Bentoteca: Freedom Without a Star

In 2020, Yoji Tokuyoshi returned his Michelin star, not as a provocative gesture, nor out of exhaustion or fear. After the pandemic, much had changed. His delivery project took on a life of its own, and Tokuyoshi realised that the format that had consecrated him no longer served him. In the same space, he opened Bentoteca, transforming the fine-dining restaurant that bore his name into something looser and more immediate. Ritual gave way to freedom, and the restaurant began welcoming whoever walked in — whether to have lunch, to talk, or to eat.

I have followed his path since his days as Bottura’s sous-chef at Osteria Francescana. Over the years, I read interviews and articles, saved recipes, and built an idea. When I finally sat at the Bentoteca counter, I realised I had spent years listening to the records without ever going to the concert. The music, it turned out, was now different.

When it finally happened, there was no star, no ceremony: just the counter, Yoji, and the rare sensation of arriving, at last, on time.

The right place

The room keeps the structure and design of the former starred restaurant, but it has lost its pose. Light pours generously through the front window on a summer afternoon. Emerald-green walls and wood warm the space, drawing it closer to the comfort of home.

The dining room was packed, like a neighbourhood restaurant. Regulars mixed with newcomers like me. There was conversation, glasses clinking, a living rhythm that many ambitious restaurants lose along the way.

From the counter, I watched Yoji work, his movements precise and unhurried. The focus of someone who fully masters his craft, balanced by an easy, unforced looseness. His cooking brings together top-tier Italian ingredients with Japanese technique and attention to detail. Some call it fusion, but the word falls short. What happens here is something else: a delicate coexistence of cultures without borders.

Tuna, and where it comes from

The meal began with a tuna tasting: toro, chutoro, akami, chiai, and zuniku. Precise cuts, treated with the care and respect this fish demands. The tuna comes from Tunipex, in the Algarve — a Portuguese operation run by Japanese hands, where the fish is processed and frozen just hours after being caught. There is something circular about it: a Japanese chef in Milan serving Portuguese tuna handled by Japanese hands. The Atlantic is closing a loop that began in the Pacific.

Chutoro is almost always my choice. This time was no exception. Controlled fat, balance — a cut that rewards those who prefer subtlety over excess. Akami brought sea and flesh, paired with a discreet sweetness sharpened by tomato acidity.

But it was the chiai — the dark section near the spine, so often discarded — that revealed Tokuyoshi’s idea of a zero-waste kitchen. Marinated and coated in toasted sesame sauce, it showed that secondary parts can be a luxury too.

The tuna cheek, the zuniku, arrived confit, rich in collagen, accompanied by fresh mizuna that balanced its richness. Toro, meanwhile, did what it does best: intensity, umami, immediate pleasure.

The defining dish

Orto, miso e stracciatella. If there is a dish that sums up Tokuyoshi’s cooking, it is this one. Seasonal vegetables — grilled, boiled, pickled — bound by miso scented with sansho pepper and by the creamy richness of stracciatella, punctuated with salsa verde.

Sansho brought that almost citrusy numbness I recognise from other Japanese kitchens. The stracciatella acted as a dairy anchor, balancing the greener notes. A dish built on the quality of garden vegetables, with no need to impress through luxury or rarity.

Alongside it came an octopus with short-fermented kimchi, gentler than the traditional Korean version. The octopus was tender, the vegetables still textured, a discreet sweetness rounding out the cephalopod. The octopus surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it, but it did.

Tongue in bread

The tongue katsusando deserves a paragraph to itself. Veal tongue cooked slowly at low temperature, breaded in panko, fried until golden, served in shokupan — the Japanese milk bread produced at Yoji’s own bakery, Pan. With that soft, yielding texture, even after toasting.

The tongue was tender without falling apart. Spinach mayonnaise added richness and freshness. Pickled red cabbage closed with acidity. I know people who turn their noses up at offal — this dish would convince many of them, provided they weren’t told what it was.

Small luxuries

The zensai arrived in a rising sequence. Whelks stewed in sweet soy and ginger. I ordered more with my eyes. An elegant, fresh cuttlefish tartlet, a egg yolk marinated wagyu carpaccio, discreet and straightforward — which I avoid comparing to the tuna, as they belong to different worlds, and I favour the marine one.

The surprise came with the asparagus. A classic shiroae (mashed tofu and sesame), crowned with caviar. Earth, fermented seasoning, and marine salinity work together. One of those luxuries that arrive without warning and linger for a long time.

The paradox

On a scorching day in Milan, Tokuyoshi served me a hot consommé. It made no sense — and yet it made perfect sense.

The broth arrived clear and aromatic, with noodles. On the side, a wagyu ragù with sansho leaf and gelatine to be added to the noodles. I drank it slowly. Outside, forty degrees; inside, the heat of the broth meeting the heat of the body, a strange calm settling in. The kind of comfort any menu needs.

Land and sea

The main course paired duck and eel. The magret arrived pink and juicy. The grilled eel — without the sweet kabayaki glaze — served as a bridge between the meat slices. On the side, aubergine and seasonal broad beans, all held together by a rich, indulgent sauce.

If I had to choose a climax, it wouldn’t be here. The peak lay earlier, somewhere between the tuna cuts and the asparagus crowned with caviar. Dishes where the ingredient leads and the technique serves. Here, technique still wanted the spotlight — typical of fine dining — and there is nothing wrong with that: even the best albums have transitional tracks.

The final touch

Dessert arrived ambitious: chocolate mousse, almond biscuits, peach, anko, hazelnut crumble, grape and strawberry ice cream. A lot is happening on the plate, perhaps too much. The chocolate was good, the anko slightly unbalanced, the whole lacking the clarity of what came before. After a meal with such a strong identity, the dessert felt designed by politicians: competent, cautious, eager to please everyone, and unwilling to risk displeasing anyone.

I made a note of the Basque-style cheesecake I saw going to another table. Sometimes the right choice is the simplest one.

Wine: a surprise

The wine list is anything but decorative or negligible. It is, in fact, another of the good legacies of the fine dining that once lived here. Small producers, garage projects, and names like Selosse, Coche-Dury, Bernard-Bonin, or Pacalet are all present.

We began with a non-alcoholic option, Arensbak Rosé of elderflower and pink pepper, kombucha-based, which paired with the tuna cuts, offering notes of wild berries and hibiscus. Then came a white from Campania, Valhsassoh 33/33/33 2020, paired with the octopus and vegetables. A surprising wine, full of character, with an almost enigmatic depth. It charmed.

The sense of surprise continued with the noodles: Philippe Foreau Vouvray Réserve Brut 2005. A sparkling wine nearly twenty years old, fine, evolved, complex, and mineral. A safe choice from someone who knows not only how to serve, but how to cellar.

The duck called for red. It arrived as a beautiful Gattinara Vigna Moisino 2018 from Cantina Nervi, now under the stewardship of Roberto Conterno — a more restrained, elegant, finely tuned expression of Piedmont, far from the opulence of a Barolo. Dessert closed with a Ferrandes 2018 passito from Pantelleria.

A final note

I left as the restaurant was nearly empty. Some people work and don’t linger over tasting lunches midweek. I increasingly enjoy lunches like this. Perhaps it’s age arriving earlier than expected — or simply good sense.

But back to Bentoteca. What Yoji Tokuyoshi has built here is not a lesser version of what came before. It is a more honest one, more open, more at ease with the world. The technique and rigour remain, the produce is still impeccable, but the room has lost its solemnity and gained life.

It is essential for anyone who enjoys Japanese-rooted cooking. I will return — this time without waiting years to taste Yoji’s food again. That much is certain.

Bentoteca is what happens when a cook stops worrying about what things should be and starts doing what he wants. By chance, what he wants is also what we need: a Japanese restaurant in Milan where you eat as if you were at home, but in a home better than your own.