One thing is for sure, you don’t just stumble across Kushi-ya.
Tucked down Low Pavement in Nottingham, Kushi-ya is the kind of place that lives quietly – but speaks loudly in all the right circles. A backstreet Japanese-inspired eatery with a cult-like following, it’s been on the radar of serious food lovers for years. The sort of spot whispered about with a knowing nod: “You’ve got to go.”
But with a stripped-back frontage, a tiny dining room, and bookings that vanish the moment they open, getting a seat has become something of a local rite of passage. I booked two months in advance to land a Saturday night table at a semi-sensible hour – and even then, it felt like a win.
So when I finally made it in, I came ready. Appetite open. Expectations high. Palate poised.
And the verdict?
Easily one of the most exciting meals I’ve had in Nottingham in recent memory. A couple of service stumbles early on (we’ll get to those), but when it comes to food, flavour, and atmosphere? Kushi-ya absolutely delivers.
First Impressions. Great Taste, Shaky Start.
I arrived at Kushi-ya just before 7pm – excited, a little hungry, and more than ready to see what all the fuss was about. The table wasn’t quite ready, which was fine and we were shown to the bar area to wait – no more than ten minutes – but just long enough to soak up the space.
The restaurant is understated and beautiful. Clean lines, pale wood, soft lighting, and the gentle hum of conversation floating above the open kitchen. That calm, quietly confident energy where you instantly think: yep, the food here’s going to be good.
While we waited, we ordered cocktails – a Midori Sour and a Margarita – the kind of pre-dinner ritual that should ease you into the evening. But before the drinks even arrived, we were being shown to our table. They followed a few minutes later, perched neatly beside the menus.
No time to settle into the bar, no gentle slide into the evening – just a quick shuffle to the table and straight into service. I couldn’t help but feel a slight urgency behind it all, as if the next covers were already looming and the table needed to turn.
It was a small moment, but it shifted the energy. That jolt from pause to pace felt a little off – not dramatic, just enough to knock the start slightly sideways.
And it didn’t stop there. We’d barely taken our seats for two minutes when a waitress appeared to take our order. I asked for a little more time – she smiled, nodded, and stepped away. But less than a minute later, a different waitress appeared with the same question. I explained we’d already been asked and we wanted more time to look at the menu.
These are the small details a good restaurant should absolutely have nailed – especially one operating at this level. Feeling even momentarily like you’re in a fast food chain isn’t the vibe, particularly when the pricing suggests something far more polished. When you’re paying for considered food, you expect a considered experience to match.
Thankfully, things settled quickly after that. Our waitress gave us time to explore the menu properly, the cocktails arrived, and we finally felt like we could relax into the evening.
So we did what any sensible person would do. We started with snacks in abundance – and went in hungry…
The Snacks.
Let’s talk about this pickle plate. Because I could, genuinely, talk about it for days. Each bite was its own little flavour bomb – punchy radish, sweet-sour pickled tomatoes that practically burst on the tongue, gently pickled fennel, soft pickled Shiitake mushrooms. Clean, sharp, savoury – it was the kind of plate that makes you pause mid-chew and go: yep, that’s really bloody good.
Padron peppers arrived glistening and hot enough to burn your fingertips. Did that stop me? Absolutely not. They were smoky, salty, with just the right amount of bite – messy, simple, totally satisfying. Exactly what a good snack should be. Snackable.
Next up, the edamame. Now, I’ve had a lot of edamame in my life – but this was something else. Smoky, spicy, glossy with some sort of soy-chilli glaze I wanted to bottle and take it home. Easily the best I’ve ever tasted. Moreish doesn’t even cover it.
And then… the prawn toast. Christ. That prawn toast.
Thick-cut, golden, outrageously crisp. Topped with furikake, finished with a creamy drizzle, and – crucially – packed with proper prawn. Not a faint smear or vague suggestion, but actual generous chunks. It was hot, salty, rich, and completely addictive.
I could’ve eaten fifteen without hesitation.
The Mains. Full Table, Full Senses
There’s something genuinely brilliant about watching a table slowly fill with food. The colours, the smells, that chaos of not knowing where to start first – it’s exciting. And at Kushi-ya, when the food lands, it really lands. Pretty much everything we ordered arrived at once – full tablescape moment.
Visually, it was a dream. But truthfully? It was a bit much, all at once. I know that’s the deal with small plates – things come when they’re ready – but we still had empty snack bowls and edamame skins in the way, and not a fresh plate in sight for the mains. I had to ask for some, which isn’t the end of the world, but when a place has this sort of established rep, you sort of expect the service to match. You want it to feel seamless – not like you’re still clearing space when the stars of the show arrive.
That said, once we shuffled things around and made some room (on the table and in our heads), we got stuck in. And from there? It just got better and better.
The onigiri was, without question, one of my absolute favourites. A dish that looks unassuming on paper, but arrives like a little bowl of drama – golden, crispy rice shaped into a neat block, perched in a pool of smoky, spicy broth, topped with a soft yolk, charred corn, and a pile of spring onions. It was sensational.
The rice had that perfect crunch on the outside, while staying soft and pillowy inside. The broth was rich and punchy – a little heat, a little sweetness, and that slick of chilli oil tying it all together. Every spoonful had contrast: crisp and soft, sweet and sharp, clean and indulgent. If I could have bottled the broth and taken it home, I would’ve.
The pork shoulder was more than just a dish – it was an event, and rightly so priced at £18.50 for the plate. Delivered with crisp lettuce leaves, paper-thin daikon, a mound of golden panko scraps, what tasted like a zingy Japanese-style sauerkraut, and even a tiny bottle of sriracha, it was clearly made for building.
Hands-on, no rules. Just layer it up and make it yours.
The pork itself was sticky, slow-cooked and lacquered with a soy glaze so shiny it almost looked shellacked – – deep, sweet, and unapologetically rich. When wrapped with the cool crunch of lettuce, the sharp daikon, a sprinkle of the tangy kraut and a hit of heat from that dinky little sriracha bottle, the whole thing came alive. Every bite was a different texture, a different balance – soft, crisp, hot, cool, sharp, sweet. A DIY moment that didn’t feel like a gimmick – just good food, cleverly presented.
Then came the prawn sando – and honestly, I’m still thinking about it.
Two soft slices of crustless white bread, pillowy like the inside of a brioche, holding together a thick slab of golden prawn katsu. The coating was crisp and hot, the inside tender and juicy, and the whole thing slathered with a gochujang Marie Rose sauce that somehow managed to be spicy, sweet, tangy and creamy all at once.
It was messy in the best possible way. Sauce down your fingers, crumbs on the plate, no way to eat it neatly. And who cares? It was comforting and filthy and completely glorious – like a chip butty that’s gone to Tokyo and come back cultured.
I’d go back for this alone.
The bitter leaf salad was an unexpected standout – bold, beautiful, and packed with punch. A vibrant tangle of crisp radicchio and sweet, slippery papaya, dressed in a fiery orange wafu sauce scattered with crunchy balls that popped with every bite. Visually, it was a stunner. And flavour-wise? It walked a daring tightrope.
There was bitterness – unapologetic and sharp, especially from the radicchio – and while it might’ve leaned a touch too heavy on that note for me personally, the contrast it created with the fruit and those tiny bursts of crunch was electric. It wasn’t a soft, forgettable side. It was vivid, lively, and confidently different.
The tiger prawn skewer was elegance on a stick. Six plump, pearlescent prawns, grilled until just set – still juicy, still tender, with that barely-there char whispering through each bite. You could taste how clean and carefully they’d been prepped – no rubbery chew, no gritty surprises, just that sweet, ocean-fresh bite you cross your fingers for every time you order shellfish.
The glaze – a glossy peanut butter miso – brought depth and richness without overshadowing the delicacy of the prawn. Salty, slightly earthy, and beautifully balanced. It clung to the curve of each prawn like a satiny coat, adding just enough boldness to make you slow down and savour it. Precise, punchy, and beautifully done.
The Japanese sausage from the specials board came with a slick of curry ketchup, and while it didn’t try to steal the spotlight, it knew exactly what it was doing. The sausage was dense, juicy, with a proper snap to the skin – flame-kissed in places, with just enough char to make each bite feel satisfying.
What elevated it was that sauce. The curry ketchup added a nostalgic, slightly sweet hit of spice that pulled everything together. It wasn’t complex, but it didn’t need to be – it was comfort food done well. Straightforward, confident, and quietly addictive.
The grilled oyster mushrooms were one of the more quietly luxurious dishes of the night. Nestled in a pool of koji soy and topped with a glossy, golden egg yolk, they arrived looking silky and deeply savoury – all soft edges and warm, earthy tones.
The mushrooms were grilled until just the right side of tender, their ruffled edges catching the char while the middles stayed plump and meaty. Stirring the yolk into the sauce turned it into something rich and velvety, almost like a broth-meets-sauce situation. It coated the mushrooms beautifully, bringing out their umami and giving the dish this deeply savoury depth that lingered long after the plate was cleared.
Less dramatic than other dishes, but quietly excellent.
Take a little bow, Kushi-ya!
The Karaage chicken was everything you want it to be – hot, golden, and straight from the fryer. Burnt my mouth due to being stupidly impatient! Lightly dusted, no greasy heaviness, just a thin, crisp shell that gave way to juicy, perfectly seasoned chicken. The kind of crunch you can hear before you taste.
What made it sing was the yuzu kosho mayo on the side – bright, citrusy, with a subtle fermented heat. It cut through the richness in exactly the right way, giving each bite this sharp, peppery lift. It was one of those sauces you start dragging other things through once the chicken’s gone. Lettuce, stray pieces of mushroom… maybe even a finger swipe when no one’s looking. Guilty as charged.
Dessert was a delightful little surprise in the best possible way. The black sugar parfait didn’t just hint at sticky toffee pudding – it was sticky toffee pudding, reimagined. All the deep molasses warmth, that almost-treacle note, and the unmistakable richness – just served cold, with a texture so silky it practically disappeared on the tongue.
It was wildly decadent, with this beautiful tension between sweet and savoury thanks to the black sugar’s burnt caramel depth and the crisp, toasty hit of the sesame shard balanced on top. One of those desserts that completely catches you off guard, and has you scraping the plate clean before you even realise.
A proper ending – bold, unexpected, and absolutely unforgettable.
We rolled out of Kushi-ya somewhere between blissfully full and borderline delirious.
Thirteen dishes, two cocktails, zero regrets – just a lot of finger-licking, sauce-dragging, menu-savouring joy.
It’s not showy. There’s no big performance. It’s the kind of place that knows exactly what it’s doing – and does it quietly, confidently, and with a lot of style.
A few small service hiccups held it back from a better score for me – nothing major, but enough to remind you that the full experience matters just as much as what’s on the plate. That said, the food was so strong, I’d go back in a heartbeat. Especially once the menu changes – I’m already curious to see what comes next!
Final score? 8.7/10
14a Low Pavement, Nottingham, NG1 7DL. Tel: 0115 9411369
