If you are a regular follower of this publication, you will know that my affection for Japanese culture runs deep. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that my fluorescent moment to write full time arrived following a night of sushi and sake. I have already written about aspects of Japanese culture ranging from ikebana (floral arrangements) to izakaya (watering holes). So how did it all begin? The answer is as simple as the item itself: sushi.
Like the graceful yet precise motions of fingers fusing raw seafood and vinegared rice, sushi has shaped my livelihood more than any other food. In the realm of simple pleasures, like flowers, how could I not pay homage to something so personal and influential? One whose rawest essence is, quite appropriately, simplicity.
I write without fear. But when it comes to such a delicate subject, the respect to my ingredients - in this case, words - must mirror the level to which sushi masters treat theirs. My responsibility here, like with sushi itself, is both straightforward and complicated. In other words, select the right products and don't fuck them up.
Sushi is an art form. The greats of sushi are simultaneously amongst the most talented chefs and artisans in the world. Its purest form contains three ingredients: fish, rice, and a dab of wasabi. Perhaps to be dipped in soy sauce. From there, attention to detail separates the legends from the chasing - and ever-growing - school of fish slicers.
The best food, regardless of cuisine, starts with the best ingredients. It is understandable to consider fish the primary component of sushi. In reality, however, rice is the star of the show. Although sushi chefs skillfully analyze the quality of fish in acute detail before selecting slabs to serve discerning diners at a high premium, they are ultimately at the mercy of the sea. On the other hand, rice offers a broader range of variables that showcase a chef's unique culinary expression. These variables include the cooking vessel, time, and temperature. Additional ones are seasoning and the source of water used for cooking the rice. It is not just about procuring the best grains. Far from it.
My first experience with sushi was as a young boy living in New York City during the early '90s. The restaurant was called Kiroii Hana. I sat next to my mom along a narrow wooden table facing the chefs. Sandwiched between the friendly chefs and us was a refrigerator of items varying in size, shape, and color that extended the length of the smooth blonde plank. My mom ordered us the en-vogue California Roll. I didn't know why it was called that, nor did I care. I just knew that I loved it. The rest is history.
At that time, sushi was in a moment that reached a crescendo with the opening of Nobu in 1994. It permanently reshaped the dining landscape of New York City - and soon other major cities worldwide. Decades later, it is crazy to think that interpretations of fish and rice are accessible at convenience stores and airports.
In the following years, while other peers were doing karate, I was doing sushi. I leveled up from maki (rolls) by adding nigiri (fish on rice) and temaki (hand rolls) to my repertoire. I began to try new ingredients and combinations, sometimes even creating my own. The table placards and wall posters with different types of fish, Japanese names included, were more interesting than any book assigned in school. Japanese restaurants were my classrooms - sushi bars, especially the chefs behind them: my tutors.
After moving to the suburbs, sushi became more of a novelty item - a treat. Compared to the city, the quality and quantity of options were lacking. Nevertheless, I always sought the best, even if it meant jaunting to a strip mall in the neighboring county. That is when I established lifelong friendships with sweet shrimp (ama-ebi) and sea urchin (uni), among other exotic aquatic offerings.
They told me that uni, in particular, was an "acquired taste," a phrase I always thought was bullshit. It took a while for our friendship to blossom and its black spikes to debunk my gustatory suspicion. I was approaching black belt level in nigiri. Nevertheless, Americanized rolls, named after places and cultural phenomena like 'Rock & Roll' and 'American Dream,' remained close to my heart. They still do - and always will.
Controversy lingers over the authoritative criteria that define sushi. The meaning of 'authenticity' has been stretched and spun like pizza dough, another example of an edible cultural institution that has evolved into a canvas of debate. In our world of binary algorithms and opinions, why does everything have to be one or the other? The answer? It doesn't.
I reached the promised land when I ate sushi in Japan for the first time. Since then, I have been fortunate enough to indulge in omakase (chef's choice) at some of Japan's most established sushi bars. Each experience is unique. It is sushi in its most pristine and 'authentic' form. It is from the source. It is serious. It is special. But guess what? So are California Rolls, at least in my eyes - and on my tongue.
Everything belongs in context, and sushi is no exception. Michelin-starred omakase in Tokyo and "Crazy Crunchy [insert fish of choice here] Roll" are both sushi. They shouldn't fight for our affection - instead, they should complement one another. If it weren't for California Rolls, I wouldn't have reached the pinnacle of sushi's Mount Fuji.
I still enjoy the simple nostalgic joy of a California Roll on occasion. Not because I owe it a debt of gratitude as the gateway drug to a lifelong addiction. But because it tastes so fucking delicious.
My Five Most Influential Sushi Restaurants
Kiroii Hana, NYC: Where it all began.
Hokkaido, Nassau County, New York: My first karate studio of sushi, where I went beyond the basics.
Kotobuki, Suffolk County, New York: Where I received my black belt in sushi. Where sea urchin and I first met.
Mizutani, Tokyo: My first Michelin-starred omakase experience in Japan.
Takamitsu, Tokyo: My most recent omakase experience in Japan.