A Michelin-Starred Wagyu Wonderland: A Review of Oniku Karyu

Wagyu beef is one of the most luxurious ingredients to come out of Japan, and arguably the most famous, having descended from one of four specific breeds of domestic cattle — the most famous of which is the Japanese Black, lending its name to the most famous type of wagyu: kuroge wagyu. 

Wagyu cattle are renowned for their characteristic fine marbling, which results in a mouth-meltingly soft texture. A naturally high oleic acid content also means that wagyu beef has a very distinct umami flavor, in comparison to beef from overseas. 

Kuroge wagyu or not, to have even one serving of any kind of wagyu in a meal is luxurious. Two, decadent. Three, opulent. But how about a 10-course meal with wagyu beef in every course? 

That’s the basic premise of niku-kappo. For those who can’t get enough of it, a niku-kappo meal is a dream come true — and there is no place better to try this iconic culinary style than at the Michelin-starred Oniku Karyu in Ginza.

Kappo, alternatively spelled kappou, is one of the most highly regarded culinary styles in Japan. In contemporary usage, the term is often used interchangeably with kaiseki multicourse cuisine, due to both culinary styles serving several different types of dishes. 

Typically, a kaiseki and kappo course menu both showcase the gamut of Japanese cooking techniques, featuring boiled, stewed, simmered, grilled dishes and more. But where kappo differs from kaiseki is in the immediacy and intimacy of the experience. Kappo’s defining trait is the fact that it is prepared at a counter, directly in front of guests. 

Like teppanyaki, the appeal of kappo doesn’t just lie in the luxury of the food, but the skill involved in its preparation. While a kappo course meal is never prepared in an overtly flashy way, there is a performative aspect to the meal that seasoned kappo diners value just as much as the flavor of the dishes itself. 

In that sense, kappo is a culinary style that’s particularly unforgiving to the chef, which also contributes to its lofty reputation. Any mistakes made will be laid bare before the assembled guests, meaning that any kappo chef must be supremely confident in their abilities. 

Niku means “meat” in Japanese. Accordingly, niku-kappo is a style of kappo that focuses primarily on meat, typically domestic wagyu beef. Not every dish must contain meat, but the majority of them do. And who would pass up the opportunity to use such a beautiful ingredient?

As the holder of a Michelin star, it can be safely said that there are few places that do niku-kappo better than Oniku Karyu. Head chef Katayanagi Haruka has been working with wagyu for almost 20 years at the time of writing. 

Wagyu occupies an especially precious place in his heart. His earliest memory of the meat is after winning a race in an elementary school sports meet; as a reward, his father cooked up a wagyu steak for him, seasoned simply with soy sauce and butter. 

Simple though it may have been, it was a pivotal moment in his life that would stay with him forever, and eventually be the catalyst for his decision to specialize in niku-kappo.

Even at his restaurant’s previous location in Ningyocho, when it was known as Ryuryokukako Shimenmoku, much has been made in magazine articles and blog posts of Chef Katayanagi’s discernment when it comes to wagyu.

Unlike many niku-kappo chefs, it’s said that Chef Katayanagi doesn’t stick to one specific brand or supplier. He chooses to focus instead on individual cows and the cuts of meat that come from them, regularly visiting his closely-knit network of suppliers around Tokyo to inspect their stock, and choosing the best cuts of meat from each one.

However, this isn’t entirely true, as there is one particular brand that Chef Katayanagi holds in particularly high regard: Tajimaguro beef, one of the rarest sub-brands of Kobe beef — which is in itself one of Japan’s Three Great Beefs.

As if garden-variety kuroge wagyu (as far as such an exclusive beef could ever be called garden-variety) wasn’t special enough, the fat of the Tajimaguro cattle has an extremely low melting point of just 12°C, in contrast to the usual melting point of 25 to 28°C for most kuroge wagyu.

Tajimaguro cattle is so difficult to obtain, in fact, that Chef Katayanagi lists a disclaimer on his website: that if the course menu of the day does make use of Tajimaguro beef, the price of the meal can increase by anywhere between ¥3,000 to ¥6,000. It makes sense: only about 10 cows are sold every month, and the price of a Tajimaguro cow’s choicest cuts can be astronomical.

At the start of the meal, Chef Katayanagi brings out the choicest cut of the day for guests to inspect — in this case, a Tajimaguro chateaubriand, the Rolls Royce of steaks. Sure enough, placed on the counter, it’s possible to see the fat melting in real time right before your eyes. 

(Later, staff members bring out a certificate certifying the pedigree, heritage and quality of the beef for guests to confirm.)

In contrast to a typical kappo service, niku-kappo is, in some ways, more difficult due to the necessary constraints of using primarily wagyu beef. Having the highest-quality meat is only half the battle won; an additional test of skill for niku-kappo chefs comes in using said meat in the best possible way. 

With a typical niku-kappo course menu having up to 10 courses, keeping each one interesting is a challenging feat for even the most seasoned chefs. 

It remains to be seen how Chef Katayanagi will do so, especially for guests with dietary restrictions — which the staff members make sure to individually confirm with each guest at the eight-seat counter. Every seat is full, even in the two private rooms next door, which seat four and eight guests respectively.

At the counter where I sit, several guests present indicate that they do not consume seafood; Chef Katayanagi dutifully notes down each one, while apologetically reminding them that his preparation areas may contain trace amounts of seafood due to cross-contamination.

Drink menus are presented in English and Japanese, from which I choose a yuzu fruit wine from Wakayama at Chef Katayanagi’s recommendation. The drinks are served promptly, and the chef puts his hands together.

“Let’s begin,” he announces, to a chorus of affirmatives from his chefs and service staff — all while a summer storm begins to rage outside, unable to touch the relaxing atmosphere cultivated inside of the restaurant’s four walls.

The first thing he does is skewer the chateaubriand — so soft the skewers pass through it like it air — and put it on a two-tiered rack behind him, where it will slowly cook over a smoldering bed of charcoal. As the meal goes on, the color of the meat gradually changes: a visual indicator of time passing, akin to watching the sand flow in an hourglass. 

Then comes the first course, a jellied wagyu consomme and sea urchin infused with yuzu citrus, served in the urchin’s shell and served atop a bed of ice. 

Citrus is key to Chef Katayanagi’s course menus; almost every dish contains it in some form or another. Not only does the acidity cut through the inherent fatty richness of wagyu, but it’s also an essential part of the Japanese diet, he says. 

High-end Japanese cuisine is extremely seasonal in nature; often, one of the most important factors for Japanese gourmets in deciding the quality of a meal is how it captures the sense of the season. Most kappo chefs have an abundance of seasonal ingredients to work with, such as fugu puffer fish in winter, ayu sweetfish in summer and matsutake mushroom in the fall. 

A niku-kappo menu, which is centered around the largely season-agnostic wagyu beef, has somewhat less freedom of choice when it comes to expressing seasonal flavors. As such, subtler seasonal distinctions become that much more important.

Hence, citrus. To Chef Katayanagi, citrus fruit is such an integral part of Japanese cuisine that the different types of citrus on the tongue become subconscious indicators of seasonal change. To him, and most Japanese people, green varieties like sudachi and kabosu taste like summer; as such, he incorporates them heavily into his summer menus. 

Redder mikan and ponkan see more use as the months roll on towards December, conjuring memories of peeling tangerines beneath a kotatsu. 

The second course is a single nigiri, or niku-zushi; a single lump of lightly vinegared rice topped with a generous slice of wagyu, which Chef Katayanagi carefully brushes with soy sauce. He incorporates a smidge of freshly grated wasabi into the shari rice, the burn so subtle that it only produces the slightest twinge in the sinuses. 

This is followed by a katsu-sando, a thick serving of breaded wagyu beef filet between two slices of homemade bread. The breading is immaculate; hot, fresh and crunchy, adhering to the meat even after the first bite. Meanwhile, the dollop of sauce is tangy and tart, with only the slightest hint of sweetness, just enough to offset the cutlet’s richness. 

Next comes the beef sashimi, which is far and away my favorite course of the night. Three thick slices of Tajimaguro are laid out on a cut glass plate, next to a small bowl of ginger soy sauce, and a pile of julienned Japanese ginger (myoga). It’s almost impossibly soft, and so finely marbled that it melts the moment it enters the mouth.

After Chef Katayanagi serves each guest a bowl of beef stew — the middle of which is occupied by a solid hunk of Kagoshima beef shank, reduced to almost jellylike softness by hours of stewing — he starts to cook the chateaubriand in earnest. Leaping flames sear a beautiful crust into the steak, locking in the flavors that have been brought out by slow-cooking it over the course of the meal.

Heartbreaking as it is to see any of this priceless meat be discarded, it’s an amazing sight to see Chef Katayanagi’s razor-sharp knife pass through with barely any resistance — the meat is just that finely marbled — as he cuts away any bits that are overly charred.

There are three condiments for three slices; the first slice is meant to be eaten with Murray River salt and a smudge of hon-wasabi, the second with a thick, tart ponzu sauce, and the last dipped in a sweet soy sauce; each one delicious in its own way. Perhaps in homage to his childhood memory, the soy sauce is the easy standout. 

Chef Katayanagi then places several skewers of unagi (freshwater eel) on the now-empty rack. They will stay there over the course of the meal, with a junior chef occasionally turning them over to brush with marinade. 

Then it’s time for the palate cleanser, a small glass of chilled sweet corn soup, dusted with a few leaves of parsley. This is made by his sous chef, who presents the first glass for Chef Katayanagi’s assessment.

He drinks deeply and nods his approval almost instantly. “It’s good to go,” he says, dragging out the final vowel of his ii yo~ as if to emphasize the goodness. The sous chef bows and retreats into the kitchen, emerging almost immediately with a tray of glasses. 

The atmosphere is quite remarkable. Chefs tend to skew in one of two directions; the first towards the hyper-strict, stereotypical image of the shokunin craftsman, and the other towards the smiling, laughing and jovial. 

Chef Katayanagi, with his ready smile, thick glasses and cleanly shaved head, is very much the latter. He explains each dish to each guest in Japanese and English alike, answering each guest’s questions easily, even as he is setting each dish on individual diners’ trays. 

The brightest flash of lightning so far lights up the restaurant, visible even through the rice paper of the shoji screens covering the windows. Chef Katayanagi tuts in response, as though admonishing the elements themselves. 

“Scary, isn’t it?” he asks the assembled guests, shaking his head. “But that’s just how you know it’s summer!”

With that, his staff serves the fifth course, a bit of a departure from the norm: a Cantonese-style miniature claypot of thick broth, with simmered beef tongue wrapped in a sheet of winter melon and a hefty slice of shark fin, garnished with a single stalk of bok choy. 

Chef Katayanagi reaches over and individually squeezes half a sudachi into each diner’s soy sauce. “Please try it on its own first, and then add the soy sauce,” he advises. 

The soup must be stirred constantly, otherwise the shark fin caramelizes where it makes contact with the base of the pot, and forms a crust that sticks stubbornly to the bottom. Mixing it, instead, lets the shark fin melt, gradually thickening the broth and adding a glorious collagen mouthfeel to the whole dish — yet still tempered by the gentle sourness of the sudachi. 

The distinctly Chinese dish is a drastic shift in tone, but a welcome one. 

Yet another surprise comes with the sukiyaki hot pot. Members of Karyu’s staff place a tablet in front of each guest, each one playing an instructional video on the ideal way to eat the dish. 

Spoon some of the warishita broth into a dish of raw egg yolk, the subtitles read, then beat it for 30 seconds. Gather some of the shredded leek swirling in the hot pot, suspend the meat in the broth for about three to five seconds, before dipping it into the egg and broth mixture. 

It should be noted here that by sukiyaki standards, these are positively huge slabs of meat. Sukiyaki meat is usually cut into paper-thin slices, letting them cook through almost instantly; there will be none of that at Oniku Karyu. 

Chef Katayanagi cuts his meat so thick that five, six, even 10 seconds in the bubbling warishita serves only to change the color of the outermost layer. Inside, it remains pink, juicy and achingly soft. 

Chef Katayanagi follows this up with a chunk of deep-fried eggplant, beautifully battered in tempura style, and instructs the diners to eat it just as they would the sukiyaki before it.

In customary kappo style, the final course before dessert is the shokuji, some sort of carbohydrate and pickles. Today, Chef Katayanagi opts for Yukitsubaki rice from Niigata Prefecture, steamed in an earthenware pot called a donabe, which is said to greatly improve the flavor and aroma. One of Niigata’s most prized cultivars, the rice is pearlescent, glistening as he opens the donabe’s lid to show the assembled guests. 

Naturally, I ask for an extra-large serving, though I’m already pleasantly full. The rice is served alongside a neat stack of thinly sliced beef simmered in sesame sauce (shigure-ni), a heaping stack of pickles, as well as three large pieces of the unagi that’s been slowly browning on the rack — beef curry is served instead to those who can’t eat seafood. 

The unagi is prepared a la Kansai-style kabayaki; in contrast to the Kanto style of unagi preparation, where it’s steamed to make it juicier, Chef Katayanagi focuses on grilling it directly, which gives it a crispier texture. The kabayaki sauce, which can be cloyingly sweet, is instead pleasantly restrained here, to my surprise.

After an incredible dessert of homemade wasanbon (fine-grained Japanese sugar) ice-cream and peaches, staff members present Chef Katayanagi with a calligraphy set. With it, he signs each guest’s menu with his name and the date of the service, as a memento of their time together at Oniku Karyu. 

“I’m sure you get asked this a lot,” I ask him, as he finishes writing the kanji for “yanagi” on my menu. “But why the choice of unagi as a final dish? Especially for a niku-kappo.”

I expect his response to be some insight into the similarities between unagi and wagyu, or how unagi was chosen specifically for its suitability with the Yukitsubaki rice.

“Because I wanted to eat it,” he says instead, grinning cheekily. “It’s summer, isn’t it?”

A lot of Japanese people are in the habit of eating unagi during summer, Chef Katayanagi explains, after we share a laugh. Unagi is said to have the twofold effect of cooling the body and giving it much-needed energy. 

“I want people to leave here feeling powered up,” he says, pumping his fists in the air for added effect. “It’s important to me that people are energized by my food.”

If that was the objective, he most certainly succeeded. It’s past 11 pm by the time the service concludes, but I can’t wipe the smile from my face as I emerge from the elevator into the summer storm, heading for Ginza-itchome Station with a wagyu-fueled spring in my step. 

Reserve your seat at Oniku Karyu.

The opinions expressed in this food review are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of this platform. The review is intended for informational purposes only.