As soon as you turn onto Sycamore Road in Beverly Hills, everything changes. The harsh orange glare of street lights disappears. The concrete, urban landscape transforms into a quietly wooded neighborhood, sharply rising as you drive a spiral path up a hill. “So where exactly is Yamashiro?” you wonder to yourself—this seems far too removed from Los Angeles to be a real place, let alone a legendary Japanese restaurant. And then suddenly, an enormous, feudal Japanese palace emerges out of nowhere, a majestically surprising sight nestled in the glittering blanket of Los Angeles.

It’s a great Hollywood effect, and I mean that in the most positive sense. The castle that now houses Yamashiro was built, along with the nearby Magic Castle, by the Bernheimer brothers as a private estate to house their massive Oriental art collection in 1911. They replicated, down to the wallpaper, a feudal palace they visited in the Yamashiro mountains, and spent 2 million Depression-era dollars to landscape the hill into a Zen garden. After serving as one of Hollywood’s first big-name “hot spots” in the ’30s, Yamashiro turned into a restaurant in the ’60s. Today, under the direction of executive chef Brock Kleweno, it hosts a unique dining experience.

OK, that last paragraph could have easily come out of an LA Times review or the Michelin Guide. It wouldn’t be too hard to write this review for independently wealthy people who obsess over food. But what about the average college student who knows nothing but hole-in-the-wall restaurants and the occasional decent restaurant with white tablecloth service? My dining partner Wyatt and I had never been to a place where a valet parked our car. Or where I waited for my table while wandering around a terraced garden, watching the sun set over a 600-year-old Japanese pagoda. Or where we were led to a corner table against two windows, with a panoramic view of Los Angeles at night. “Awesome,” Wyatt whispered as searchlights waved merrily against the sky. “I feel like I’m the shogun.”

The only problem that I can possibly recall from our entire meal were that the water glasses were too big, prone to spilling. Besides that, my first-ever obscenely expensive dinner centered on a strange yet compelling mix of Western and Asian flavors and was served by knowledgeable, interested waiters who knew everything about the food they brought.

For as long as I live, I’m going to thank Wyatt MacKenzie for insisting on the truffle hamachi sushi—five slices of buttery, smooth, pink Hawaiian yellowtail, drizzled with a truffle-ponzu oil, a cherry tomato confit, and a sharp hint of bitterness provided by a micro-arugula salad. Oh my goodness, hamachi. It is pleasant and silky enough on its own as sashimi, and there’s a large subset of sushi chefs who advocate that fish should be served without accoutrements. I seriously began to doubt that position as soon as the layers of sweet tanginess melded with sharp bitterness, earthy scents contrasting with citrus, on top of a slice of hamachi that keeps pinging the word “buttery.” I can’t stop thinking of that word. How else do I describe a piece of sushi so soft and rich? Treating it like a meat to be paired with other accents is genius. “Frankly,” said the maitre’d after I asked him where he sourced his fish, “it’s my favorite dish on the menu.”

The rest of the meal flew by: a traditional spicy tuna roll, except with black rice and spicy orange mayonnaise (affectionately called the Darth Vader), which Wyatt devoured. This is a man’s sushi roll, with robust flavors and none of the pansy “delicate” flavors you traditionally find in sushi. This was a contrast to the multi-fish sushi entrée, with slivers of sashimi on top of rice—a bit of a shocker. Apart from some strange avocado sushi that Wyatt tried to make me eat, this understated sampling showcased the quality of the fish and displayed Yamashiro’s recognition of sushi’s subtle flavors.

It was then that I knew that this is not a normal fusion restaurant. They get it. They know Japanese cuisine like a diplomat knows his own country’s native language. They embody Western dishes, like an unctuous braised short rib with root vegetables in truffle polenta, as if it’s in their genetic background. (I did wonder why such a wintery dish was available in mid-March, until I stepped back outside and immediately shivered to death.) They also know the fine balance between a need for fine taste and satiation, which the short rib satisfied.

We would have left happy, until the waitress brought over a dessert menu. Strawberry preserve-filled doughnuts drowned in a vanilla crme anglaise and ice cream? She winked. “Me! Me! I want them!” we screamed in unison (discreetly). Wyatt complained that the strawberry “jam” in the sugar doughnuts was too tart, but personally, I love mouth-puckering tartness as long as it’s balanced by ample sweetness.

Happy and full, we forced ourselves out of our cozy, starlit corner of Yamashiro and watched the city flicker to life on a Saturday night. Life at Yamashiro was like hamachi at this moment: sophisticated and buttery-rich, yet minimal and sturdy and surprisingly cool. My legs were freezing as we waited for the valet. I’ve never had to pay for a valet before, but on this trip, it’s worth it—there’s no parking anywhere on the hill. Yamashiro is a wholly different world from the rest of LA, and God knows I could never pay for it on a regular basis. But for one special night, being the shogun overlooking Hollywood and eating slices of the freshest fish possible is kind of awesome.