Getting in is the first course: an emailed cipher, a Victorian mailbox on St. Marks, a passcode for an unmarked door. Inside is the "office" of Mr. Moto — a fictional 19th-century traveler whose supposed Japanese antiques line an eight-seat room that doubles as a private museum. The conceit is elaborate, but the Edomae omakase is no gimmick: twenty-one courses of nigiri cut from fish flown in from Toyosu, with a more modern wagyu-and-caviar menu early in the week. Afterward, a downstairs library of leather and artifacts invites you to linger. Reservations open monthly and disappear in minutes — half the fun is cracking the code to get one.