Matagi

Between Roppongi and Nishi-Azabu stands Matagi, a restaurant where wild game meets the quiet precision of Japanese craftsmanship. Chef Mamoru Oshima, once a kaiseki chef, opened the original Matagi in Hayama back in 2007 before moving to Tokyo. Most of his guests were already coming from the city, and he wanted them to linger without the long drive home — to slow down, eat, and feel the mountain in the middle of Tokyo.

The word Matagi means hunter, and Oshima lives the name. He still sources his meat directly through his own hunting routes, while stopping by Sajima Port every morning to pick up wild-caught fish from the Miura Peninsula. Nothing on the menu is farmed. Everything — from the wild boar and venison to the mushrooms that change with the season — comes from nature itself.

What makes Matagi unforgettable is its hot pot. The Inoshishi-Kuma Nabe, made with wild boar and bear, might be the most soulful nabe in Tokyo. The broth is a delicate miso base that slowly deepens as the meat cooks, drawing umami from burdock, daikon, maitake, nameko, and seri. The meat itself is handled with precision — the boar firm and sweet, the bear melting into the soup with a richness that never feels heavy. Every spoonful gathers more complexity until the final moment, when the remaining broth is turned into a thick, aromatic zousui rice porridge that captures everything the pot had to give.

Before the hot pot, most guests begin with grilled game cooked over real charcoal in the central hearth — venison with lean minerality, boar with crisp fat, bear with dense, almost sweet aroma. Each piece is clean, wild, and deeply satisfying.

The dining room feels like a hidden mountain lodge transplanted into the city: a large irori hearth glowing at the center, a handful of counter seats, and dim light reflecting off clay walls. The rhythm is slow and human. Oshima moves quietly between fire and counter, telling short stories about the hunt, the sea breeze at Sajima, or the taste of the first maitake of the season.

Matagi is not a show of wilderness; it’s a lesson in balance. Fire and patience. Mountain and city. The raw strength of game refined into quiet elegance. And when you reach the bottom of that pot, as the last warmth of the broth lingers, you understand exactly why this place exists.