Momiji

And the winning combination is still happy hour with jumbo sushi to go with. In this Gaijin town, achieving beyond decent sushi demands 1) Fedexing your fish from elsewhere (check) and 2) importing your chefs (check, check).  Two-story, red-walled opium den satiates the ghosts of Chinatowns past. Real japanese cuisine trumps glossy design attempts by a mile. Youngish men with anime jawlines perform their post-workaday swagger. Dry-cleaned gals suck on chopsticks, suggestively suggest having another dragon roll.