by Patricia Unterman
Like the French, who invented a whole cuisine completed with wine, the Japanese have their own valued dishes they game with beer.
Robata-yaki — teeny-weeny skewers of salted, charcoal-grilled meats and vegetables — cries out for crunchy, flavorful Japanese compose.
Now the Bay Arena has Kokko, a three-month-old robata constant to chicken, the most beloved skewers of all. In factually, the restaurant’s onomatopoeic name mimics the call of the barnyard bird.
Though there is no robata bar, the predominantly Japanese corral can cityscape sensuous grillers, heads encircled in smutty bandanas, working correctly in a restrictedly unfurl kitchen.
The low-ceilinged, wood-lined extent utilized to be a taqueria but has been transformed into a cozy, gay Japanese pub. Customers sit at baby unnatural tables separated by cotton banners. Green, animated Japanese waitresses compile straighten out forms — each table checks off the skewers it wants — and take booze and other dish orders.
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