Bluefin

Yet other makis were too chaotic, like the mushy salmon and crab Halloween roll covered in black and orange tobiko, or the Noname II, which was an inelegant yellowtail-shrimp pile of tempura flakes and spicy mayo - overused flourishes here that quickly become redundant.

The craftsmanship of Bluefin's sushi also varies depending upon the chef. One night we received an uneven, falling-apart cucumber roll (how hard is that?) and sashimi that had been raggedly sliced.

A subsequent evening, though, the sashimi and sushi dinner brought a platter of poetry in fish - some cleverly contoured with diamond-shaped ridges that lent extra edges to each piece. Fans of ivory kanpachi tasted like butter. The silvery skin of aji horse mackerel was cut into a starburst of piquant flesh, a striking contrast to the pink sweetness of a neighboring sea trout. A raw tail of botan-ebi shrimp, served alongside its fried head, was a jewel of marine sweetness.

And then there was the tuna. It wasn't the restaurant's namesake bluefin, a luxury rarely behind this counter. It was a standard piece of bigeye - but it was beautiful and pristine.

And as that thick slice of deep purple flesh dissolved on my tongue, its cold smoothness melting like an exotic fruit, I was reminded by Bluefin how the seemingly ordinary can still deliver a thrill.

If you can get in on a Tuesday night.