Akari shouldn’t work. But it does. Or at least, it does for me. It might not be everyone’s cup of sake.
I’d been on at Sartre about trying it for ages as we seem to drive past it a lot. Finally, one sunny Sunday evening he relented, and we took a stroll up there.
Akari is housed in a converted pub but the word ‘converted’ is probably too generous. It’s now a Japanese restaurant but used to be an old and unlovely Essex Road boozer. They’ve hardly done a thing to it. So you really feel like you are squatting in an old pub. Surfaces seem dusty and the thick chipped paint covers up centuries of hedonism, many layers thick. The waiting staff are quiet as mime artists and serve you interchangeably.
But all of that is fine. Really, it’s fine, because I loved the food.
I had chunks of beef in ginger and soy, which had amazing flavour and the Akari roll from their sushi menu, which was dreamy in the extreme. Sartre had chicken teriyaki and stir fried greens.
I’ll be going back for more sushi as soon as I’ve worn Sartre down again.