Adam Raiffe
Google
At Omakase Room by Shin, you don’t just eat—you embark. Slip behind the sliding door off an unassuming West Village street, and you’re whisked into a world of whisper-thin fish, wrist-flick precision, and wasabi with a purpose.
Chef Shin glides through the evening like a storyteller with a knife, weaving morsels of myth and mouthfuls of history between courses. One moment, you’re savoring Hokkaido scallop crowned with caviar; the next, you’re hearing tales of Tokyo’s Tsukiji market or how a specific vinegar is aged in barrels older than the chef himself. His patter is playful but never performative—like sushi stand-up with a PhD in provenance.
The sequence is splendidly paced. There’s buttery buri that melts into memory, fire-kissed nodoguro that makes you momentarily mute, and uni so bright it practically glows. Each bite feels intentional and inimitable—no repeats, no fillers, no lazy tuna cop-outs. Presentation leans toward minimalist magic: an amber slice of kinmedai resting on perfect pearlescent rice, brushed with tare like a final kiss.
With only a handful of seats, the setting feels sacred but never stuffy. Guests lean in, clink sake, and swoon collectively. It’s dinner as dialogue, as design, as delicate theater.
Yes, it’s a splurge. But for an evening of edible art, sharp wit, and unforgettable fish, Omakase Room by Shin slices straight to the soul.