The oysters are piled in he glass case, the foil-wrapped rolls of ankimo—monkfish liver—are stacked like artillery shells, and the sushi chefs in their blue robes are carving daikon and trimming the last blood lines from the perfect tuna loin: Sushi Gen is open for lunch. Rocking Little Tokyo’s Honda Plaza, Sushi Gen clamors with downtown office workers and far-flung connoisseurs. Everyone at the counter seems to be an initiate; there’s no fumbling or pointing or wondering whether this particular morsel gets dipped in soy or not. Yet, there is no higher purpose here, not the slightest hint of can’t about the Japanese aesthetics; no sushi restaurant feels quite as tickled by the feather’s touch of pleasure as Sushi Gen. The fish is top grade, silken and cut in such a way that it isn’t so much presented as revealed.