Aight, so let's get sensational up in here.
Came here for Valentine's day, the wife had booked the table for a $100 deposit, which, considering the circumstances (and that it was taken off the bill), was a decent offer.
We arrived to a bustling, busy, low-lit ambiance that tickled the eyes and heart, little roses on each table, candle-light, and the sushi-chef at the front pass flicking through fish and ice like it was his destiny to attain the ultimate state of sushi-zen enlightenment.
We were seated at a table, a large, comfortable one, at our time of reservation. We were handed the menus, and as I looked down, I damned near screamed in terror.
'$130 per person valentine's day banquet'.
There was no such thing as ordering from a main menu, no such thing as selecting multiple things, but you know what?
God they were so, so, so right.
I grit my teeth, clenched my wallet and nodded as my wife clapped wildly in excitement, selecting a bottle of wine and as my head slammed into the table, I was interrupted in the middle of my prayers by the gentle calamity of a wine bottle to the table.
Lifting my head, a friendly, warm looking gentleman with the smile of Midas himself was presenting a bottle, opening it, and in true awesome style, poured just a tongue-teasing amount to the glass and offered me to taste it before confirming it.
Damn.
It was awesome. Like, Arnold Schwarzenegger shaking your hand while Chuck Norris fly-kicked a flaming Porsche in the background-awesome.
My spirits were lifted as our waiters hunted the pass asking consistently for our table as soon as we were near finished with our dishes.
Okay, so, our first entree was a plate of Sashimi, arranged on ice with edible floral designs. The fish, so damned tender, so soft, so sweet, I literally felt like I was a teenager again, clutching an envelope that was meant for a Valentine.
Once this was done, we were given a delicious, rich, beefy broth soup, and some more fish.
I lost my mind, and over hearing 'TABLE 9 NEEDS THEIR MAINS NOWWW!', (our table), this was an experience so far.
Onto the mains.
I selected the beef, and my wife selected the fish. While we were waiting, we received a small bowl of marinated, flame-grilled asparagus.
Stop me now, son. Stop me now.
That marinade was as sincere as a last confession. The flavour as real as a drop-bear in the middle of the night, and the mystery of the marinade as hardcore as the release date of Half-Life 3.
We polished off the asparagus, and as my last forkful slammed the gift of God into my skull-cave, the mains arrived.
The beef, oh Lord, stop it. The beef glistened even though clearly flame-grilled. The marbling? Son, even the finest artisans of Marrakech would stop and stare.
The fish? Raise a damned glass in honour of this fillet. The fish almost shined against the candle-light with the delicious marinade that was cooked tenderly, and flawlessly.
The server who was with us was so careful in everything, we had never even noticed our plates being picked up, like a ninja on a mission to secure our perfect night.
As we each shared our mains, each bite was a forbidden dive into the real realm of food pleasure.
I can not state any harder: Get in here.
Wagyu ya is a refined, hidden gem that a lot of people know, but won't really tell you to go to.
Why? Why hide such a good thing?
Well, let me ask.
Why hide a diamond?
It's rare.
Why not speak of this place?
Would you give away a secret retreat?
This place is a damned amazement to the senses, and while expensive, it is WORTH IT.
I can only say that this place feels like home.
Really. Home.
Open your wallet, and prepare to open your heart.
This is serious. Like, Nic Cage staring into your soul serious.
Get some. No joke.
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