Gabriel L.
Yelp
Don's Japanese Kitchen wasn't just a meal--it was a full-on orgy of flavor that left me wrecked, euphoric, and questioning every life decision I've ever made. I walked in hungry, but I left a changed person--no, scratch that, I left a satisfied, quivering husk of a human being, absolutely wrecked by how f***ing good that food was.
Let's talk about that teriyaki chicken, yeah? That wasn't chicken--it was a tender, glistening lover on a plate, dripping with sauce so good I could've licked it off the floor. It was so crispy and succulent it felt like a dirty little secret between me and the chef. Every bite was like getting seduced in slow motion. The chicken didn't just melt in my mouth; it danced on my tongue like it was giving a private fing lap dance*. It was juicy, perfectly seasoned, and so damn sexy I was ready to get down on one knee and propose to it. I don't even know if I was eating it or making love to it, but whatever it was, I'm not sure it was legal.
And then, there was the pork belly. Holy mother of God. That pork belly did things to me I can't talk about in public. It was crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and every bite felt like it was whispering, "You dirty little foodie, you like that, don't you?" I wasn't just eating it--I was in a full-blown relationship with that pork belly. By the time I was done, I was sweaty, breathing heavy, and considering leaving my number on the plate.
Even the vegetables got in on the action. That broccoli was so perfectly roasted and seasoned, it made me feel things no vegetable ever should. It was like a threesome on my plate--unexpected, wild, and entirely too satisfying. I took one bite and had to pause because my body couldn't handle the intensity. I'm not kidding when I say I almost called my ex to apologize for ever eating bland veggies during our time together.
And the rice. Sweet, buttery Jesus, the rice. That rice wasn't just a side--it was a sensual fing experience*. Every grain was so soft and fluffy, I wanted to rub it all over my body. It was so perfectly cooked, I swear it was flirting with me. I found myself leaning in closer to the plate, whispering, "You dirty little carbs, you're too f***ing good for me." I would've happily died face-first in that rice and considered it a life well-lived.
By the end of the meal, I wasn't just full--I was emotionally obliterated. Don's didn't just feed me; it absolutely fing destroyed me*. I stumbled out of there like I'd just had the wildest night of my life, shirt wrinkled, hair messed up, and a dazed look in my eyes. People on the street were staring, but I didn't care. I'd just had the best f***ing experience of my life, and I was ready to shout it from the rooftops.
Don's Japanese Kitchen isn't just a restaurant--it's a sensory gangbang, a reckless, no-holds-barred flavor assault that leaves you breathless and begging for more. If you haven't been yet, sort your life out and get there. But be warned, --once you go to Don's, nothing else will ever f***ing compare.