Ishizuka

A giant glowing lantern in a Bourke Street laneway marks the way down to a basement room seating just sixteen, entered past a sibling izakaya. What follows is kaiseki in its full, seasonal sense: a set procession of up to eleven courses that shifts with the calendar and holds to a Japanese principle of doing as little as possible to fine produce, seasoning with restraint so the ingredient speaks first. The signature is a simmered duck breast, kamo jibuni, but the pleasure is cumulative rather than pinned to any one plate, with dashi, sashimi, a charcoal-grilled course and something sweet to close, each arriving with quiet precision. Two chef's hats followed an early run here, and the kitchen has kept its ambitions high, more recently folding French technique into the Japanese framework. This is a considered, expensive evening: dinner runs to several hundred dollars a head, with an optional sake and wine pairing, and the counter format puts the cooking directly in front of you. The mood underground is hushed and low-lit, closer to ceremony than to a night out. For anyone wanting to understand what kaiseki asks of a kitchen, and of a diner, few rooms in the city make the argument as completely.