Gochi Food Experience
Għajn Tuta Street,
Fontana, Gozo
Tel: 9921 4134

Food: 9/10
Service: 9/10
Ambience: 9/10
Value: 9/10
Overall: 9/10

Every bone in my body is telling me not to write this. The monkey inside is screeching, the primal voice of self-preservation that argues in favour of keeping good things to myself. But I like to think I’ve evolved a little, and that less body-hair and a two-legged gait aren’t all I have to show for it.

So here I am, spreading the word of an eatery that isn’t even open to the public. And its appointment-only nature is a definite part of the charm. But charm is nowhere near enough to keep me coming back for more.

It starts with a chef who’d had enough of preparing industrial quantities of commercial sushi for a bustling St Julian’s audience and decided he’d move away from the crazy. So he closed shop, moved to Gozo, and did not open a restaurant there. But he’s an artist inside and he has to cook, just like he has to make music and images, to express a wild imagination.

The place he quite strategically moved to happened to have a commercial kitchen, a small inside dining area, and a lovely terrace about a floor above street level, overlooking the natural stream in Fontana.

Even more strategic is his partner in all things, the angel of front of house service, and excellent chef in her own right. Masako and Miro complement each other like the components of an elusive umami.

Restaurants like Miro’s cleave the brave and the adventurous from those who seek a more familiar and reliable dining experience. If I’m in a mood for the familiar, I’ll go to a pizzeria I know, for instance, and order the simplest, most comforting pizza on the menu. But most of the time, I want to be surprised.

To write about food, as a chef recently reminded me, you must have no eating disorders, allergies, or qualms. You must also have the culinary morals of the ravenous vulture that circled Noah’s Ark, hoping for the worst. Once, in Osaka, accompanied by Miro, I ate raw chicken in six different forms. It was the best I’ve ever eaten chicken and I survived to tell the tale.

Two things should have emerged by now. One is that I will be open to absolutely any food at least once. The other is that, having been fed by the chef in question many, many times, this review is shaped by my friendship with, and admiration for, the lovely couple.

So here’s a begrudgingly written and inevitably biased account of a restaurant I desperately want to keep to myself.

If you want to eat there, you’d need to call or text the number above. Don’t just turn up and hope for the best. Miro will head out and buy ingredients that are available to him and prepare a meal based on what’s seasonal.

If you have any specific dietary requirements, you can let him know beforehand and, if he can, he will modify your meal accordingly. His vegan ramen, for instance, is something to behold.

But don’t expect a menu. Just turn up with an appetite and a healthy curiosity and let the chefs do their thing. One of the first times I visited, the first dish was a little bowl of sliced tofu in cold dashi, with a little miso and fresh wasabi on top. It’s a dish I’d seen often and it was impeccably executed. Miro turned up, announcing that it was fresh, local ġbejna.

Just turn up with an appetite and a healthy curiosity and let the chefs do their thing

He’d marinated the local cheese to a point where it acquired the consistency of tofu, riffing on a traditional dish and using pro­perly local ingredients. The next appetiser was a similarly presented dish. “Ġidra!” he ex­claimed, heralding the humble vegetable like it were coated in gold leaf. Once again, it had been cooked in a way unfamiliar to me and served in a broth of his devising. The result is wholly unfamiliar and deeply satisfying.

The last time I visited was with a group of close friends, all of whom are up for a meal that’s surprising and well-executed. I let Miro know we’re coming and that we’re all ‘ok with everything’.

The first dish he presented was one of tuna trimmings. In an effort to use all of the fish, it is common practice to take the trimmings around the fillet that will be served as sashimi and turn them into a dish. The fatty bits, tasty but unsightly, are marinated and served in a little bit of dashi.

We dug in, our palates taken on a quick trip around fatty, sharp, sweet, and umami, with a hint of sour from a distant citrus. Next came the tuna itself, cut into tidy rectangles of sashimi. The tuna was an excellent fish, the likes of which usually leaves our shores without us having access to it.

Next to the tuna was a small cone of what I presumed would be wasabi ‒ Miro buys the root and grates his own so there’s never any of that evil, fluorescent, green paste from a tube here. It wasn’t. In Fukoaka, a city on the island of Kyushu, they serve something different. This was a concoction made of yuzu rind (the intense citrus that finds its way into plenty of Japanese food and drink), salt, and chilli. It is very concentrated, so a tiny speck of it adds zest, salting, and heat to the tuna. It doesn’t take over though. It soars above the fatty flesh, broadening its palatal experience in unexpected ways.

We were drinking sake and beer. Miro said he doesn’t know enough about wine to buy it and sell it at his place. You’re free to bring your own against a corkage fee.

Next up was one of Osaka’s most widely known forms of street food. Takoyaki, balls of piping hot dough around a small piece of octopus, are served with what I consider to be a rather trashy topping of mayonnaise and takoyaki sauce that’s got all the makings of a mild barbecue sauce. There’s a hint of sweet, a hint of sour, and it’s a source of salt. And I love it.

The evil balls of runny goodness retain an amount of heat that seems to defy all of nature’s laws, so do give them a moment to cool. They can’t be cold though, so getting the temperature just right is an essential and wholly worthwhile pursuit.

Miro’s ramen is inconsistent. This is not a bad thing. He keeps perfecting and changing his broth depending on what’s in season and which ingredient is his obsession du jour. I’ve had his pork bone broth and it is as close to ramen in Japan as I’ve got. This time it was a chicken based broth and there’s everything in there to recommend it.

Miro’s is not London ramen, trying to ‘fuse’ Californian styles with a variant of Japanese origin that ends up ruining them both. It does what ramen is meant to ‒ it’s a meal that contains everything one needs to get through the day, eaten within a short time and costing what the average worker spends on lunch. It is a staple and Miro prepares it as such. My only gripe is the egg. I like the perfect ramen egg, where the yolk is cooked to the point where it just doesn’t run, and Miro goes a few seconds beyond. He will read this, hate me for it, and then go down a rabbit hole of perfecting egg technique.

Finishing a meal with Masako’s pudding is a delight. Think of a very mildly sweetened pannacotta and you’re in the right mindspace. Then top it with a glaze of caramel made out of brown sugar from Osaka and a tiny topping of sweet, fermented bean. It’s unusual and it’s a showstopper.

No matter what I’ve eaten when I’ve been, I’ve never paid more than €30 for the food. I’ve topped that with modest bills for copious amounts of decent but inexpensive sake. And every time I walked away with a meal that was memorable for all the right reasons. There’s love and innovation poured into every dish, there is a definite sense of place that is like a silk thread from Gozo to Japan, and the experience is dotted with tiny surprises so there’s always a reason to go back for more.

If you must, book yourselves a table. Go there with an open mind and the will to learn tidbits about food from a chef who is happy to share his passion and knowledge. The monkey inside me is still screeching.

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