In that same 2004 New York Times piece hyping Uni and Oringer, Simonds went on to give props to Lynch, Yen, and Jasper White, heralding a "raw-bar renaissance" in the city. On the face of it, the article reads as a tribute. But on closer analysis, the tenor of the story—letting the city folk know that, believe it or not, there’s some good food to be had out in the provinces!—becomes emblematic of a fraught relationship with the national food press that is distinctly Bostonian and, perhaps, highlights an even deeper source of animus toward Cushman.

Before the 1990s, the local dining scene, famously, was largely ignored by the rest of the country. With only a handful of three- and four-star restaurants here, the number of brilliant chefs, too, was small. Among them: Shire, White, Hamersley, and Schlesinger—who had all cooked with one another at some point. Through the ’90s, this elite group joined forces to raise Boston’s culinary standards, and any local chef worth his fleur de sel had worked with, or under, one of them.

Yet even as these pioneers were striving to catapult the city out of the gastronomic dark ages, they were being skewered by the national press. In 1997 Boston’s food scene was described as going "beyond idiosyncratic to the fringes of derangement" by GQ‘s Alan Richman. His takedown, "The Boston Glob," targeted these same founding chefs who were taking pride in elevating the city’s standards. (According to Richman, English was the worst offender, turning out dishes with overwrought ingredients and ridiculous portions, inspiring his lesser imitators, of which Boston had many, to do the same. "His style is not haute cuisine, but a heap of cuisine," Richman wrote.)

Since then, acknowledgment of Boston’s culinary worth from the national press has amounted to little beyond one-off mentions and individual chef awards. Even Bruni’s paean to O Ya, heady though it was, came with a fairly significant caveat. His list of the 10 best new restaurants, remember, included only those outside New York City. Left unsaid, but conveyed loud and clear, was the message that only with such a handicap would these restaurants have been worthy of mention at all.

In the face of that dismissive attitude, the handful of chefs who have managed to make a splash on the national scene formed a tight-knit group. Like any community united against a common enemy, they eye outsiders with suspicion.

Indeed, the arrival in the ’90s of chefs like Schlow and Oringer, who hadn’t worked at any of the forefathers’ restaurants, raised eyebrows, recalls Annie Copps, a senior editor at Yankee magazine (and one-time food editor for Boston). "When they first came around, Ken was suspect, Michael was suspect, even Todd [English] was," she says. But introductions quickly smoothed over any backlash. "I remember meeting Michael for the first time," says Schlesinger. Christopher Myers, already a fixture within the city’s restaurant elite, brought him around for an introduction, he recalls. "And I remember meeting Ken for the first time. He knew my friend Jim Burke [former chef of Waltham's Tuscan Grill]. So everyone had an entrée into the group."

Lynch, for her part, says she can’t understand what all the fuss is about. "They all complain that we’re not the dining destination other cities are and then someone comes in and does it well and it’s all ‘boo-hoo.’ What’s that about? Who made them the sushi kings?" she says. Her view is the more, the merrier. "All I ask is, just open a good restaurant."

Nancy Cushman wedges her way in between two diners seated at O Ya’s dark-wood bar, setting down a miniature champagne flute filled halfway with a silky, caramel-colored sake. Like magic, a server appears behind her, delivering the plated sliver of chocolate-drizzled foie gras nigiri it’s being paired with. It’s a bustling weeknight in late August, and there’s not a spare seat in the house.

A soundtrack of B-side classic rock plays faintly overhead, occasionally drowned out by a group of cooing diners watching the sushi masters shimmy velvety swaths of fish off pristine lobes. As one of the chefs wields a tiny crème brûlée torch to brand two strips of hamachi with a crusty lace pattern, there’s an audible gasp.

Tim Cushman stands in the kitchen doorway, one hand on his hip, holding a towel. Focused on the food, he examines every plate as it leaves the kitchen, his eyes darting to the diners’ faces to gauge their reactions. All looks good. 

Cushman’s own face reveals little of the turbulent year and a half since O Ya’s opening—neither the dazzling plaudits nor the intramural contempt. Outwardly, at least, he remains ambivalent about what to make of all that has transpired since his arrival on the scene. "There was no deceit intended—it was just my business sense," he says. "I realize I was naive to what I was coming into here. But I wouldn’t change the way we did what we did."