Sushi Akira (すし良月) - Ebisu, Tokyo
- Michael Zislis
- May 29
- 5 min read
Name in Japanese:すし良月 (Sushi Akira)
Location: 1F, 2-37-8, Ebisu, Shibuya-ku, Tokyo, Japan
Hours: 12:00 PM - 2:30 PM, 6:00 PM - 11:30 PM (Closed Tuesday & Wednesday)
Tabelog Rating: 4.34 (Very Good)
How to Find It: Sushi Akira is situated in the bottom floor of an apartment building, just a 10-12 minute walk from Hiroo Station, Ebisu Station, and Shirokane Takanawa Station. The discreet entrance may be easy to miss, but if you spot a large residential building, you’re in the right place. My uncle, a dedicated sushi aficionado, was so smitten by this restaurant that he’s now considering renting an apartment upstairs just to be closer to his new favorite spot!
The Silence After the Bite
In Tokyo, there is no shortage of legendary sushi counters. Names spoken like prayers. Waiting lists that stretch across what seems like eons. Chefs who have become global icons. But what many don’t realize is that these institutions often serve as training grounds. Young men and women study in silence, hone their intuition, and then quietly step out to build something of their own.
Every sushi chef in Japan belongs to a lineage. And to truly understand sushi, you have to follow that thread. Now, with travelers flooding Japan and Michelin lists guiding the curious, we believe it’s the perfect moment to look to the next generation. To the chefs whose names you don’t yet know... but one day you will.
Chef Kazunori Maeiwa is one of them.
In 2019, at just 28 years old, he opened Sushi Akira in Hiroo, a refined Tokyo neighborhood east of Arisugawa Park. His training? Nearly eight years under the acclaimed Sushi Takumi group, including five at Sushisho Masa in Nishi Azabu. The restaurant sits modestly along Gaien-nishi Dori. A glowing wooden sign. A name that honors his grandfather. Eight seats. One counter.
What he offers isn’t sushi as performance. It’s sushi as a kind of quiet devotion.
Trust, Not Choice – What Omakase Really Means
In Japanese, omakase (おまかせ) translates to “I’ll leave it up to you.” But at Sushi Akira, it becomes something deeper.
“Omakase is not simply not choosing,” says Maeiwa. “It is the time you entrust your heart to the hands of the chef. Which fish, in what order, with what expression—it is a quiet dialogue, spoken in flavor, between guest and chef.”
It’s not a performance. It’s a conversation without words. A rhythm built on trust.
The Edomae Way – Precision Through Restraint
Sushi Akira follows Edomae (江戸前) tradition—an approach born in Tokyo (formerly known as Edo) during the 19th century. Without refrigeration, sushi chefs had to preserve and transform their fish: salting, vinegaring, simmering, aging with kombu (kelp).
“It is not simply fresh fish placed on rice. It is quiet craftsmanship—a way of bringing life to an ingredient through care,” Maeiwa explains. “We follow that tradition while letting each piece speak to today’s palate.”
You won’t find salmon here. At true Edomae counters, the menu honors species once found in Tokyo Bay. That means kohada, anago, chutoro, squid, tai. And the rice? Cooked in a Japanese enamel vermicular pot. Seasoned with only akazu—a barrel-aged red vinegar made from sake lees (solid byproducts from sake making)—and a precise amount of salt. Akazu gives the rice depth, umami, and a slightly briny sharpness. At Sushi Akira, even the rice changes temperature across the meal, matching the fish’s tone.
“The grip is a little tighter for kohada gizzard shad and shellfish,” Maeiwa says. “Looser for fatty tuna, anago conger, and squid with crisscross diagonal cuts—always yielding the perfect balance for the rice and topping to melt in guests’ mouths.”
This is sushi as sculpture. As choreography. This is Sushi Akira.
Seasonality – Reading the Ocean Like a Calendar
“Even the same fish smells and feels different depending on the season,” says Maeiwa. “To notice that, to embrace it, is the duty of the sushi chef.”
In spring, sakura-dai (cherry blossom sea bream) arrives sweet and floral. Autumn brings firmer shellfish, richer in aroma. Each ingredient is chosen not just for its freshness, but for how it will resonate in that moment.
And while visitors may expect o-toro or chu-toro to be the showstoppers, there’s a more subtle star at Sushi Akira:
“My favorite fish is tai,” Maeiwa says. “Its aroma, its firmness, its umami—everything is quiet, but strong. Spring’s sakura-dai is especially beautiful. The flavor leaves behind a stillness.”
Tai holds historical reverence in Japan. It was once the most prized offering to Shinto gods—served at weddings, new year’s feasts, and festivals. In a country obsessed with season and ceremony, tai represents grace.
“They call it the king of fish,” Maeiwa continues. “But everything changes—where it was caught, what it was fed, how it was handled. It’s a fish I always want to meet with a calm heart.”
Maguro – The Mirror
“Tuna is the fish that brings me back to myself,” Maeiwa says.
Maguro—especially its lean and medium-fatty cuts—is the barometer for any Edomae counter. And at Sushi Akira, it’s treated not just with care, but with contemplation.
“The red meat has tension. Chutoro is soft. O-toro is indulgent. Every time I cut it, I return to the beginning. It reflects where I am as a craftsman. Quietly, honestly.”
Not Just the Chef – A Country-wide Effort
“Sushi Akira cannot be made by the chef alone,” Maeiwa tells us. “Those who know the sea, those who choose the fish, the brokers who assess the best condition each day—within those conversations, the sushi we serve takes shape.”
“It’s not about asking ‘What fish do I want today?’ It’s about asking ‘What kind of lingering feeling do I want to deliver to the guest?’ Having partners I can ask that question with—those relationships are Sushi Akira’s greatest treasure.”
That collaboration often begins at Tokyo’s Toyosu Market, where Chef Maeiwa works with specialists like Yunoka, a wholesaler focused solely on tuna. Other ingredients come from Amakusa, Kumamoto, and Ehime—fishermen he’s met face-to-face.
Every plate begins with a handshake, a quiet nod, a shared memory of the sea.
The Quiet That Remains
“The thing I value most is that silence remains,” Maeiwa says. “Not just the initial taste, but the calm that follows. The echo.”
To preserve that echo, the counter is lined with rare heat lamps—common in French restaurants but almost unheard of in sushi. He uses them not for show, but to warm plates, temper seafood, and hold the heat of steamed dishes like Kansai-style mushi-zushi.
At the end of the meal, a tamagoyaki arrives. A small rectangle. A custard-like omelet made from scallop paste. Lighter than castella cake, more grounded than soufflé. One bite and it vanishes.
But something stays.
The Counter, the Light, the Name
Open the door, and you’ll find eight seats around a glowing, L-shaped counter. Matte black lacquer plates—each marked with a single red line. White walls. Crisp light.
And the name: Akira. Chosen for the chef’s grandfather. A reminder to stay humble. To remember where he came from.
“We don’t aim for applause,” Maeiwa says. “We aim to leave something behind.”
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