We Dream of Sushi

One of my favorite sushi experiences was at a little hole-in-the wall shop just outside the Sanggye subway station in Seoul, South Korea. One day, Kelley and I decided that sushi was the only thing that would cure a tough Thursday at work. We pinched a bottle of white French wine from my apartment and walked over in the snow. The windows were steamed up and the patrons were tucked in tightly along the restaurant’s one counter, eating quietly and building stacks of plates as they chewed. The chef, a burly Korean-Japanese chef, sweat and smiled as he hacked up fish and sent it streaming along the conveyor belt over warm pats of rice, smothered in creamy sauce and sprouts and other smacking bits of sushi Koreanization. But it was delicious, and affordable, and the chef let us have our bottle of wine and plenty of miso soup. We ate lots of sushi and drank lots of wine which kept us warm just about as long as it took to trudge home.

Hole-in-the-wall restaurants often have a reputation for being the most authentic spots for foodies, often known only by the locals and cuisine devotees. But there’s one “hole-in-the-wall” subway sushi shop that has gained international renown and the coveted Michelin three-star rating: it is, by global standard, “the perfect restaurant.”

“Jiro Dreams of Sushi,” a new documentary by David Gelb, is the story of a man who has worked for seventy-five years to perfect the way he serves raw fish. It’s a story about a man who loves it so much that he says he would dream new recipes and jump out of bed in the middle of the night with the excitement of it. It’s a story of a man who so adamantly adheres to these values that his little Tokyo subway shop takes reservations at least a month in advance and costs approximately $400 a meal. In a subway station. This is certainly a story of a man who takes his craft seriously. But the story delves much deeper than that.

This past weekend the bestie and I had a wonderful sushi experience downtown. She can't eat fish, but graciously contented herself with veg rolls and robata as I scarfed octopus, scallops, and a kingcrab/tuna roll. We sat at the sushi bar and watched the chefs sexily slice their way into slabs of sparkling fish and wink at us as they deftly patted rice and primped primo platters. I am a bipartisan diner: I take every opportunity to eat sushi, fancy or non! The point here is that good quality can be found from any craftsman who is dedicated to honing his craft through endless hours of persistent practice and the use of the highest quality supplies or ingredients whether it's served a back-alley closet or a city-view lounge.

Jiro's story the story of work ethic, quality, responsibility, tradition, and legacy. Jiro is an eighty-five year old man who has been making sushi since he was nine or ten, when he was thrown out in the streets and told to fend for himself. He built a name for himself by throwing himself into his sushi work, and let his wife raise his two sons until they were old enough to apprentice with him. Now, at fifty, the oldest son is still working under his father, but producing the same quality fish as Jiro. The youngest son has opened another branch in Roppongi Hills.

Eating at Jiro’s is a serious—almost holy, affair. In the documentary, apprentices and customers alike describe their nervousness at eating there, and Jiro himself serves his sushi with a stern and dedicated expression. Everything is carefully purchased, prepared, and practiced over and over again—this routine MO, Jiro explains, is the key to his success (the Beatles and Malcolm Gladwell would probably agree). It almost makes me feel guilty, considering the way I have bounced from a variety of interests and activities, entrenching myself into no particular technical skill or expertise. Of course, I do incorporate most of my interests and activities into my main eventual goal of international journalism and/or diplomacy work, but it's not quite as forthright as dedicating myself day in and day out to making sushi. But Jiro and his sons and apprentices display a determination and work ethic that plays out in a skilled and delicious craft.

“Jiro Dreams of Sushi” also offers a fascinating look at the middlemen: the prime fish/shrimp/rice dealers who sell Jiro’s product. Jiro buys only the finest, of course. The movie also addresses, though briefly, the decreasing supply of ocean stock as overfishing and cheap tuna has become popular the world over. Interestingly, I’m currently transcribing an upcoming NatGeo show, Wicked Tuna, that deals with a whole industry about which we who love sushi don’t often think or hear. While there have been some people up in arms about a show that “glorifies” commercial fishing, I would argue that people have and will eat fish since/til the end of time. It’s a matter of how this industry is responsible to protect its own sustainability by taking good care of its fish.

In any case, although I really didn’t need another reason to go eat more sushi, the movie certainly left me drooling. Jiro Dreams of Sushi, and so do I. So will you, when the film opens at select theaters this March 9.