A spare counter in Osaka. French technique, Japanese stone, and nothing on the plate that does not belong.
Everything here earns its place.
Sixteen seats face the pass. No music, no cloth, no sign on the street. Bare stone, one light, and the sound of the knife.
We cook in subtraction.
French technique sets the line. Stone, water and season set the limit.
A plate should hold one idea, cleanly. We add until it works, then take away until only the dish is left.
La Cime keeps a short list. One room in Osaka, one kitchen, and a few perfect things at a time. French technique sets the line. Japanese stone, water and season set the limit. We cook by subtraction, taking away until only the dish is left. Nothing on the plate that does not belong.
Four things we hold to. Everything else is taken off.
Stone
The room and the plates are bare grey stone. It holds cold, it holds heat, and it asks nothing of the food.
Fire
One coal grill set into the pass. Fire is the last move, used late, for one breath, then taken off.
Acid
Sudachi, verjus, aged vinegar. A single clean line of sour to cut the fat and wake the dish up.
Salt
Seasoned at the edge, never the middle. We taste, we add, we stop before it is loud.
A few frames from the room.
Spare to the point of severe, and all the better for it. Every plate is one clean idea.
The list is short. The seats are fewer.