A Story of Four Sets in Melbourne (Part Two ft. Wabi Wabi & Ima Asa Yoru)
Read Part 1 Here ➡️ : A Story of Four Sets in Melbourne Part 1
If Part One was a soft reset, Part Two is the crunchy comeback.
By now, I’d shaken off the travel daze. My iced long black dependency was stabilising. The city felt less foreign. And with two set meals behind me, I was fully committed to the bit: four bowls, four restaurants, one slightly chaotic food spiral.
🍗 Bowl III: Fried Chicken, Stairwells, and Self-Control ft. Wabi Wabi Salon
Maximalist décor, teishoku dreams, and the kind of fried chicken that almost derailed my self-restraint.
The final stop in my trilogy of Melbourne set meals didn’t happen quietly. It happened after a slow morning of indulgent delusion — where I played out my writer-in-a-novel fantasy at Proud Mary Espresso (ranked among the world’s top four coffee shops, I’ll have you know) and forgot that time, hunger, and lunch queues were real.
By the time I arrived — 12:07pm — there was already a line. The restaurant opened at 12.
My stomach had opinions.
My heart had hope.
Earlier today, I had walked past three other Japanese restaurants in the same block, each one whispering temptation. But I stood firm. I wanted this place. I wanted teishoku. I wanted fried chicken. And I was not going to settle for less.
When the waiter finally waved us in, it felt like the gates of heaven creaking open. A deep, exhausted sigh escaped me. This — this was where all my food dreams would come true.
The interior was a maximalist fantasy. A Japanese night market had exploded across the walls — paper signs, vending machine tags, sake labels, anime posters, faux neon, and the occasional plastic squid. It was like someone googled “Japanese aesthetic” and then hit print all.
The waiter led us up a narrow staircase, ducking under a wooden beam like we were entering a hidden tavern quest. We emerged in what I can only describe as the 1.5th floor — a low-ceilinged mezzanine with veranda seating overlooking the ground floor. Not totally sure it was legal, but absolutely sure it was charming. It felt like dining at the opera — except the opera was the chaotic symphony of humans below slurping ramen and taking Instagram Stories.
I ordered the shio-koji chicken karaage teishoku, obviously.
When it arrived, the two girls next to me audibly gasped, “Oh my god, that’s so much food!” and immediately regretted ordering their own dishes. Meanwhile, I looked at my tray and quietly thought:
This is a warm-up plate.
What should I eat after this?
But then I took my first bite.
The chicken was perfect. Juicy, bursting with flavour, the lightest of batter clinging to it like a silk robe — not oily, not heavy, just crisp enough to contrast the soft thigh meat underneath. You know when fried chicken crunches without crumbling? This did that.
I had two dipping methods —
The standard: a mayo infused with oil and Japanese pickled ginger. Tangy, savoury, a little zing of heat.
The chaotic genius: I made a personal oyakodon hack by dipping a piece into the onsen egg, letting the yolk coat the crisp skin in golden richness. Parent, child, and chaos united in one glorious bite. The Japanese may be savage for naming conventions, but they understood the concept.
And then — the side dishes.
I don’t know what it is about a tray of tiny plates, but it makes me feel like royalty. Like someone sat down and thought, she deserves variety.
Maybe it’s because I never make this many dishes for myself at home, but when a restaurant does it, it feels like a love letter.
Here’s what I got:
Potato salad – lightly dressed, thankfully not drowning in mayo, with large chunks of carrot (my nemesis) that were mercifully easy to remove.
Pickled spinach – sweet, Korean-style, with sesame and the gentlest umami. Like a palate lullaby.
Curried cauliflower – unexpectedly rich and spiced. Cozy.
Beetroot – crunchy?? But not raw. A balanced, slightly sweet bite that totally surprised me.
Shichimi-seasoned takana – giant leafy greens coated in a frankly dangerous amount of seven-spice powder. Not for me, but thrilling in a Russian roulette kind of way.
Soy-braised tofu – lightly fried and braised, with a mochi-like skin and that soft, spongey interior full of sauce. Texturally divine.
And a bowl of perfectly cooked rice, topped with three symbolic edamame — I don’t know why it mattered, but it felt important.
This was the kind of meal that could’ve gone on forever. I didn’t want it to end. I had to physically restrain myself from ordering the pumpkin-stuffed mushroom tempura with teriyaki-balsamic glaze because I knew, deep in my soul, I would spiral too far.
This was a perfect final note.
Tender chicken, tiny plates, and a precarious stairwell into joy.
And honestly?
Probably better than Japan — because I don’t think I’d be able to find this much gluten-free, dairy-free delight in one sitting over there.
This wasn’t just a set meal. It was the finale I deserved.
🍳 Bowl IV: Breakfast, Bookshelves, and a Tempura Triumph ft. Ima Asa Yoru
The sky was blue, the eggplant was golden, and the tofu came with a crunch.
The skies were blue. The birds were chirping.
And I was walking — walking with purpose. Walking towards what I’d mentally bookmarked as the prized Japanese breakfast set.
But first — a confession.
Always confessing.
I got lost.
I stumbled into Ima Pantry first — the cutest little Japanese grocery store, lined with matcha cups, tsukemono jars, shio koji bottles, and all the condiments your gluten-free dreams could handle. If it weren’t for the 30-degree forecast, I would’ve marched those pickles straight back to Brisbane like a food-mule on a mission.
Big round lanterns glowed above me, and for one brief, delusional moment, I hoped the restaurant would be tucked inside — some kind of pantry-to-table magic corridor. Spoiler: it was not.
Defeated, I circled the building like a headless bee until finally — there it was.
A door, nestled in a shady alleyway behind a veil of vines. A sacred entrance. At the time, it was just a door. But now? I know it was the gateway to food heaven: Ima Asa Yoru.
You don’t walk into this restaurant. You arrive.
There’s no host stand. No visible tables. Just open shelves, softly lit, displaying Japanese ceramics, cookbooks, and tiny design objects that whispered yes, you are very cultured for being here.
It was elegant. But cozy. Like Tokyo concept store meets breakfast nook.
The staff were running a little behind (they, unlike me, did not operate on Google Maps Opening Hour Time), so I was politely asked to wait. Naturally, I took this as a sign to take bookshelf selfies and pretend I was wandering a side street in Kyoto.
Let it be known: with just a phone timer and a wall to lean on, I captured some top-tier solo shots.
Finally — the doors opened, and the feast began.
I ordered the Agedashi Tofu Teishoku with a side of Tempura Eggplant — because if I learned anything from yesterday’s almost-order, it’s that when tempura calls, you answer.
The eggplant arrived first. Six pieces, each the size of my palm — golden, glistening, and practically singing under the morning sun. The batter was light, crisp, and aromatic, and the dipping sauce (some kind of mushroomy dashi elixir) gave full-bodied umami.
One bite — and BOOM. Juice. Everywhere.
Hot. Scalding. Almost sued-myself levels of lava. But delicious.
The eggplant was tender but not mushy, holding its shape like it had something to prove. A structural miracle.
Just as I was finishing my third bite, the teishoku tray arrived — and oh, what a tray it was:
The agedashi tofu, served warm and drenched in soy-based sauce, was topped with cold enoki, finely chopped spring onion, and a glorious snowstorm of shichimi togarashi. The tofu skin clung on like mochi, while the inside had airy pockets that soaked up flavour like a sponge. Every so often, the spice would kick — and honestly? Chef’s kiss.
The miso soup was simple but generous — with enoki, baby oyster mushrooms, and a subtle depth. A staple. The kind of quiet support that holds a meal together.
The potato salad. Oh. My. Goodness. This wasn’t just good — it was the kind of dish that makes you pause mid-chew and reassess your entire ranking of comfort foods. The potato was soft, buttery, and perfectly seasoned, collapsing in your mouth like a warm sigh. But what made it spectacular wasn’t just the creaminess — it was the contrast. Sprinkled on top were homemade tempura crumbs, lightly toasted and mixed with crushed seaweed. The result? A wave of umami, a crunch that broke through the softness like punctuation, and a texture so addictive I considered asking for a separate bowl of just that topping. It was playful, rich, and completely unexpected. I would come back for this alone.
A trio of vegetable sides, each offering something different:
Pickled bean sprouts — bright, crunchy, and delightfully tangy. I love tangy things, so I inhaled this portion before even inspecting it properly. Which is how, mid-bite, I discovered it was laced with finely chopped carrots — my mortal enemy. The betrayal was swift, but forgivable.
Boiled broccolini with black sesame sauce — an unexpected combo. I adore broccolini. I adore black sesame. But together? I’m not entirely sold. The sauce was earthy and thick, coating the florets in a way that muted their natural brightness. Not bad, but not what I was craving.
Three slices of radish, thick-cut and ice-cold, offering a neutral, watery crunch to help reset between bites — less a standout, more a necessary breath between flavour highs.
And finally, the rice: glistening sushi-grade, perfectly cooked. Moist yet chewy, the kind that almost deserves a slow clap.
I did several happy dances during this meal.
Subtle at first. Then increasingly unhinged.
Each bite was joy. Each side dish? A love note. And as I scooped up the final spoonful of rice, I let out a satisfied sigh — the kind that only happens when a meal truly lands.
This wasn’t just breakfast.
It was a full-body thank you from Melbourne. And I received it with open arms — and a slightly burnt tongue.
Final Crumbs (Part Two)
If Melbourne taught me anything, it’s that healing doesn’t always look like rest.
Sometimes, it looks like wandering around Fitzroy in 12-degree drizzle, debating whether you can justify a third lunch. Sometimes it’s pausing in front of another Japanese restaurant, wondering what if, and choosing not to spiral. Sometimes it’s fried chicken with seven side dishes and just enough self-control to not order the pumpkin-stuffed mushroom tempura.
These four meals didn’t change my life.
But they did change my week.
And when you’re cold, tired, and running on caffeine and vibes,
a good set menu is more than a meal — it’s a moment.
Thank you for coming to my edible memoir.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another iced long black to chase.
