The sushi's superb, but the wine comes in sips
Oh, Seiyo. What a tease! The hooch is right there in the window. And no one can have a drop. Not on the premises, not even just outside them. For reasons too bureaucratic to understand (''We're waiting for our liquor license from the city," blah blah blah), this new South End corner spot, with its enviable industrial decor, upscale demeanor, and affordable prices, is a sushi bar and wine shop that can only dream of letting you drink the merchandise.
Has Seiyo jumped the gun in a bid to get a headstart on the other sushi joints poised to attack the South End? Regardless, it's an outrage. And the comedy continues once the sommelier -- a nerdy, affable chap -- opens a few bottles for a tasting. Yup, while you're having a Sprite, a Coke, or a can of Pokka-brand jasmine green tea (which is like drinking a good fragrant soap), people are walking in off the street and having a glass of the Beaujolais. The difference between having a tasting and having a drink at Seiyo invites a spatial-relations debate of ''tomato-tomahto" proportions: It's OK to drink the wine at the tasting bar but not at the table? But you needn't call the whole thing off. The sushi more than makes up for the annoyance of having to look at people who've dropped in for a pour while they wait for takeout orders.
The menu is spread across a broad, single-sided sheet. It covers all the staples -- makis, nigiris, and sashimis -- and has some fun along the way. The boiled octopus is a relief and a delight: That rubber snap that often ruins it never arrives. The naruto is an achievement in visual design. Wedges of crabmeat, avocado, and little fish eggs are wrapped in a belt of cucumber. It looks like it could've popped off Willy Wonka's assembly line, and it tastes like summer.
The house-special makis are an adventure in eight pieces, regardless of which you choose. The spicy scallop is spread with a spicy mayonnaise, and the adventure could get underway with the first bite, which, on a recent night, was described by the biter as ''gritty." (This is how she prefers her Scorsese movies -- not her scallops.) Subsequent helpings were simply tasty, failing to turn up said grit. The ''Seiyo special maki" contains tuna, salmon, and cucumbers. The kick at the end is courtesy of the tail of shrimp tempura. The red dragon maki -- tuna hunks wrapped shamelessly in tuna sashimi -- is redundancy at its most delectable.
The ''sashimi regular" is chefs' choice: 10 slabs of alluring fish -- well, eight slabs and two sheets of surf clam. And the white albino tuna can take a bow. Good sushi is like heaven. Better sushi is like butter. That white tuna ought to be spread with wasabi and dunked in soy sauce, as most sushi must. But, frankly, you could put it on toast and never know the difference. All together now: ''I can't believe it's not . . ."
Just as unbelievable is the aroma your clothes hold on to the morning after. From what, you ask. The chicken teriyaki promised on the lunchtime-only bento box has yet to be served to anyone, and all anybody's deep-frying is the shrimp tempura. Yet purses, shirts, socks, pants, and more smell as if they'd been parked next to the dude making onion rings and crispy wings at your neighborhood sub shop. The lingering scent is just your clothes mocking you: Dude, we're totally hung-over, and you're not.
Seiyo , 1721C Washington St., 617- 447-2183
