The Wolf in the Kitchen

At Chika, Jonathan Reyes introduces himself as both our chef and our DJ, lets us know the beats-per-minute of the music will match the mood in the room, and hits play. Summertime soul engulfs us. Chika is a small restaurant in a small basement, concrete and windowless, only a bar and a few tables cast in fiery chiaroscuro by sultry cyberpunk orange. It's a space Chef Reyes is entirely the master of, an experience he utterly controls; once the show starts, he steps up onto a platform to begin preparing our meal, a DJ tucking in behind his deck.

Visiting Chika for the first time is an unrepeatable experience. It's designed that way: this is an omakase speakeasy. There's a waiting space outside the restaurant where a host greets each patron, verifying reservations and whether they've gotten the wine tasting and so forth. Standard stuff. But when I return to Chika – next month, as we were barely in the parking lot before I made our next reservation – my interaction with everything after I step out of the car will be different. That's unbelievably cool, and it's only one little nod to the experience chefs Jonathan Reyes, John Ramos, and the team supporting them are pioneering.

When the time comes, the host leads our little pack of patrons through a labyrinth of increasingly dark, elegant spaces; we're being separated from the world outside, with its smooth white walls and bright blue skies and the refreshing beauty of the nearby Riverwalk. Our intrigue grows as we take a concrete staircase lit with neon purple and orange – down, away, past an empty but sinfully cool bar that simply isn't open at the innocent hour of 6pm on a Saturday – before we're finally there, and the host guides us to our assigned seats group by group.

Chika is, in every way that matters, Chef Reyes' den. His Instagram profile identifies him as "THE WOLF". Before the meal, Reyes stalks behind the bar, never still for long, never shifting his attention to us. Before we know it's the meal, he lights a flame, he steps out of what we thought was his den, and he prowls between us; smoke fills the air, so sweet and woodsy that my heart skips the moment of panic I usually experience with it. At this point, I'm still anticipating my meal. The wolf has already caught me.

Equally as formidable, to be clear, is his quieter 'homie', Chef John Ramos. He's behind the bar, too, all laid-back in his hat and glasses. We don't hear from Chef Ramos; every time I look, his eyes are on his work. Cooking is craft for him when, later, he churns out an impressive number of gorgeous, simple nigiri – shari topped with a single graceful neta – and I only ever see him speak to Reyes. It's clear whose name is on the marquee at Chika, but it's just as clear whose name we're overlooking. Theirs is a partnership that makes me understand they share a history of being friends. The dynamic works, so the experience works.

They call it San Antokyo. The menu changes per seating. The music changes. The performance changes. Chika feels like improv. Yet as a first semester culinary student, it's easy to tell you what my chef instructors want us to focus on: consistency.

Consistency comes with Chef Reyes' certain, practised hands shaping the dozens of nigiri that begin a series of such courses. I'm watching. I'm hypnotized. Because I know he isn't simply being consistent; he's trying to be better. Every chef who feels we've found our calling knows the urge: I can be better. My movement could be more efficient. The fit of the grains against one another could be clearer. The way the fish relaxes atop the rice could be smoother. Things we can control, things we can't, things we notice because we're consumed. It's intoxicating to know the next attempt can always be more perfect.

The music at Chika is so incredibly loud that it feels like everyone around us raises their voices to be heard over it. My husband and I lean into each other instead, shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bowed to one another's lips, to be heard under it. Here and now, conversation is, and isn't, just about us. It's a show of respect other diners seem not to understand; a certain group of them should have been embarrassed enough to melt into the ground when Chef Reyes has to tell them to "stop fighting" because they were interrupting him. More than one person! Thinking their petty bullshit is more important than listening to Chef! You've never heard a group of adults go more silent than my culinary school cohort when our Chef addresses us.

Being a student is a habit I hope I never break; when a new piece of sushi is placed before me, I invariably say, "Thank you, Chef". Only once am I caught unaware, when I'm making a note on my phone for this piece. With each course, I tuck my plate beneath the light under the bar, to look at the food, angle it, admire it; then I bring it to my nose and breathe it in before pinching the nigiri between my fingers and eating it whole. It's a ritual my husband adopts, and I can tell he's still learning it until he picks up and eats his piece of sushi before I eat mine – then, I know he's feeling it. I'm secretly thrilled by this, in culturing an appreciation we come to share, one we'll follow every time we're here. Once again, my next experience at Chika will differ from my first.

A restaurant that changes every time you visit might not appeal to some diners. It would probably be difficult to work in, too. So I think it's important to acknowledge how the structure of Chika plays more like theatre than improv. Smoke delineates each act. The end of each scene is announced by music. I couldn't tell you how, exactly; I just know that approximately two minutes before he was about to speak, something in the music would draw me out of conversation with my husband and in to looking at Chef Reyes again.

Reyes and Ramos play with anticipation and reward over the course of the meal, the initial nigiri offering coming only after we've seen them plate an impressive amount in a deliberate order, and then we've watched Chef Reyes add layer after layer of flavour: house-made shoyu, citrus zest dotted on in time with the beat, juice drizzled down the vicious, fang-like silhouette of his chef knife, fresh herbs and even more, sometimes, until I'm certain this must be it, he must be done, it must be my turn to eat. And when the nigiri hits my palate, my patience has been worthwhile: I taste it all. There are no muddy flavors here. Everything is deliberate. Balanced.

Chef Albert Roux once said to his young employee, Marco Pierre White: "I know it's your hands that have dressed those plates – no one does it like you." I feel that way about Chef Reyes, and at the same time I hope this is the least predictable part of Chika: the way he builds the neta before giving it to us, the flavors he chooses, the theme emerging atop the bar. As a student, he dazzles me. It's a dizzying breadth of knowledge and depth of precision on display; as a writer, I'm inspired by the height of creativity, and how personally he's expressing his story.

San Antokyo, indeed.

Early in the meal, we're promised wagyu and the 'famous' (I'd never heard of it) chu toro al pastor. Waiting for them becomes a warm background thought for me as my husband and I find ourselves delighted, bite after bite. We're doing what the couple to our right is, as well: comparing how each sushi ranks in our personal tastes. I've lost track of where it is in the anticipated plates, too engrossed in tasting my wines and debating the merits of grilled jalapeno against those of garlic chili crisp, until Chef places it before me and says, "Chu toro al pastor."

I can tell you what it tastes like – no piece of sushi you've ever eaten in your life, no piece of pork you've ever bitten into – but the truest expression of how good it is has to be the woman to my right speaking to us for the first time to ask, "What was your favourite piece so far?" and then, for the last, "Ours, too!"

Chef Reyes is correct. It's the famous Chu toro al pastor. This is the bite to make influencers hope they've got some record of experiencing it. His confidence in this nigiri is righteous, and if someone were to say to him, "This is delicious," he'd be justified in answering, "Is that the best you can do?"

It'd be ignorant to dismiss Reyes' certainty as 'swagger', and by implication say he's got something to prove. There's a moment early on where we get a hint of bad boy bravado, but when he adds that if you don't like the meal by the fifth course, it's not for you, and gestures dismissively towards the staircase, we know he means it: you won't be satisfied, and I won't waste my time.

We stop ranking the nigiri after the Chu toro el pastor.

As for the wagyu, when it comes up, I'm ready for it. The bite beforehand was fascinating, deeply fishy and utterly foreign to the rest of the meal. Topped with parmesan and pesto, it has the same effect on my palate as the 2 minute music does on my attention. I look up. I see steak is next. And when it arrives, it's the pinnacle of what I hope beef will taste like – the most savory, sensual, fatty, decadent bite of Texas wagyu, drizzled with golden teardrops of glistening tallow roasted straight off the bone.

The wolf is reminding us he's a carnivore... and we're in his den.​ We sit rapt and wrapped in smoke and flame flickering blue in a sunset orange glow, encompassing enough to feel like a dream, if you just decenter yourself and let Chef show you how it's done. I can promise he knows when you're engrossed. I can promise he appreciates it.

I lose track of how many courses we have, each brilliant in their way. My notes are full of "mint hits at the end" or "salmon apple ginger", and I can remember those tastes. I can recall the only unpleasant texture of the entire meal (not the one I referred to as 'the gummy bear of fish' when Chef solicited my feedback), but none of those details matter enough to write down. Sometimes it's just personal.

Every meal, every performance, comes to an end, and Chika wraps up with a riff on the American classic, strawberry shortcake. Chef Reyes introduces it to us, and excuses himself; the mood decidedly shifts once he ducks behind the curtain into the kitchen, like a magician disappearing in a puff of smoke. We're satiated, but he's moving on to his next meal. Chef Ramos remains, quiet and focused until the song playing over what feels like our credits concludes, and then he's gone, too, and the lights rise.

I keep debating whether Chika was the most brilliant expression of spontaneous creativity, or simply the most deliberate meal, I've ever experienced. I think it's a mix of both. I hope it's a mix of both. I know that when it was over, and I stepped out of the washroom just as Chefs Reyes & Ramos materialized at the top of a dark ramp so we were walking towards each other, only I had to squint to see them, it was deliberate. But I loved the guys' well-earned braggadocio. Puro San Antokyo.

Thank you, Chefs.

"... I had seen talent in other chefs – it's just the touch, the way the food falls, the way the sauce pours, the way the garnish is put on the plate. If you watch a great chef, he moves elegantly as he cooks."

- Marco Pierre White, "The Devil in the Kitchen"