"My Omakase is different from Your Omakase"

The meaning of Omakase, exported.

It was a casual conversation with a close foodie friend, who happened to be forcing me to eat conveyor-belt sushi at a Japanese chain restaurant, a place for mass-produced sushi. Somehow, our conversation landed on the global craze for omakase dining experiences.

I arrogantly remarked, “Omakase? It’s available everywhere. I just had omakase yesterday at some small local joint packed with salarymen.”

“Ughhh. My omakase is not your omakase.”

Internationally, omakase has been framed as a gilded fine-dining experience: upscale sushi restaurants, some sparkling with a few Michelin stars; a small space with a chef’s counter; immaculate minimalist interiors; wabi-sabi-style serving ware; no à la carte menu; difficult reservations; premium prices.

My foodie friend clarified: “I mean THAT omakase. These days, omakase restaurants are popping up everywhere: Hong Kong, the US, Paris, Taiwan. I’m sure the omakase restaurants in Japan must be more authentic. I just went to one serving sub-par food but charging a premium because it was branded as ‘omakase.’”

Oh. THAT omakase.

When did omakase become the Birkin bag of Japanese dining?

Exported Omakase: On the Pedestal

Internationally, many people seem to understand the exported word omakase as one very specific style of sushi restaurant.

I have met plenty of visitors who plan their meals in Japan around omakase restaurants on a check-list, making reservations months in advance. Somewhere along the way, omakase has accumulated many of the signals we associate with luxury: the name, the credentials, scarcity, exclusivity, access; and, inevitably, the Instagram moment and the ability to say, I’ve been there.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. The high-end sushi omakase is indeed one form of omakase, and it can be an extraordinary experience.

What fascinates me is how one particular manifestation of the word has become so dominant that it has almost swallowed the word itself.

Omakase has become almost a brand category rather than simply a way of leaving the choice to someone else.

But if you pay attention in Japan, omakase is everywhere, and often in far less glamorous places.

Taking Omakase Off the Pedestal

任せる (makaseru) means to entrust something to someone, or to leave a decision or matter in their hands.

お任せ (omakase) comes from that very ordinary verb.

「お任せします。」

Omakase shimasu.

I’ll leave it to you. You decide. Use your judgment.

The menus of many eateries in Japan have some form of omakase item: a chef’s pick or selection of the day.

Sometimes there is nothing particularly philosophical about it. An omakase item may exist because the cook knows what ingredients are available that day. It can make a tiny restaurant easier to operate. It can allow the cook to serve whatever is freshest or most appropriate. Or perhaps the customer simply doesn’t have the heart to decide what to eat that day.

Omakase does not exist only as an exotic Japanese dining experience. Sometimes it is operational.

Sometimes it is a matter of preference.

Sometimes, it is simply practical.

The essence of omakase is not how many Michelin stars there are, how expensive the menu is, or how difficult it is to reserve your seat. Underneath it is a very ordinary act: letting go of your right to make a particular decision and leaving that decision in someone else’s hands.

Sometimes we do that for convenience.

Sometimes because of expertise.

And sometimes because of trust.

What Omakase Requires: Trust

At a restaurant you have frequented for years, you may know the chef well enough to simply ask for omakase. You trust that you will be presented with something good that day. You don't need to dictate every ingredient or every course. You leave those decisions to the person who knows better.

Trust is a formless relationship, built over time. Not a price tag.

And perhaps this is where omakase becomes more interesting, because the idea is not confined to food at all.

We say omakase shimasu in all sorts of situations when we leave a task or decision to someone else.Sometimes, that decision is what to make.

Omakase Beyond Food

Our relationship with ceramist Tominaga has been built over many years. His work has become deeply familiar to us, not only how it looks, but how it feels in the hand: the proportions he favors, the movement of his glazes, his sensitivity to function, and the quiet aesthetic decisions that make a piece unmistakably his.

Recently, a casual conversation turned to the global matcha boom: the proliferation of matcha cafés overseas, the colorful matcha latte drinks filling social media feeds, and all the new ways matcha is being prepared and consumed.

When potters talk about matcha, naturally the conversation eventually lands on pottery.

We talked about the utensils and serving ware surrounding this new matcha culture, and the enormous market that has emerged alongside it: mass-produced “Japanese” matcha ware, ubiquitous matte bowls, coordinated sets and increasingly standardized aesthetics.

Somewhere in that conversation came the idea of making a katakuchi, a traditional pouring vessel adapted to the way matcha is now being prepared and served outside Japan.

Then came the obvious questions.

What color?

Which glaze?

What form?

What style?

Except, the more we talked about it, the less necessary it seemed for us to provide those answers.

We already knew Tominaga's work. We knew his touch, his sense of proportion, his glazes and his sensitivity to how an object should function. Why prescribe an aesthetic to someone whose aesthetic judgment was precisely the reason we wanted him to make it?

So the conversation eventually arrived at:

お任せします。(omakase shimasu)

There was no need for us to decide the glaze, color, texture or exact form. Those were his decisions to make.

We gave him the context. What came out of the kiln was his answer.

What the Maker Serves

Perhaps this is where the relationship comes surprisingly close to the omakase counter again.

When you sit down for an omakase meal, you don't necessarily know what will be placed in front of you. That is part of what you have entrusted to the chef.

You don't dictate course four, request a particular treatment for course six, specify the serving ware and then ask the chef to execute your plan.

You wait to see what is served.

Our omakase to Tominaga works in much the same way.

We know his work. We know his skill and aesthetic judgment. We provide the context and then give him the freedom to respond.

When the finished katakuchi emerge from the kiln, we encounter his answer.

And then it is the audience’s turn to experience the omakase that has been served.

Perhaps one piece catches your eye and another does not. You look closer. You notice the glaze, the proportion, the texture. You pick it up and feel how it sits in the hand. Something about one particular piece speaks to you.

You may not have gone looking for that exact color or form. Nobody asked you beforehand what it should look like.

The encounter comes first.

There is some serendipity in that relationship, some intuition, and perhaps eventually an appreciation for why the maker chose to make it this way.

Like encountering a work in a gallery, not every piece needs to appeal to everyone. The work did not begin by trying to satisfy everyone.

Sometimes, one simply speaks to you.

And perhaps you become its owner.

My Omakase Is Different From Your Omakase

Years later, I still think about my foodie friend’s dismissive response:

“My omakase is different from your omakase.”

He was right.

His omakase was the coveted seat at a sushi counter, booked months in advance. Mine might have been the lunch special at a tiny neighborhood eatery.

And this time, our omakase happened to be a katakuchi.

These are very different experiences. But underneath them is the same small act: choosing not to make every decision yourself.

Sometimes we do it because it is practical. Sometimes because someone knows better. Sometimes because we respect their expertise.

And sometimes because a relationship has been built long enough that we know when to stop specifying and simply say:

お任せします。Omakase shimasu.

His omakase came across a sushi counter.

Ours came out of a kiln.