At Omakase Restaurants, the Chef Decides. That Should Be the Rule Everywhere .
In Japanese, omakase literally translates to “I’ll leave it up to you.” Stateside, the term is most frequently encountered at the bougie, nigiri-oriented sushi restaurants occupying your nearest midsize metropolitan area. When you sit down for an omakase set dinner, don’t expect any of the bastardized maki rolls—bearing the names of, say, Philadelphia, or the dreaded California—that you may typically indulge in; instead, you’ll be paying a flat prix fixe to sample what the chef has determined to be the best catch of the day. If the yellowtail is looking particularly tangy, or the octopus is enticingly plump and vibrant, you can expect both of those cuts to be woven into your omakase banquet. I am far from a sushi expert, but if I’m feeling a little spendy, omakase has become my favorite way to explore the cuisine. It’s like disengaging the emergency brake and rolling smoothly down a hill: Let the sushi chef take the wheel, baby. Let him show you just how delicious a hunk of mackerel can be.
The only downside to omakase is it tends to be pretty expensive, or at least expensive enough to be untenable on a random weeknight. I live in New York City—one of the great sushi cities in the world—and, on the low end, you’ll be spending something like $70 for an omakase set. (That number doesn’t factor in your sake orders, either.) That’s why I am of the belief that we, as a society, need to free the omakase format from the enclaves of rococo sushi bars. Omakase should become standard ordering procedure for every variation of cuisine on the planet—Mexican, Vietnamese, Southern Italian, greasy-spoon diner, sports bar fried fare, yakitori, whatever. At last, we could purge any vestiges of ordering anxiety from our minds and bodies, in all restaurant arenas, without also being on the hook for, say, a $200 wad of uni.
Think about it, man: Instead of walking into your neighborhood taquería and hemming and hawing about whether you should get some piquant tinga or a few spicy links of chorizo, you instead take the omakase route, and trust that the chefs know their ingredients better than the lowly customers. Moments later, your plate is piled high with glistening suadero, looking absolutely delightful nestled on a bed of corn tortillas. We both know that there is no dining experience as unpredictable as the American diner, in the sense that we are frequently at risk of ordering a mildewy, days-old tilapia flank, or a T-bone steak that’s more gristle than beef, while staring down at those coffee-stained laminated menus. Not a problem anymore! I’m telling Bethel that I want the omakase. Give me the very best of what that griddle has to offer! I am one of the least adventurous Indian eaters out there, defaulting, like clockwork, to my usual triptych of korma, vindaloo, and tikka masala. But if I could order omakase, I’m certain that I’d be introduced to mind-blowing biryanis and clay-pot delicacies that completely shatter my parameters. To order omakase is to humble oneself, to embrace a healthy bit of ego death, to become putty in the hands of benevolent forces. I know next to nothing about Thai food. Show me the light, so I may see.
A dining infrastructure with universal omakase would make us all better, more well-rounded eaters, and I’m sure our chefs would be relieved to simply cook what’s good rather than churning out the same uninspired popular dishes over and over again. Can you imagine what it’s like to make a gazillion bog-standard beef phos every week for an audience who has never attempted to savor the magic of the fish ball? I’d lose my mind. Ideally, most of these omakase meals would fall in the $20 to $40 range—which is to say, they won’t be aureate experiences in the way they are for high-end sushi bars—making them a go-to option for millions of Americans who are taking their first intrepid steps into a new-to-them epicurean paradise. If nothing else, we’d finally be able to convince Mom and Dad to join us at that cool new Sichuan joint that opened downtown.
Some restaurants already do this, of course. Every time Restaurant Week comes around, thousands more Americans become acquainted with the phrase prix fixe, and in other countries, set menus or menus of the day are the norm. But it’s about time we adopt this way of dining more widely—and why stop at dining? You could expand this premise further if you want. What if you could get omakase at, like, Target, or better yet, Ikea? The clerks will shuffle over a selection of ergonomic pieces that are perfectly tuned to the vibes and energies of the moment. You pay them their fee, and trust that the Swedish masterminds understand emergent interior design trends than you do. I would gladly do the same at J. Crew. Run my card, and hand me a paper bag filled with stuff that looks good. Tasteful slacks, flirty button-ups, whatever. Please do not make me decide how to dress myself. The omakase at Progressive would make the insurance process a million times speedier, and I have long since given up on ever understanding the nuances of personal protection. Obamacare, as well, is in desperate need of an omakase option. Please never ask me about my “premium tax credit” ever again.
Alas, due to the average American’s obsession with the illusion of choice, it seems unlikely that we will get a fully automated omakase society anytime soon, so in the meantime, I will continue to make agonizing decisions for myself. Decisions like: “How much dental coverage do I reasonably need?” Or: “Should I order the linguine with clam sauce or the spaghetti and meatballs?” But never forget, a better world is possible. A world where every question has the same answer: I’ll leave it up to you.
