Wakaba

Federico found Wakaba the way he finds most things, by walking past it. He went in expecting another all-you-can-eat and found a counter run by a man who buys his own fish at the market every morning. It became the spot: cheap enough for a broke DJ, good enough to bring the whole music crowd. He calls it the HQ. We came on a packed weeknight, which is the only kind Wakaba has. We started with the potato salad, the Japanese kind, Kewpie-creamy and cold, no cucumber. In the Milan heat it read like relief more than a side. Then the chicken skin skewers, the part most kitchens throw out. Federico told me to dust them with the red powder that lands on everything at an Asian grill. I did, and it worked: crisp where you brace for chew. Streetfood, done like it mattered. It was the plate I didn't see coming. Federico ordered the omakase and let the counter decide: ten nigiri, four maki, the fish clean and cut without ceremony. Two gunkan followed. The tuna belly one collapsed on the tongue, gone before I could chew it. The tobiko beside it crunched and pushed back, saltier, closer to the sea. I liked both, for opposite reasons. The miso soup between them did the quiet work miso does, nothing more. Tigre made us try the wasabi, the real grated kind, and it climbed behind my eyes until they watered. First time in months. The room is small and full, sake and wine bottles ranked along the wall, two chefs behind the counter moving like they have done this a thousand times, which they have. One of them owns the place and still shapes the sushi himself. Cheaper than the high-end rooms. Not cheap, either. Service is Tigre. When the mosquitoes got bad, she came around with repellent for the table before anyone asked. She decides when you have had enough beer, and she brought the sake to close without being asked.