When I turn down the street, I stop at this popular restaurant, Kakiya, and notice the woman’s meditative precision while oyster cracking. She never looks up as her brother dances around the hot grill. He prods the flaming coals and turns the shells as they explode and spit dangerous bits of shrapnel in retaliation to the heat. The man’s reddened and pockmarked face shows the hazards of his profession. The place offers oysters in an array of incarnations: battered and fried, wrapped in sticky rice and seaweed, served with udon noodles in oyster soup. But my order falls in line with the sight and smell: grilled simply in their nakedness. They’re smoky, natural and meaty. This is my new favorite oyster.