The bar is importantly located and scaled. Wine selections are cosmopolitan, adequate and cheap. Domestic and imported beers abound. Surrounded by strangers, seated in a row, one's attention is lost to the antics of the trick-performing cooks and their running fusillade of amusingly accented quips. Knives clang and salters rattle.
Eggs fly into the air and miraculously land on the blade, or are pierced on the point, of a knife.
Sudden, giant explosions of flame bring awed squeals from kiddies and startle the bejabbers out of old ladies. Out of the question. Going at it with the deft, stylized gestures of samurais, the chefs first slice, sauce and brown little piles of steak, seafood or chicken. As the cooking of each item is completed, a portion is unceremoniously shoveled from the grill onto one's waiting, rectangular platter . . . Given this delay, and the wrong beverage that had to be returned, we dawdled our way through some scallion-garnished chicken shiru and a small iceberg salad that was elevated several notches by tasty ginger dressing.