By Declan BarrySushi is a low-anxiety meal once you understand the conventions at the counter. Most Japanese chefs are forgiving of foreigners; getting these things right earns small smiles and the occasional nod of recognition that you've done your homework. The gap between nervous first-timer and confident regular is narrower than you think - it's a handful of unwritten rules, all of them rooted in respect for the craft and the ingredients.
What follows isn't about performing "authenticity" for its own sake. It's about understanding why certain behaviours exist (most have practical or historical roots), knowing when they matter, and recognising when they don't. A high-end omakase counter in Ginza operates differently from a conveyor-belt chain in Osaka, and the etiquette scales accordingly. Both are legitimate ways to eat sushi; the expectations just shift.
At an omakase counter
Eat each piece in one bite. Cutting nigiri is considered a small insult to the chef who shaped it. The single-bite rule exists because the rice-to-fish ratio, the vinegar seasoning, and the wasabi placement are all calibrated for one moment of flavour. Halving a piece throws that balance off. If a piece genuinely looks too large (rare, but it happens), you can ask the chef for a smaller portion before they shape it - "sukoshi chiisaku dekimasu ka?" works, though most will adjust sizes intuitively for smaller diners. At very traditional counters, the chef may shape each piece specifically for the person in front of them, accounting for mouth size and appetite as the meal progresses.
Soy sauce on the fish, not the rice. The standard move is to flip the nigiri so the fish dips, not the rice (which falls apart). This takes a bit of practice with chopsticks, less with hands. The rice is already seasoned with vinegar - shari, the proper term - and dunking it into soy dilutes that carefully tuned acidity. It also makes the rice soggy and prone to collapse. At some high-end counters, the chef will have already brushed the fish with nikiri (a soy-based reduction), in which case you don't dip at all. Watch the first piece: if it glistens, it's likely been pre-seasoned. When in doubt, eat the first piece plain and adjust from there.
Ginger between pieces, never on top. It's a palate cleanser, not a topping. Gari (pickled ginger) resets your taste buds between different fish, particularly when moving from oily species like mackerel to something delicate like flounder. Piling it onto nigiri is a visual marker of inexperience, though no one will scold you for it at casual spots. At omakase counters, the ginger is there to help you appreciate each piece on its own terms, not to mask or compete with the fish.
Wasabi: trust the chef. They've already added the right amount under the fish for omakase. You don't need to add more. The wasabi at a proper counter is likely fresh-grated hon-wasabi (real wasabi root), which is milder, sweeter, and more complex than the neon-green paste made from horseradish and mustard powder. The chef places a tiny amount - sometimes invisible - between the fish and rice to complement the specific cut. Adding extra wasabi to your soy dish signals either distrust or a preference for heat over subtlety. Both are fine at conveyor-belt chains where the wasabi is often the powdered kind and the fish is pre-portioned hours in advance. At omakase, it's a missed opportunity.
Hands or chopsticks for nigiri, chopsticks for sashimi. Both are correct; many traditionalists use hands for nigiri and a clean cloth on the counter to wipe. Using your hands is not casual or crude - it's often the preferred method at Edomae-style counters, where the rice is shaped warm and loosely enough that chopsticks can compress it. The oshibori (hot towel) at the start of the meal is there for a reason. Sashimi, by contrast, is always eaten with chopsticks, since there's no rice to hold. If you're unsure, watch the chef or the regular beside you. No one method is universally "correct"; it varies by region and even by restaurant.
Order matters
A traditional omakase moves from light to rich, a progression designed to build flavour without overwhelming your palate midway through. The sequence isn't arbitrary - it follows the logic of intensity, fat content, and preparation style.
- White fish (madai, hirame, suzuki): Delicate, clean, often served early. Red sea bream (madai) and flounder (hirame) have subtle sweetness that would be lost after fattier cuts.
- Silver fish (saba, kohada): Mackerel and gizzard shad, typically cured or marinated to mellow their oiliness. They bridge the gap between lean and rich.
- Red fish (akami, chu-toro): Lean tuna (akami) comes before medium-fatty tuna (chu-toro). The progression is intentional - you work your way toward intensity.
- Otoro: The fattiest part of the tuna belly. Served near the end because its richness can coat your palate and diminish everything after it.
- Marinated or cooked items (anago, tamago): Sea eel brushed with sweet tare sauce, or the slightly sweet tamago (egg omelette) that often closes the meal. These are palate-soothers after the intensity of otoro.
- Maki to finish: A simple tuna or cucumber roll, sometimes with scallion. It's a full stop, not a highlight.
Trust the order. Asking for o-toro first is a quiet faux pas - not offensive, but it marks you as someone prioritising luxury over experience. If you have a strong aversion to a particular fish (mackerel and sea urchin are common sticking points), mention it at the start, not mid-course. The chef will adjust. Most omakase menus are flexible within a structure; the sequence is the structure.
Prices for omakase vary wildly. Budget-friendly counters in neighbourhood spots might start around ¥4,000-¥6,000 for a full set; high-end Ginza or Roppongi counters can run ¥20,000-¥40,000 or more. The difference is ingredient sourcing (wild vs farmed, auction-grade tuna vs standard cuts), the chef's reputation, and the intimacy of the space. A ten-seat counter in Tsukiji run by a third-generation shokunin will charge more than a twenty-seat spot in Shinjuku with younger staff. Both can be excellent; know what you're paying for.
At a conveyor-belt place
All the rules above relax. Mix wasabi into the soy as you like, eat in any order, ask for the salmon roll (which doesn't exist in traditional Edomae sushi but is ubiquitous at casual chains). The casual sushi places - Sushiro, Hama-zushi, Kura Sushi, Genki Sushi - are designed for it. These are family restaurants, not temples of craft. Plates are colour-coded by price, typically starting around ¥110-¥165 per plate (two pieces), and you can order via tablet in multiple languages.
The experience is fundamentally different. The rice is machine-formed and held at room temperature, the fish is pre-sliced and refrigerated, and the wasabi is the powder-based kind. It's not lesser; it's a different category. Think of it as the difference between a pub lunch and a tasting menu. Both feed you, both have their place. Conveyor-belt spots are ideal for solo travellers on a budget, families with children who won't sit through omakase, or anyone wanting a quick, low-pressure introduction to the format.
You still shouldn't leave rice on your plate - finishing what you take is baseline manners across all Japanese dining - but no one is watching your soy-dipping technique or judging your use of ginger. The staff are often part-time university students, not career shokunin, and the emphasis is on efficiency and volume. Many chains have English menus and picture tablets; some have novelty systems where finished plates drop into a slot and you win a prize after every five. It's cheerful, not reverent.
Access is easy. Most chains are near train stations in any mid-sized city; Sushiro alone has over 600 locations nationwide. Expect queues at weekend lunchtimes (11:30-13:00) and early evenings (18:00-19:30). Weekday mid-afternoons are quieter. You take a numbered ticket, wait for your turn, and seat yourself when called. Solo diners are common. No reservation needed.
What to drink
Green tea (agari) is the default at sushi counters, served hot and free. It's slightly different from standard sencha - often made with roasted rice or coarser leaves - and meant to refresh between pieces without competing with the fish. You'll see a ceramic cup or yunomi in front of you; refill from the communal pot or ask the server.
Beer is common at casual spots, less so at high-end omakase unless the chef offers a pairing. Sake is the traditional match: the dryness cuts through fat, the subtle rice flavour doesn't overpower delicate fish, and the serving temperature (cool to room-warm) works across a long meal. If you want sake, ask for recommendations - many counters have house pours or regional bottles they're proud of. Don't guess; the chef knows which sake pairs with their rice seasoning and fish sourcing.
Some omakase counters actively discourage strong-flavoured drinks (heavy reds, cocktails) because they interfere with the progression. This isn't snobbery; it's the same logic as not wearing heavy perfume or aftershave. Sushi is a close-quarters, scent-sensitive experience. If you order wine, expect the chef to suggest whites or light reds, and expect to pay close to retail for the bottle.
Tipping
You don't. Service is included. This is universal across Japan, not specific to sushi, but it bears repeating because the instinct to tip runs deep for many Western visitors. Leaving cash on the counter can cause confusion or embarrassment; some servers will chase you down to return "forgotten" money. If you want to express gratitude beyond the standard "gochisousama deshita" at the end, consider bringing a small omiyage (regional sweet or snack) from your home country on a return visit. This is rare but appreciated at counters you plan to frequent.
At very high-end spots, a service charge (10-15%) may be added to the bill, listed as "service料" or similar. This is not a tip; it's a stated fee. You still don't add extra.
A small useful word
"Omakase de" - "you choose for me." Says everything you need to say. This phrase hands control to the chef, signals trust, and removes the pressure of ordering in a language you may not speak fluently. It's a compact way to say: I'm here for your expertise, I'll follow your lead, I respect the structure you've designed.
Alternatively, if you want to order specific pieces (okonomizushi style), you can point and say "kore, kudasai" (this, please) or name the fish if you know it: "maguro, kudasai" (tuna, please). Most chefs will ask "ikutsu?" (how many?) - hold up fingers to indicate. At omakase counters, à la carte ordering is less common but not forbidden, especially at the end of a set course if you want one more piece of something you loved.
Other helpful phrases: "oishii desu" (it's delicious - simple positive feedback), "okawari kudasai" (another, please - for tea or a second serving), "okanjou kudasai" (the bill, please). None are required. Gestures and politeness carry you a long way.
When to go, and what it costs
Lunchtime omakase sets (often called "nigiri lunch" or "omakase lunch") are significantly cheaper than dinner - sometimes half the price - and the fish quality is the same. The difference is portion size, fewer courses, and less one-on-one interaction with the chef (lunch services are faster). If budget is tight, book lunch at a place you'd struggle to afford at night. Many high-end counters offer lunch sets around ¥3,000-¥8,000 that would cost ¥15,000-¥25,000 after 18:00.
Reservations are essential at omakase counters, near-impossible to secure at famous spots without Japanese language skills or a concierge. Some counters are regulars-only (ichigen-san okotowari), though this is rarer than it used to be. If you're booking independently, try Omakase or TableCheck (both have English interfaces and partner with sushi counters in Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto). Expect to provide credit card details; no-shows are penalised.
Conveyor-belt chains don't take reservations. You queue, you wait, you eat. Budget ¥1,500-¥2,500 for a filling meal at Sushiro or Kura Sushi, more if you order premium plates (often marked with gold or black borders on the conveyor system).
Small practical details
Sit at the counter if you can, not at a table. The counter is where the interaction happens, where you can watch the knife work and ask quiet questions if the chef seems open to it. Some chefs will explain each piece ("this is iwashi from Chiba, served with grated ginger"); others work in near silence. Both styles are valid. Don't force conversation if the chef is focused.
Remove strong scents before sitting down. This means no heavy perfume, no cigarette smell if you've just smoked outside. Some high-end counters will politely ask you to step away and rinse if you've applied hand cream or scented lotion recently. The reasoning is straightforward: sushi relies on aroma as much as taste, and competing smells disrupt everyone's experience at a small counter.
Don't take flash photography of the chef or the workspace without asking. Some counters ban photos entirely; others are relaxed about it. If you want a shot of your plate, take it quickly and without disrupting the flow. Instagramming every piece while the chef waits to serve the next one is poor form.
Leave your phone face-down or in your pocket. This is broader Japanese dining etiquette, but it's especially relevant at counters where you're an arm's length from the chef. Scrolling while eating signals disinterest; taking calls mid-meal is nearly unthinkable. If you need to check your phone, step away from the counter.
