The Story of Aji Sushi MTL: A Counter Born of Conviction

Every restaurant has an origin story. Most of them involve chance as much as intention. Aji is unusual in that almost nothing about it was accidental. The name, the size, the location, the format: each was chosen after long deliberation by a chef who had spent thirty years figuring out exactly what he wanted to do and where he wanted to do it.

The Name: Aji

The character 味, aji, means flavour or taste in Japanese. It appears in compound words throughout the language: umami (旨味, the fifth taste), ajiwau (味わう, to savour), and in the names of countless dishes and restaurants. It is a simple, direct word with deep resonance in the culinary tradition.

Aji is also the common name for horse mackerel, a silvery, firm-fleshed fish that has been central to the edomae sushi tradition since the 19th century. Aji the fish is prized for its clean flavour and the fact that it demands precise preparation: it has a thin layer of fat under the skin that can go wrong quickly if the chef is not careful.

The name works on both levels simultaneously: it announces a philosophy of flavour and names a fish that embodies the values of the kitchen. For anyone who knows the edomae tradition, hearing the name is a signal. For everyone else, it is simply a good name.

Why Fourteen Seats

The number fourteen is not arbitrary. It is the result of a clear calculation: what is the largest number of guests a single chef can genuinely serve at a counter while remaining fully present for each one?

At fourteen seats, Chef Yamamoto can make eye contact with every guest without moving from his station. He can see when a piece has landed well, when someone is hesitating over a flavour they have not encountered before, when the pace needs to slow down or pick up. These small adjustments happen continuously during service, and they require proximity.

Beyond fourteen, the chef loses that connection. The room becomes a production, not a conversation. And production, however precise, is not what Aji is for.

The decision to stay small was also a statement about what the restaurant would not become. Aji was not built to scale. It was built to remain exactly what it is.

Why Rosemont

Rosemont is a neighbourhood, not a restaurant district. Its main commercial streets, including Saint-Zotique Est, are anchored by local businesses that serve a residential community. There are grocers, bakeries, a few good bars, the occasional excellent small restaurant. It is not a zone where tourists arrive for dinner.

That was part of the appeal. Chef Yamamoto was not interested in opening in a neighbourhood where restaurants compete for foot traffic from visitors. He wanted a location where regulars could build a relationship with the counter over time, where the clientèle would be drawn by conviction rather than convenience.

The specific space at 929 Saint-Zotique Est suited the format: a long, narrow room that lent itself naturally to a counter configuration. The kitchen could be open without reconstruction. The proportions were right.

Why Edomae

The edomae tradition was not chosen for its prestige. It was chosen because it matched the chef's convictions about what good cooking is. Edomae is not minimalist in the sense of being reduced to the bare minimum: it is specific, technically demanding, and deeply attentive to the ingredient.

The tradition requires the chef to make active decisions about each fish: is this piece better served immediately, or does it benefit from twenty-four hours of aging? Should this mackerel be vinegar-cured or simply pressed with kombu? These choices are not decorative. They change the flavour, and they change it deliberately.

Edomae also places the rice at the centre of the equation. The shari, the seasoned rice, is not a vehicle. It is half the dish. That emphasis resonates with Chef Yamamoto's training: spend six months learning to make perfect rice before touching the fish.

How Aji Has Evolved

The format has not changed: fourteen seats, edomae omakase, BYOB, Chef Yamamoto at the counter. What has changed is the depth of the relationships: with suppliers, with regulars, with the city's food community.

The sourcing has deepened over time. Fish that was difficult to find in Montréal in the early years is now more accessible, partly because the city's Japanese restaurant scene has grown and created more demand, and partly because the chef has built direct relationships with suppliers who understand what he is looking for.

The menu, which is to say the sequence, continues to evolve with the seasons and with the chef's ongoing study of the tradition. Trips to Japan, conversations with other chefs, the discovery of a technique or a supplier: these feed into the counter without ever changing its essential character.

Aji is a small restaurant that has never aspired to be a large one. That constraint has turned out to be its greatest strength.