The Art of the Bromakase - Yellowbelly

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The Art of the Bromakase<br>After showing us the ropes with ‘The Modern Australian Menu Playbook’ (coming to a newsletter soon), Howard Chen returns to Yellowbelly. This time his pen is aimed at Sydney’s omakase scene.

Yellowbelly<br>Aug 05, 2026

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In early April, chef Takashi Sano of Azuma, one of Sydney’s most acclaimed sushi chefs, ignited an unlikely debate with two Instagram posts outlining the house rules at his omakase counter. Arrive on time. Listen to the explanations. Eat each piece of sushi as soon as it’s served. Ignore those rules and risk being blacklisted.<br>Most commenters applauded Sano for protecting the experience, but others labelled him arrogant, questioned his talent and balked at the idea of a chef telling paying customers how to behave. Yet surrendering control is the point of omakase.<br>Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

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For Arisa, a sushi enthusiast who grew up in Japan before moving to Sydney, that meaning has never been abstract. “One thing I think is sometimes misunderstood outside Japan is the meaning of the word ‘omakase’ itself,” she says. “Overseas, omakase has become heavily associated with luxury dining, but for many Japanese people it simply means, ‘I’ll leave it to the chef.’”<br>Traditionally, she says, it’s an expression of trust: allowing the chef to choose the best ingredients available that day and serve them at their peak. “It’s less about luxury and more about trust, seasonality and the chef’s judgement.”<br>That doesn’t mean everyone agrees on where the line should be between guiding diners and directing them. Food writer Nicholas Jordan told me the broader issue is that some chefs risk centring themselves over the people they’ve invited to dine. “I think chefs should care more about whether guests are enjoying each other’s company,” he says. “I love omakase, but I don’t always want every dish explained. Sometimes I just want to experience it. I think it’s valid to want to experience art without explanation.”

Others questioned not the etiquette itself but how it was enforced. One person who contacted me after Sano’s posts welcomed the fact that he had published the rules, but questioned whether blacklisting people who unknowingly broke them was compatible with hospitality. “Publishing the etiquette is great,” they wrote. “But blacklisting people who didn’t know the expectations feels contrary to the spirit of hospitality.”<br>For Merivale executive chef Dan Hong and Michael Shen, however, that criticism misses the point. “ It’s his omakase, so it’s his rules,” Hong says. “Don’t go if you disagree.” Shen believes much of the backlash came from misunderstanding the format. “Since when is it controversial to not be late, listen to the chef’s explanation or eat what’s served immediately? When you don’t do these things, you really disrespect the chef who’s literally in front of you.”<br>A little over a decade ago, omakase was still an underground curiosity in Sydney. At Sokyo, Sano helped introduce the format to a wider audience. Then came Raita Noda Chef’s Kitchen, Sashimi Shinsengumi, Masuya, Sushi E and Kuon. At first, the challenge wasn’t getting a reservation. It was knowing these places existed. As awareness spread, bookings became increasingly difficult to secure. Even well-known chefs struggled to get a seat.<br>“I remember it took me two years to sit in front of Toshihiko Oe at Masuya before COVID,” Hong says. “He would never reply to my messages!”<br>At the height of Sashimi Shinsengumi’s notoriety, a mobile phone was switched on at 7pm every two months, on the second-last Monday, for just one hour. No texts, no callbacks. If the line was busy you kept trying. If they picked up, you were in. Securing a seat became a badge of honour. “I dialled about 500 times across three phones to secure the booking,” food lover Mr. B tells me.<br>Longtime omakase diner Vivian Phi believes the real boom came during the pandemic, when international travel came to a halt. Shen agrees, pointing to the flood of openings that followed lockdown. “In that post-lockdown period alone we had Yoshii’s, Haco, Kuon, Bay Nine, Kisuke, Besuto, Ora and Hachioji all opening,” he says. “A meteoric trend in the Sydney food scene if I’ve ever seen one.”<br>Sydney has always had a soft spot for scarcity. We queue for limited sneaker drops, collect blind boxes and chase impossible reservations. Omakase fit neatly into that culture. Getting the booking became part of the experience.<br>“What was traditionally just an incredible meal showcasing seasonal produce has become a bit of a hype game,” Phi says, and she isn’t alone in that observation. Shen believes social media is a double-edged sword. It introduced more Australians to omakase than ever before, but also fuelled demand that outpaced Sydney’s small pool of experienced sushi chefs. “Initially it was just people who were really into Japanese...