chooses to judge those “merely good” dishes), with 37% of bites being “best of the year” caliber. This is down slightly from the 41% figure I calculated in March; however, only 26% of items fell in the bottom category on this occasion (compared to 36% last time).
In the final analysis, I would say that this meal was pretty comparable to the last one: a quintessence of the Kyōten experience, without any clear flaws, and with more than a few servings that testify to the pinnacle of craft Phan occupies within this genre and this city.
This is the kind of meal that makes me feel secure in recommending the restaurant, despite its price tag, to anyone who understands the tradeoffs (compared to conventional fine dining) and craves an extreme expression of omakase. I might even characterize it as an extreme expression of hospitality, of wine, and of texture and flavor more generally.
And I know that Phan, on certain magical nights, can set the bar even higher. And it’s a feeling I continue to chase, just as the chef does, even if I am wholly satisfied with the standard he has already attained.