Sakamoto

Ryuta Sakamoto at the counter

Dashi sets the pace before the first cut. Ryuta Sakamoto, chef at Sakamoto in Higashiyama-ku (Gion), Kyoto, Japan, works from the counter in a kappo register, close enough for the guest to see the knife, the broth, and the order in which each course comes together. He joined Sakamoto in 2002, carrying a family line that runs through his parents and Yoshiko, the daughter of a previous owner-chef. The house also places him at Kappo Sakamoto as second-generation chef-owner, a role that keeps the counter central rather than theatrical. He is the English-speaking chef here, which matters less as hospitality polish than as bench-side translation: ingredients, tools, and preparations can be named as they pass from hand to plate. The Michelin Guide awarded One Michelin Star to Sakamoto in Kyoto, Japan, for authentic Kyoto cuisine. That recognition belongs to this address, and to a way of cooking that stays dashi-forward, seasonal, and more relaxed than formal kaiseki.

Dashi, yuba, and the made-to-order rhythm

The method at Sakamoto is built on seasonal Kyoto cooking rather than a fixed display of technique. Guests sit into an omakase progression, sometimes described across 13 small courses, and Sakamoto adjusts the meal to what the day gives him: tofu skin in clear broth, homemade tofu, sashimi cut for texture, river fish treated through nimono simmering, sweet roots, crisp greens, in-house pickles, Kobe beef, or duck when the menu turns that way. The broth is not decoration. Kombu, soy, and reduction carry the sweetness of fish or vegetables without pushing them out of register. Yuba may arrive warm in a small stove-like vessel, the kind of serving choice that keeps heat and attention at the counter rather than sending the dish out as a finished object. Persimmon closes some meals with the same seasonal directness. The beverage program stays sake-focused, with nihonshu and shochu chosen to sit beside umami, texture, and restraint.

The room beside the Shirakawa

The room is small enough for the counter to feel like the working surface of the restaurant. Warm wood, quiet light, and the open kitchen keep the attention on Sakamoto’s hands rather than on ceremony. Outside, the Shirakawa River passes through Gion; inside, the meal moves by exchange, with the chef cooking from scratch in front of the guest and the next course forming in view. The setting is intimate, but not hushed into distance. Kappo depends on that nearness. The diner sees the cut, the simmer, the lift from broth, the pause before a plate leaves the pass. In a district often read through stone paths and inherited forms, Sakamoto keeps the craft at counter height, course by course, with yuba, dashi, and persimmon doing the speaking.