It was his first time. Yet, as they are wont to say, like a duck to water. Must be hard wired into the biological system. "Zen-ish". The Zen of "Getting it on". What happened behind closed doors, we can't say. There were smiles all around when they took their seats.
But this isn't a story about illicit sex in the sky. [Though if you think about it, with all those slippery jet airplanes plowing into all those soft clouds, it is sort of like that old train goin' into that tunnel metaphor. No?]
At the international arrivals at Kennedy our lothario was greeted by one of Uncle Yamoto's apprentices. Yamoto, you should know, is too high up the ladder to be schlepping to the airport to pick up some green kid just off the boat. And, besides, he's rather busy at Sai Sushi. That's the name of his Sushi joint, you should know. Really. Genius marketing. Interesting how such a traditional minded guy would set upon such a punsy name. [We'll see Ichiro's own slant on that later in the tale.]
Uncle is a proud man. He deserves to be. Top Sushi restaurant in the top Sushi snapping town in North America. Probably only eclipsed, but by only a few, in Old Nippon. Tradition reigns in his establishment. No plates, please. Your Sushi is served on a geta. Misoshiru, in a genuine lacquered bowl. Wasabi. No, not that stuff from packaged powder, or paste. Fresh and organic, flown in from Washington State and grated fresh to order on a de rigueur sharkskin oroshigane. Tsukemono, all pickled in house. The young Ginger too. There's a whole dedicated refrigerator filled with Nukazuke pickles fermenting in Rice Bran.
Standing in — photo at Kurumazushi actual #1 in NYC with Head Chef Toshihiro Uezu
And, by now you probably have a hint where this is going vis-a-vis Ichiro, and his dealings with Yamoto. Clash of generations, clash of cultures.
You don't get rich in the Sushi biz. Even a chef as on top of the Sushi world as Yamo. Sure you can hike up the charges for being the best of the best. But, there's a limit to that. You have to stay competitive. After all, how good can Sushi get? A slice of fish, some Sake infused sweetened rice. Then there's the cost of things. When you insist on only the best and freshest ingredients and employ such a large staff, it costs. And, let's not get into the rents in midtown. Oy!
All that to explain the humble — make that tight, Tokyo tight — living situation. The two bedrooms are already fully occupied; one for the Mr. and Mrs., the other for the girls. Twin sisters. Oh, and it's a bit of added expense for their gymnastic lessons. They're known on the circuit as the "Gymnastic Twins".
Rather talented, in fact. Super stretchy and bendable. And, of an age when exploring the world of boys is definitely an option. An eager one, Yamoto none the wiser. [You know how it is growing up in a family with an uber strict Daddy.]
Ichiro gets to bunk on a slender futon under the dining table. Welcome to America!
Picture this how we have here an explosive cocktail of a strapping young lad full of hormones and recently introduced to the charms of the fairer sex. And two young maids looking for adventures, of the boy kind. Did I mention twins. Gymnastic twins. No end of the options to explore.
Morning comes. Alas. Time to go to work. Young Ichiro was headed for a very rude awakening.
Because his Uncle was considered such a big shot, the boy figured he would get shoo'd in right at the top. Nooo. Not like that. Anyone with a sense of how traditional ways play in the Japanese mentality would know better.
Ichiro ... ah, callous youth! Clean up duty for him. After all you can't even have him sorting rice without first knowing if he is one to put himself into a task. Never mind if he is smart enough to know the difference between shit and Shinola. [Pardon the crude reference; but you get the point.] In other words, can he be trusted? Washing floors, cleaning pots and pans, polishing assorted what's and where's. First that. Then, we'll see. Bussing? Or, he could easily be sent packing back to the motherland. But, those twin girls were cute. He had some incentive there. Yes, they are cousins. But, did we mention, callow youth. Also, he does want to do his family proud. And, make his mark in the world. Even if it looks like being able to plunk down a perfectly made Sushi Toro.
Or, an exquisitely composed Temaki Sushi [hand roll].
Back to the clean up crew. Really, a rather important task. There's no room for debate there. Maybe some old geezer living all alone in the woods can keep using the same coffee cup day in and day out; but when you serve food to the public things have to be sanitary. Scrubbing and washing a pot is a Zen-like thing. You have to put your attention on it. Not like some long in the tooth seniority government bureaucrat casually marking time mindlessly rubber stamping papers or giving rote answers to incoming telephone inquiries.
Time flies. Ichoro has been doing well. Not without its inner struggle what with all the constant tedium. And the prospect of working as a Sushi chef so far away. All the boy could hope for at this juncture is a promotion to sorting and washing the Rice. Here again, only perfection would be tolerated. Practically speaking one little pebble in the Rice and a surprised customer complaint could topple the whole shebang. And, then there's the training aspect embedded in the very nature of the task itself.
There is where he had his first big struggle. Endlessly sorting rice really tests one's metal. Very easy to get bored. To fall into going through the motions like some line server in a military chow line. Uncle kept an eye on the boy especially at this juncture. Periodic stern shouts like the prefect during Zazen who whacks sleeping meditators on the shoulders with a loud whack of a keisaku stick. Of course the Japanese invented Zen. But, really, isn't it all about paying attention. That's a universal thing, never mind that you give it a name.
Ichiro is not a boob. His native ambition and too many stern wake up shouts from Uncle got him through his "rice phase". Next was ... cutlery.
Those razor sharp knives. Here the stakes are even higher. Gotta be sharp. Literally, and figuratively. The entire enterprise stands on the edge of those knives. Other things too, to be sure, but without a sharp knife you don't "maki" the Sushi. Capisce?
And, there's a knack to it: sharpening knives. Fortunately, unless you beat it with a hammer, the soft carbon steel has a forgiving nature and can be made right with more strokes on the stone. The downside, as it goes even with the best sharpening technique, is that the knife blade over time with repeating sharpening rather narrows. Tolerable, and expected with most of them, but with a santoku or chef's knife a worn down blade means scuffed knuckles. Just like car brakes, they're meant to wear. Just don't push it, either.
Many other steps along the way. Shopping. Yes, shopping. One should know fresh from not so. Yes? And, just what the heck is it in the first place? We're not hard wired with knowledge of foodstuffs. It's learned. If you don't cook, chances are you don't know Walnuts from Chestnuts. At first the lad just tagged along. Then eventually was schooled enough to be sent out on his own.
Now cut some fish. Yeah! ... we're on the brink of Sushiness. Knife skills first, however. Numero uno: safety first. Razor sharp remember. Then the slicing. Slicing, slicing, slicing. Anything but fish, however. Skill with the blade is a long, hard won undertaking. Must be accomplished before getting one's hands on the real deal. If you don't know what we're talking about here, just try making a pile of noodle-like strands from thinly and evenly cut unbroken sheets from a cucumber. No spiralizer, you bet. It's called Katsuramuki. Dig.
