On my last night in San Francisco, March 26, 2026, I took the train to the city from my hotel. I was searching in some of the local bookstores for the last two books in the Series of Unfortunate Events that I had yet to re-acquire. After my luck at finding three of the missing books earlier this week, I felt optimistic that I might get lucky again. Sadly though, at neither Dog Ear Books nor Fabulosa books, I had no luck. This was no great disappointment; the thrill is in the chase after all. My focus then turned to picking a restaurant; probably the last decent meal I'd have on the trip. The major streets had all manner of bars and little restaurants but nothing quite seemed like it was calling me. The few times I nearly settled on a place, I talked myself out of it: "oh, they have one of those ordering kiosks", "this place doesn't look full enough", "too heavy of food". I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but I knew what I didn't want. For a while I was unbothered by my indecision (the thrill of the chase, once again). At a certain point I decided I needed to start making my way back to the train station to get back. So I searched online for Japanese and Vietnamese places that would be along the way back. Nothing appeared to stand out but I picked somewhere that was convenient. On my way, I zigzagged through both busy commercial and residential streets. By chance, I was walking on Sanchez Street, just south of 16th. As I happened to look across the street, I was struck with a feeling of recognition. The same sort where you happen to see a close friend when you are out and you didn't expect to see them. I had never been to this place before, but the familiarity was something else; it looked like a quality, authentic, underrated gem. I quickly made my way across the narrow street and was reassured by what I saw. Inside there was a facade to give the appearance of a traditional Japanese building, with the staff working behind it and the customer tables in front. It was a narrow but comfy place. The tables were close together, perhaps 8 in all. Benches lined the lengthwise walls and the just adequately sized tables separated the chairs, which had their backs to the center of the restaurant. And nearly every seat was taken. This was all very encouraging. An old woman greeted me at the front and let me know it would be about a 5 to 15 minutes wait before I could be seated. I thanked her, and went outside, exchanging brief words with the woman standing outside, also waiting for a table. "Have you been to this place before?" I asked. "No I haven't" she replied. "It looks really good" I said. "Yeah but its also closing this weekend". I had also noticed that sign as I walked in. The last day before closing for good would be the next Saturday.
The ambiance, the apparent quality and the fleeting time this restaurant had, cemented in my mind this was where I needed to eat. With my short time before my table was ready, I took a cursory walk, checking some of the other restaurants around the corner to see if this was just one viable option. But in my head I kept reminding myself at how improbable it was that I found that place. I happened to be walking in that neighborhood, on that street, happened to notice the storefront was a tiny bit more distinct than the dozens I had just passed and all the while I managed to find it within days of it closing. There truly was no other choice.
When I got back to the restaurant, the woman I spoke to outside was no longer there, so I dutifully took up her post, leaning against the bike rack that placed me right in view from the front door. I hardly waited 3 minutes before I was waved in. The old woman showed me to my little table in the middle of the right hand wall. The front of the menu had a note at the bottom that read "please do not play video game or video sound". This echoed a sentiment found on the signs coming in to the restaurant asking patrons to not use their laptops or phones while at the table. I think the phone rule was presented with the understanding that you would take some pictures or reply to texts, but you should not be disruptive to the other customers.
I ended up ordering more than I had originally imagined for this night’s dinner. The first page was entirely dedicated to three tofu dishes with a small note in the top left corner describing the style that was served. I requested the ankake tofu. To go with it, I ordered a few pieces of salmon (sake) and tuna (maguro) nigiri, and an order of gyoza. While I was already convinced to get the gyoza, I asked how it was and the woman explain they make it in house.
The tofu arrived first. It was served in a small bowl which, combined with the perfectly smooth and reflective surface of the steaming contents, convinced me that it was a sort of soup. There appeared to be no tofu in it all all. She laid out a small dish with thin slices of green onion and grated ginger, together with a spoon. I was very surprised to find that the bowl had a gelatinous feel when I pierced it with the silverware. The spoon quickly found the soft pure white tofu that was under the dark surface. The soy sauce had a perfectly umami taste which was not overwhelming. Taken with the delicate purity of the tofu though, it was extraordinary. The tofu was softer, silkier and cleaner than any other I had before. I spaced out my excited bites by setting my spoon down and glancing around the small shop. I felt an immense gratitude to have tried it, but also a longing to come back again and again. I felt some sorrow for not having come earlier this week. Or the last time I was in the city. Heck, there are cheap flights to San Francisco, its only a five hour flight, I could have come here every weekend if I wanted! Of course none of that is fair to think; I could have easily missed this place today, so I had next to no hope of finding it at any other time. I closely observed the fake restaurant within the restaurant, with its rice paper and thin wooden cross beams. To me, it seemed that there were small gaps between some of the pieces, dispelling my far fetched idea that it could be made in an authentic kumiko style.
The gyoza and sushi arrived just about when I had finished the tofu. The gyoza seemed to have a distinctly imperfect look to them. They were a bit ragged and some holes had already torn in the delicate wrapper. They all had a slightly rectangular shape to them. And while they had a browned surface, it was not particularly crispy. The flavor was quite good though, definitely better than gyoza that are found in most places.
What I had most anticipated, though, was the sushi. Salmon and tuna are the two types of fish I always judge a sushi restaurant on. How would these taste? Splendid. The salmon had a certain fattiness to it that was marvelous. The tuna was perhaps a little less impressive and was on par with places I have close to my home. These pieces are all served with some wasabi within, which was welcome. The wasabi on the side was smooth and had a great heat. It almost tasted sweet.
I bounced from sushi bite to gyoza, trying hard to commit every morsel and image to memory, knowing it will be the last time I can experience this moment right here. I finished the rest of my food a little quicker than I would have liked, as they were getting close to wrapping up the kitchen.
I let the old woman know the food was delicious and just had to ask "why are you closing?" "We've been here 20 years" She gestured to the kitchen slightly "He's tired"
At that point in the evening, I was too, so I thanked her again, and waved to the other staff as I left. I turned to look at the front one more time and felt great joy at how this spontaneity had been so fruitful.
