Komi does not list an email on their website. This makes me truly saddened because my plans for the morning included reading Fark, messing with my hair, and writing Komi to thank them in unseemly detail for the best meal I have had in a long time.
Maw has already enunciated the allures of this perfect dinner place, so I won’t talk about the food, but allow me to add my 2p. Komi is good. Good in a way that makes you blather to your coworkers the next morning. Good, like your next meal feels vaguely profane and sacrilegious. Good, as in a week later, you turn to your dining partner and say, ‘that was a damn fine meal’ and he’ll know you aren’t referring to the pizza you just ate.
The room is small and pretty, and so are the expert staff. They guide you through the short but exquisite wine list, and then bring you dish after dish of the kind of mouthfuls you must close your eyes to fully enjoy. After an hour you start entering an olive-scented haze of alcohol and goodwill. 12 hours later I am still imagining the crunch of sea salt on a stuffed fig.
I can’t write a letter to you, Komi, so I can only hope you google your name now and then. Bravo.