If you are unfamiliar with tonkatsu, this is somewhat of a revelation. It is Japanese comfort food akin to deep-fried dopamine.
Essentially, it is just a wienerschnitzel adapted to Japanese culinary culture. A cutlet in golden-fried breadcrumbs transformed into a zeppelin of lightness and voluminous flavor.
That was the case this evening at Akaton. Everyday coziness and ethereal delight.
Here on Øster Farimagsgade was the Japanese Kappo Ando, which owner Mads Battefeld closed to open two smaller, simpler eateries. Aotori with yakitori skewers and Akaton with tonkatsu.
Both take a Japanese tunnel-vision approach to one dish, and with Battefeld, Denmark’s best sushi chef, behind it, you can expect greatness in the details.
Then there was the miso soup
At the turn of the 20th century, Japan was in the midst of a modernization process where Western culture had a tremendous influence.
The Japanese were enamored with the French côtelette de veau, but the butter-heavy shield was too overwhelming for them. The restaurant Rengatei found a solution after opening in 1895.
Instead of the Frenchmen’s stale bread crumbs that absorb butter like a sponge, they used freshly made, softer panko and deep-fried the meat in oil. It was the tempura tradition’s refinement of European lead.
But veal was expensive, so in 1899 Rengatei introduced tonkatsu with pork, which the Japanese know today and the rest of the world has come to love.
The side dishes are also the same as back then. There was a great shortage of chefs at the time, so they kept it simple by shredding cabbage and mixing two types of imported Worcestershire sauce into a tangy dip that became the obligatory katsu sauce, which is still used to dip the meat today.
We did the same here at Akaton and understood why the recipe hasn’t changed in 127 years.
Besides cabbage, the dish also includes miso soup and steamed rice. Everything was good, but the miso soup was downright overwhelming with nuances that made it deeper than the bowl it was in.
But it was the meat we came for. What makes tonkatsu so irresistibly good?
Panko is essential. Made from the airy Japanese milk bread shokupan, it has a coarser structure with flakes that absorb less oil while ensuring more surface area for a frayed crispness.
The best is the fresh nama panko, which has softer, more airy flakes, making the crust even lighter and crispier.
At Akaton, the crunchy panko was dried but homemade with sourdough. It breaks tradition, but the shell was still crackling like fragility in solid form.
I could devour greasy food with that coating.
A knockout
Then there’s the meat, of course.
Free-range pigs from selected breeds are standard today at Rengatei, and here in Østerbro, they source their organic free-range animals from Naturgris in Funen. You could taste it. Absolutely.
The classic cut for tonkatsu is tenderloin, but I was more excited for the neck—those streaks of fat and collagen that melt the meat into pure gold.
And it delivered. The collagen and fat hadn’t completely melted into a single succulent whole, so the contrasts in flavor and texture stood out—in perfect harmony. All of it in a shatter‑crisp coating. Killing me softly.
But it was the tenderloin that delivered the evening’s knockout.
It was sliced crosswise, so you could see the gradation—from the panko’s frayed halo of golden light to the meat’s pale pink edge and an almost fluorescent ruby core that was so juicy, tender, fresh, so clean in flavor and rich in umami it felt criminal to dunk it in the tang of katsu sauce. But the sauce worked like an amplifier for the shivers.
We skipped the (very decent) wine list and went for a couple of sakes that felt brewed for a night of breaded cutlets.
I absolutely love wiener schnitzel. But free-range Funen pork in Japanese breadcrumbs… that’s hard to beat.
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