It’s official: The Transamerica Pyramid is a full-on food hub 

What might be San Francisco’s biggest, priciest meatball isn’t buried under spaghetti at a red-sauce joint on Columbus Avenue — but it is nearby. 

Larger than a softball, pink on the inside, and with almost no crust, this $34 wagyu meteor will make impact Wednesday at chef Bradley Kilgore’s new restaurant Ama, which sits in the shadow of the Transamerica Pyramid. Available only in Ama’s rear room, called the Social Club, it’s meant to be shared. Kilgore describes it as the culmination of nearly a decade of cogitating on what’s wrong with meatballs.

Too many cooks fuss over the exterior, he says, resulting in a well-browned sphere whose interior is crumbly and unappetizing. He goes the opposite route, putting parmesan fondue on top, caramelizing it, then upping the sauce with dried togarashi and shoyu. The result is delicate and umami-kissed, with an appealing sponginess.

Elevating the humble meatball exemplifies what Ama is about. It’s not a fusion project like the Tenderloin’s elegant Ciaorigato, nor does it specifically serve itameshi cuisine, the style of Japanese cooking born of the country’s infatuation with Italy. Kilgore describes it as interpretive, an Italian restaurant with Japanese inspirations. 

“It’s Italian first,” he says. “Eight out of 10 dishes I serve are Italian.”

Ama’s two rooms — the 24-seat Copper Room and the smaller Social Club — are as much a function of Kilgore’s vision as they are a creative workaround, given the physical constraints of the space. Guests in the Social Club are handed a card with a Japanese proverb (“ichi-go ichi-e”) and its English translation, “One time, one meeting” — hints to be present and enjoy the moment. Cellphone use isn’t forbidden — “We don’t discourage photos of your food,” Kilgore says — but this isn’t the place to idly play Wordle. (You can play pinball, though; there are two machines in the corner.)

The Social Club has been described as a secret lounge, but that’s not quite accurate. This isn’t some speakeasy accessible via whispered password or a private dining room for tech overlords; anyone can make a reservation. In fact, considering the marquee location and Kilgore’s growing profile, Ama seems almost accessible — at least for those with an expense account. Prices run steep, but they’re hardly the outrageous sums of SF’s latest wave of steakhouses. Lamb ribeye is $54, uni puttanesca agnolotti with cured olives is $36, and Kilgore’s signature dish (he’s taken it wherever he goes), the lightly poached “soft egg” ladled with scallop-gruyére foam and caviar is $27. 

“I don’t want to be elitist,” Kilgore says. “We want energy. We want you to sort of release your breath when you walk in and say, ‘Oh, I can relax here.’”

Moreover, he wants the maximum number of diners to enjoy his food. The James Beard-nominated chef will continue to run his restaurants in Miami and Latin America. But Ama is the crown jewel of his empire — the convergence of his career arc, he says — as well as the capstone to a quartet of projects in the pyramid complex. The adjacent bistro Cafe Sebastian and shaved-ice dessert spot MadLab, which share a kitchen, are both under Kilgore’s direction, as is the redwood grove’s open-to-the-public bar. Additionally, Kilgore’s team provides catering services to the pyramid’s offices and operates its 48th-floor sky bar.

Kilgore is the captain of this sprawling ship, but an observer can glean pharaoh-esque overtones in the larger setup. Developer Michael Shvo, who spent more than $1 billion to purchase and renovate the Transamerica Pyramid complex — which includes both the iconic tower and the adjacent building, 545 Sansome St., which houses Ama and Cafe Sebastian — is known for his hands-on approach and forceful personality. 

“There hasn’t been a meal, public or private, that I didn’t submit the menu for him to review,” Kilgore says. Shvo doesn’t seem to have vetoed any dishes, but the constructive criticism is considerable. “I respect that,” Kilgore adds. “I can take it.”

The chef is open to feedback, but that doesn’t mean he’ll try anything. Cacio e pepe, the simple yet deceptively challenging Roman pasta dish, is expressly off the table. “It just doesn’t hit for me,” Kilgore says. Then again, he loves diving into a fresh challenge. “So maybe come back in a year, and I’ll be like, ‘My bad,’” he says.