I could talk for days about food, but go on, ask me about sushi – you might as well try talking to an owl. It’s not that I have anything against it, it’s just I’ve never understood people who prattle on about it as if it were some heaven’s gate spiritual experience. Take Sakana for instance. I rate their branch on Moliera as the best sushi in the city, but you’re not going to find me there anything in excess of one night a year. Why? It’s not so good that I want to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with reality TV rejects.
I figured the same misgivings would apply to Wabu, and to an extent I was correct. On entering I find two tattooed galoots yakking about the DJ set they played at the weekend. Opposite them, sit a pack of Hollywood Wives that are all glinting diamonds and plastic tits. Save me, I weep. Biting my lip I take a seat at the pearl white bar and ready myself for the most hideous hour of my life. But it doesn’t happen. What ensues is one of the most spectacular dining experiences I can remember.
The food is a masterpiece: immaculate futomaki rolls that look like little artworks, exquisite butterfish and glorious tuna gunkan that dazzles through its freshness. The chefs in front move at the speed of light to keep up with my manic ordering. For the first time ever in a sushi bar I’ve gone utterly bonkers. I’m ordering everything and anything and loving it all. Screw the chopsticks, food this good finds itself scooped up in the fingers and demolished in seconds.
And here’s a confession. The truth is I get so carried away that I’m not really sure what else I’ve had: it’s a blur of beautiful compositions, of silky slithers of fish crowned with expert pinches of this, and little brush strokes of that. The details don’t seem to matter, what does is that when I finally spill outside – my wallet trembling in my trousers – I want to approach strangers and scream with joy. It’s been fantastic. (AW)
ul. Krucza 41/43, wabu.pl