Negima Yakitori
Negima Yakitori, The Saison.
In the taxonomy of Japanese cuisine, yakitori often occupies an ambiguous space: a bar snack, a late-night indulgence, a charcoal-laced consolation after work.
But this belies its seriousness. Yakitori, in its truest form, is not casual food. It is performance. It is discipline. It is the quiet assertion that mastery can reside in the smallest of acts—threading a sliver of chicken onto a skewer, knowing exactly when to turn it.
The word yakitori translates, with deceptive simplicity, to "grilled bird." But the phrase conceals as much as it reveals. In practice, yakitori is not a single dish but an entire system of knowledge: a butcher’s cartography of the chicken, where each cut—thigh, breast, skin, cartilage, liver, heart—is honored for its texture, taste, and temperament over heat. In the hands of a skilled cook, the bird is not disassembled but re-articulated. The grill becomes a kind of sentence diagram: declarative, exacting, minimalist.
Among the myriad variations, negima holds a particular place of esteem. It is one of the most recognized and most deceptively complex types of yakitori, consisting of alternating pieces of chicken thigh and scallion (negi). On paper, the combination is mundane. In practice, it’s a study in contrast: the savory, juicy depth of dark meat against the sweet, aromatic sharpness of allium, all kissed by the smoke of binchotan, the high-carbon white charcoal favored for its purity and high heat. In well-made negima, the scallions should soften without collapsing, the chicken should glisten but never drip, and the tare—if used—should form a lacquer, not a sauce.
Negima’s elegance lies in its binary logic: one thing, then another. Meat, then vegetable. Fat, then fiber. The skewer itself becomes a form of punctuation. It structures the eater’s experience into rhythm and repetition. But like all forms of minimalism, it permits no shortcuts. The symmetry must be exact. The cuts must be even. Timing must not falter. What appears humble is, in fact, unforgiving.
Historically, yakitori emerged as a working-class food. In the Meiji era, when new legal codes allowed for broader consumption of meat, small stalls sprang up near train stations and factories, serving skewered chicken as a quick and affordable meal. These were not refined affairs. The meat was often low-grade, the grills makeshift. Yet over time, and especially in the postwar decades, yakitori became an object of connoisseurship. Specialized restaurants (yakitoriya) proliferated, with menus that read less like a list and more like a ledger of anatomical devotion.
In its modern expression, yakitori occupies a peculiar tension: it is both democratic and rarefied. You can eat it standing up on a Tokyo alleyway curb, or seated before a solemn chef who salts each skewer as if offering it to the gods. Both experiences are true. Both are correct. Because yakitori, in the end, is not defined by setting but by intention.
To eat negima yakitori, then, is to taste a series of precisions. The distance between pieces. The temperature of the coals. The way fat renders into the scallion, which softens in return. It is, like so much of Japanese culinary tradition, an essay in proportion. No component overwhelms. Each relies on the other to be legible.
In a time of culinary maximalism, where novelty often triumphs over technique, yakitori reminds us that greatness is sometimes found not in invention, but in repetition. Skewer after skewer, turn after turn—the gesture becomes ritual, and ritual becomes meaning.
Negima Yakitori, The Saison.
Ingredients
Makes about 12 skewers
1 lb. boneless skinless chicken thighs, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, finely grated
1 clove of garlic, finely grated
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons of rice vinegar
2 tablespoons sesame soil, plus more for cooking
1 bunch of scallions
12 wooden skewers
Directions
Mix together the ginger, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil, and rice vinegar and add to a bowl or plastic freezer bag along with the chicken. Place in the fridge and allow to marinate for at least an hour.
When ready to cook, slice the white and light green sections of the scallions into 1-inch pieces. Save the dark green portions of the scallion for another use.
Thread the chicken and scallion onto skewers in alternating fashion. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Heat a cast iron or grill pan over medium-high heat with sesame oil. When hot, add the skewers, cooking in batches if necessary.
When the chicken is slightly charred on one side, turn and cook the other side.
Place the skewers on a platter and serve with quartered lemons, if desired.