I once found a Japanese restaurant so good, I hugged it to myself like a comfort blanket. It was so tiny, with just a handful of seats, that the question was: write about it or keep shtum? While I agonised, my more intrepid colleague over at the Observer swooped in, declared it a masterwork and thus Sushi Tetsu was booked solid for evermore.
Cross? I was furious. Still am. It’s impossible to get a seat. I try, though: scouring their Twitter feed for a waif-and-stray empty seat, happy to sit on my own for Toru Takahashi’s lusted-after sushi. But my dialling finger is never fast enough. Meanwhile, I’m on the constant lookout for a replacement: I’ve liked Yuzu in Manchester, Dinings in Marylebone (another ex-Nobu itamae), the glittery oddness of Yashin Ocean House, the functional surroundings but pristine fish at Atari-Ya. I thought I’d nailed it with Sushi of Shiori, but it morphed into an almost-kaiseki outfit and then disappeared. Nothing has stirred my senses like Tetsu.
Still, I keep the faith. And I keep Googling. During one session, typing the words “Takahashi ex-Nobu” threw out something unexpected: another Takahashi-san, another ex-Nobu chef, this one in south Wimbledon. What even is south Wimbledon? Could it be worth the trip to the Betjeman-ish suburbs? Could I dare hope?
You’ll know already from the blunt-instrument stars on this review that this sunny, plain little room on an undistinguished parade near the tube station (from our window seat, the view is less passeggiata and more Little Britain) is more than worth the trip. As is often the way with serious Japanese restaurants, there’s little to distract from the food. The only decoration comes from blond-wood furniture and exquisite glazed crockery. In his kitchen at the far end is Nobuhisa Takahashi (“Taka”), out front his wife Yuko. That’s it.
So we eat, a lot – and everything is good. Very, very good. On the arrival of wagyu nigiri – two bias-cut leaves of meat over perfect, just-vinegared, just-sticky-enough rice – the pal, who’s had more hot dinners than even I’ve had hot dinners, says with amazement, “This might be the nicest thing I’ve ever eaten.” Real Japanese beef is harder to find than the many menus offering wagyu burgers would suggest, but this is imported joshu, a thing of evanescent, hectically marbled wonderment. It’s as if your tongue is being gently massaged by a ravishing, meaty chamois. Katsuo tataki (lightly blowtorched sashimi) brings bonito, which when dried and fermented becomes katsuobushi, the source of this cuisine’s base-note. But here it is fresh, rich, buttery, almost juicy, with the sting of minced red onion and filaments of Korean chilli for the subtlest heat.
We ask for a selection and get more nigiri of absolute luxury – snow crab, a caress from a sea god. And rarities, too – kinmedai nigiri, a new one on me, the gloriously named splendid alfonsino fish. No idea. But luscious. Shimaaji – I thought this was some kind of mackerel, but turns out it’s trevally, I think – is meaty, but delicate and elegant. And always that perfect rice. There are maki rolls, too, spicy tuna and hamachi negi (yellowtail with spring onion); I’m less dazzled by these, but they’re still mighty fine.
Unlike his more purist namesake in Clerkenwell, Takahashi is happy to fish from his Nobu roots, retaining the better elements – a version of that famous black cod; South American touches with ceviches and salsas – while ditching the less attractive (basically everything about Nobu other than the food). There is fatty, melting pork belly with a roast aubergine and miso dressing on top and a smoky slab of the vegetable beneath. We love scallop wrapped in shredded-filo kataifi and served with citrussy mayo and tonburi, a seed also known as mountain caviar. It doesn’t add much other than visual drama and texture, but I love the whimsy of it. Service is incredibly sweet: I drop the wakamomo (baby peach, a crunchy green thing you mistake for an olive, but deliciously isn’t) from my cocktail and another appears seconds later.
Takahashi is not cheap. Of course it’s not: I’m sorry if I’m breaking it to you, but cheap sushi ≠ great sushi. And this is great sushi. I’ve probably ruined it for everyone now. You have my sincerest apologies. If it’s any consolation, I’ve probably ruined it for myself, too.
• Takahashi 228 Merton Road, London SW19, 020-8540 3041. Open Weds-Fri 6-10pm (10.30pm Fri), Sat noon-2.30pm and 6-10.30pm, Sunday noon-9pm. Set menus £19.50-35, tasting menu £38 or £75, all plus drinks and service.
Food 9/10
Atmosphere 7/10
Value for money 8/10
- This article was amended on 11 June 2016 to correct a name. It is Yuko, not Yuki.
