There’s no sign outside Zenkichi, just dark wood paneling and a doorway lit by a pale yellow glow. That’s all by design, and ducking inside the dim rock-garden antechamber feels like being let in on a secret. Silence your cell phone. Follow the hostess up the stairs, through a bamboo labyrinth washed in murmurs, and try to ignore the furtive glances that leak through partitions separating each table. Retreat into your own tiny private booth, behind the curtain that will only be raised as each new course arrives. This will happen eight times, if you order the seasonal omakase menu, as it is imperative for you to do. It consists of Tokyo-style small plates (pan-seared scallops, grilled black cod, seared duck breast), each dish more intoxicating than the last.