The first surprise is the colour. It arrives black, and it has not been burnt. Fat drips from the chicken onto the charcoal, catches fire, and the smoke that comes back up wraps the meat and stains it. The cooking is half grilling and half smoking, and it happens fast, over a fire considerably hotter than seems wise. The colour is not a sign that something has gone wrong; it is the point of the method.

The seasoning is salt. Nothing else touches it before the fire — no marinade, no sauce, only rough chunks of thigh laid straight onto the grill and turned once or twice. The meat is firm to the point of being tough, and the flavour arrives late, on the fourth or fifth chew. If you are used to soft chicken it will feel like a mistake for about a minute.

It comes with yuzu kosho, and with cucumber or raw cabbage alongside, and sometimes with grated daikon. The green things reset your mouth. Then you begin again.

This is a dish that loses badly on looks. Black, plain, more or less impossible to photograph, it will never be the picture anyone puts on a poster for the prefecture. But the smell of it — charcoal and chicken fat and citrus pepper drifting out of a doorway — attaches itself to the memory of the place, and afterwards you find yourself looking for it every time you come back.