Rubbish Eat Rubbish Grow

Lunch in the CBD moves fast. You eat between meetings, between calls, between the small windows the day allows. Most of us settle for whatever fills the gap.

I came to Sushi To Sumi expecting a compromise. Good food, rushed. I was wrong.

The place sits in Raffles Place. It borrows from an old Japanese habit; the standing sushi counter, where office workers eat quickly on their feet before heading back to work. Here, though, you get a seat. No one asks you to stand. The idea stays, but the ache in your legs doesn’t.

The point is speed without loss. A proper meal in thirty to forty minutes. That’s a useful distinction when you’re comparing the best omakase experiences in Singapore, because not every omakase is built around the same pace or style.

That’s the daytime promise. I came for dinner instead, and took my time.

Who’s Behind It

The same team runs Araya Shoten, a Japanese fishmonger with a real reputation in Singapore. That matters more than any concept.

A fishmonger knows fish. Knows where it comes from, when it’s right, how long it has left. You taste that knowledge before you’re told about it. The fish here arrives with the confidence of people who handle it every day.

Let’s not waste time. Here’s what actually landed on the table.

The Meal

I ordered the kaiseki-style omakase set. A hundred and eight dollars. Around fifteen to eighteen dishes over roughly an hour and a half. I asked for less rice with the sushi; I wanted the fish to speak, not the starch.

It opened with a sweet corn chawanmushi.

The custard was smooth. Warm, soft, gentle on the spoon. The corn ran through it sweet and clean, not the flat tinned note you get when a kitchen cuts corners. A quiet start. The kind that tells you someone in the back is paying attention.

Then the amaebi.

The sweet shrimp was large, and genuinely sweet (rare for Singapore). Most amaebi here arrives small and tired, a shadow of what it should be. This one held its size and its sugar. You feel the difference the moment it hits your tongue. It gives, then it lingers.

The nishin came next. Herring, close cousin to the sardine. Oily, deep, a little wild in flavour. Then the ika; squid, clean and firm. Then the hotate. The scallop was soft, cool, sweet in that restrained way good scallop is.

None of these were showy. All of them were right.

The Kinmedai

This was the one.

The kinmedai is imported direct from Japanese fishermen, and you taste the shortness of that journey. Fewer hands, less time, nothing lost between the sea and the plate.

The flesh was firm but yielding. The flavour was clean, with that faint sweetness good kinmedai carries under the surface. There was nothing between me and the fish. No heavy sauce, no distraction. Just the thing itself, handled by people who understood it.

This dish shut me up for a moment.

That doesn’t happen often. When it does, I pay attention.

The Black Rice

A charcoal black rice dish arrived, topped with ika and uni.

The rice was cooked al dente. It held a bite, each grain still its own. The uni brought a creaminess that folded through the whole bowl, rich but not heavy. The squid gave it a soft chew underneath.

The rice stayed firm while the uni turned it creamy; a contrast most kitchens don’t bother getting right. It’s easy to overcook rice into mush and let the uni do all the work. Here, both sides pulled their weight.

Clean flavours. Clear intention.

The Grilled Fish

They call it yaki sakana. A fish-based take on yakitori. Grilled fish skewers, done over charcoal.

The fish was juicy inside. The skin crisped at the edges. And the charcoal sat where it should; present, but never taking over. The char flavoured the fish without burning it, which is harder than it looks.

Too many kitchens push the flame and lose the fish underneath. Bitter edges, dry centre. Not here. Someone stood over that grill and knew exactly when to pull it off.

Then a whole fish kama. The collar; the cut people who know fish quietly fight over. Fatty, tender, the richest part of the animal. It came off the bone soft and warm. A generous thing to include in a set like this.

What It All Adds Up To

Fifteen to eighteen dishes. Ninety minutes. A hundred and eight dollars.

For an omakase, that’s real value; not a word I use lightly.

I’ve sat through omakase meals that cost far more and gave far less. For a premium sushi in Singapore experience, this was refreshingly straightforward. Meals stretched to two hours by ceremony, where the theatre outpaced the fish. This wasn’t that. Every course earned its place. Nothing was there to fill time or pad the count.

There’s an honesty to the whole thing. A fishmonger’s honesty. The concept (quick, standing, no fuss) carries through even in the slower dinner service. The food doesn’t ask you to perform appreciation. It just arrives, good, and lets you eat.

I think about the daytime version often. A CBD worker with forty minutes and a real appetite, sitting down to fish this fresh instead of the usual sad desk lunch. That’s a small gift in a rushed part of town. A proper meal, folded into the space a rushed lunch usually occupies.

Would I Return

Yes. Without hesitation.

Not for the concept. Concepts fade fast. I’d come back for the kinmedai. For an amaebi that finally tasted the way it should. For a bowl of black rice that got the balance right, and a piece of grilled fish that respected the fire instead of fearing it.

I’d come at lunch next time. Take the forty-minute version. Sit, eat well, and step back out into the noise of Raffles Place a little quieter inside.

Because that’s the thing about a good meal in a busy place. It doesn’t stop the day. It just gives you somewhere honest to stand inside it for a while.

If you work nearby, and you’ve been settling for less, walk in. Order the omakase. Let the fishmonger’s hands do the rest.

Good food needs no explanation. This was one of those meals.

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