Sushisho Masa

The knife after hesitation

The cut lands without hurry at the counter, and Masakatsu Oka, Chef of Sushisho Masa in Tokyo, keeps the next piece close to his hands. In Nishiazabu, below the street level of Minato, his omakase bar works by proximity: the chef, the rice, the fish, the guest, all held inside a narrow field of attention. Oka has led the restaurant for over 15 years, carrying a Sushi Sho lineage that shaped his view of Edomae sushi as research, repetition, and restraint. He has said, “I no longer feared the knife.” The line matters because it names a change in the hand, not a posture for the room. His debt to his teacher remains central to the house. “If I hadn’t met him, this restaurant wouldn’t exist,” Oka has said, and that acknowledgement sits behind the service as plainly as the cutting board. The restaurant’s name, Masa, comes from the chef’s own name, but the work does not lean on personality. It leans on the pass, on timing, on the small decision of which rice belongs with which fish.

Up to 50 pieces in one progression

Sushisho Masa serves omakase as a long sequence rather than a display case translated piece by piece. The counter is known for up to 50 courses across a meal that can run 3-4 hours, moving between nigiri, sashimi, and side dishes in the Sushi Sho manner. Fish may be aged for fragrance and texture; rice can shift between red and white vinegar according to the fish in front of it. Soy sauce enters selectively, not as a single finishing habit, and garnishes can be as pointed as soy-marinated garlic or pepper. The method is most visible in the transitions. Tender octopus follows from preparation rather than softness for its own sake. Uni is served for weight and clean umami. Tuna carries the perfume of curing. Anago, the conger eel for which the house is often singled out, belongs to that same discipline: the piece arrives as part of a line, not as an isolated signature.

A seven-seat room below the street

The room is small enough that the craft has nowhere to hide. Seven seats face the counter, and the meal unfolds at the distance of a hand passing rice to fish. The setting is minimalist, but not severe; the warmth comes from the chef and staff explaining the origin and preparation of dishes without crowding the moment. English is spoken here, which has made the counter more legible to overseas guests while leaving the structure of the meal intact. The sound stays low. Sake follows the fish rather than taking over the table, with a Japanese focus that fits the scale of the room. What remains after the last pass is not a survey of Tokyo sushi, but the memory of one basement counter in Nishiazabu and a final piece of anago.