The Story of Sushi (28 page)

T
hat night, Friday, was Zoran’s last night working at Hama Hermosa. Just before the restaurant opened, Tetsu, the head chef, slipped away and returned with a present for Zoran in a Tupperware container. He peeled off the lid to reveal white goo with orange streaks.

“
Nare-zushi,
” Tetsu said. “Sushi’s ancestor.”

Tetsu had mixed slices of raw fish with radish, ginger, and carrot—ingredients known to possess antiseptic properties. He’d splashed in sake and stirred in cooked rice. He’d tucked the mixture in the back of the walk-in and left it there to ripen—for five months. This was a version of sushi in its original form.

Zoran perked up. “I’ve never had that before.” He plucked out a glob with his chef’s chopsticks. He raised the chopsticks toward his mouth. Tetsu lifted a hand to stop him.

“I’m not responsible if you get sick,” Tetsu said.

The whole point of packing fish with fermenting rice had been to keep it edible. As the rice had fermented, it had created lactic acids, which in theory had retarded the growth of harmful bacteria. Tetsu had drawn on more than a thousand of years of wisdom, and he had the advantage of refrigeration. But in the modern era, offering homemade food five months old to a friend requires a waiver.

Zoran gave his assent and stuck the goo in his mouth. He chewed. “Tastes like cheese.”

By 6:30 p.m. the dining room was nearly full and the sushi bar had several customers. Behind the bar, the ticket printer spit out table orders.

Kate walked out from the kitchen wearing her chef’s jacket. She stood in the hallway by the rear entrance to the sushi bar and rested her elbows on the pickup shelf. From there she could see into the workspace behind the sushi bar and watch the chefs from behind.

A party of four sat at the bar. They were regulars, and they knew all the chefs. They greeted Tetsu and Zoran and asked Tetsu for
omakase.

The ticket printer chattered again, spitting out more tickets. The chefs grabbed ingredients, pressed rolls, and squeezed out
nigiri.
Zoran noticed Kate and pointed at the avocado in his hand. She ran back to the walk-in and returned with an armful of avocados. Zoran grabbed them and turned back to his cutting board. Kate retreated to the hallway.

A customer ordered a round of drinks for the chefs. The Mexican busboy squeezed into the chefs’ workspace and delivered a beer to Tetsu and a Diet Coke to Zoran. The busboy beamed and yelled, “
Kanpai!
”

Tetsu chugged the beer and knocked out another platter of
nigiri.
The ticket printer chattered and spit out more order tickets. Tetsu still hadn’t had a chance to deliver an opening appetizer to his
omakase
customers.

Zoran gulped his Diet Coke and squeezed together a big platter of rolls. He rushed it to the pickup shelf. He slipped on a wet spot on the floor and nearly dropped the plate. He cursed. Kate shrank back. The ticket printer continued spitting out orders.

In the confined space behind the sushi bar, the chefs spun, ran, sliced, and squeezed. An assistant chef hunted in the lowboy by Tetsu’s knees while Tetsu slashed through blocks of fish with his knife just above the other chef’s neck, at the same moment that the Mexican dishwasher lugged in a heavy tub of clean plates. The kitchen chef popped in and out every few minutes to deliver items
from the stove or fry station. Waitresses slipped into the workspace to pester the chefs on the status of their orders. Kate tried to stay out of everyone’s way.

Tetsu delivered the opening volley of his
omakase
to the group of regulars. While they consumed their first course, he lifted the intercom handset and called in an order for a cooked course from the kitchen.

That bought him time to attack an enormous table order for
nigiri
in the row of order tickets. He ran his eye down the ticket, memorized it, and sliced the first round of fish he would need.

He stepped back on his right foot and settled into a stance for sushi combat, just as Toshi had demonstrated to the students that morning. He dipped a finger into a bowl of water, rubbed his hands together quickly, and clapped twice. He flexed the muscles of his stocky frame, then reached his right hand into his canister of rice. His hand flew out of the canister. His finger flashed into a dish of wasabi as it passed. His left hand snatched a slice of fish off his cutting board. The right-hand finger brushed down the underside of the slice and left a pale green streak. A cylinder of rice, just formed in his right palm, impacted the slice of fish on the palm of his left. In a blur of flicks and pulses, his hands swept in a wide arc across his chest and down to his left hip, his upper body twisting around to the left, his legs dancing through a series of small kicks. His hands landed over a clean plate and out popped a perfect
nigiri.
The entire process had taken seven seconds.

That was too slow. Tetsu’s hands flashed out again, already forming the second
nigiri,
repeating the process exactly as before. His legs danced, his torso twisted, and his hands flicked across his body in a wide arc as he added more speed. Another perfect
nigiri
popped out onto the plate.

Tetsu leaned over the fish case for another block of fish. Every few minutes he leaned back to pluck more tickets from the printer. He kept his legs spread in combat stance the entire time, leaning only his upper body to and fro at steep angles, as though dodging bullets.

The customers poured Tetsu more beer. He stopped and chugged it down. He nodded politely and whipped his hand back to the rice canister. He completed the enormous
nigiri
order,
chugged another glass of beer, and moved on to rolls. Zoran was also fighting through a stack of table orders and serving customers at the bar. He grabbed the blowtorch and blue flame hissed across an order of flounder fin muscle.

The customers ordered more drinks for the chefs. A woman in Tetsu’s
omakase
party shot Zoran a smile.

“We love you, Zoran,” she said.

Zoran gave her a nod. “Thank you.” He continued to work, then broke the news that this was his last night. She was crushed. He downed more Diet Coke and pressed together another roll.

The kitchen chef rushed past Kate and squeezed behind the bar to deliver the second course of Tetsu’s
omakase.
Someone else rushed past and maneuvered inside to deliver deep-fried shrimp to Zoran for a roll. The busboy delivered more beer for Tetsu and another Diet Coke for Zoran. Somebody jostled Tetsu. Luckily, he was not holding his knife, but the roll he’d been arranging was knocked into disarray. The customers raised their glasses, the chefs raised their glasses, and everyone yelled, “
Kanpai!
”

Tetsu chugged his beer and held his glass upside down over his head, empty. He went back to work and knocked one of his chopsticks off the counter. It clattered to the floor and rolled away. Zoran danced around it as it passed. Tetsu grabbed a pair of disposable bamboo chopsticks and kept working. He spun and grabbed four platters and four sauce dishes from the back shelves. There was a clatter and they started to fall. He dropped his body toward the floor, and in a juggling act caught them all. He sucked in his breath. “That was close.”

By now Zoran had burned through most of his vegetables and garnishes. He poked his head into the hall and sent Kate to the walk-in for supplies. When she returned, the other chefs sent her back for additional items.

As Kate returned this time, Zoran burst out from the bar. He pushed past her, lugging his empty rice canister. Moments later he thundered back through, hugging a full canister to his chest. “Coming through!”

Kate backed away. She turned and pushed through the saloon doors into the drink station, and then on into the back sushi bar, where it was quiet. She took a slow, deep breath.

Officially, the back bar was closed. But Toshi was there, serving a leisurely meal for a couple of Japanese friends—another sushi chef and his wife. Toshi sipped a Scotch and joked. Takumi helped out, chatting with Toshi’s friends. Toshi saw Kate. He smiled and motioned for her to join them.

At the front sushi bar, mayhem gave way to murder. Tetsu returned from the walk-in clutching a handful of shrimp, with legs flailing and tails snapping. One by one he ripped them in half. He peeled the shells off the tails, and the muscles pulsed with contractions until he butterflied them open with his knife.

A customer purchased a big bottle of sake for everyone at the bar, customers and chefs. The entire row of customers at the bar and the chefs all raised their glasses.

“
Kanpai!
” everyone yelled.

The customers at one table and then another raised their glasses. “
Kanpai!
”

As they all brought their glasses to their lips, an abrupt silence descended on the dining room. Zoran bellowed into the silence.

“Happy Friday!” he yelled. He wasn’t smiling. When Zoran next turned to look for Kate, he saw that she was no longer there.

The group of regulars who’d been eating
omakase
paid their check and departed. Immediately a new group took their place—a couple and two daughters wearing glitter on their faces. They’d been waiting for Zoran. They knew he was leaving. Another couple sat down and requested
omakase
from Zoran, too. He lined up six plates and squeezed on mounds of wasabi and pickled ginger.

More customers streamed into the restaurant. A posse of young women in tight skirts jostled in the foyer, followed by more couples. The ticket printer kept spitting out orders. The chefs grabbed tickets and squeezed out more rolls, knocking sheets of nori on the floor. Parties piled up, waiting for tables. Customers at a table demanded that Tetsu come out to drink sake with them. He joined them and gulped down a glass. “
Kanpai!
”

When Tetsu returned, the husband of the family poured him
more beer. Zoran reached for his glass to join them in another toast, but his second glass of Diet Coke was already empty.

“My bloody customers, and I don’t even get a drink?” He ran out of the bar. He returned with a full glass. The family and chefs raised their glasses. Zoran thrust his Diet Coke high overhead and glared out at the entire dining room.

“
Kanpai!
” Zoran thundered. “
Kanpai!
” His face glistened with sweat.

People throughout the entire restaurant raised their glasses and shouted, “
Kanpai!
”

At the back sushi bar, Toshi had encouraged Kate to chat with the customers. She’d had a wonderful time, talking with them and joking with Toshi and Takumi. Finally, Toshi brought the leisurely meal to a close. Kate said goodnight. She sailed off to the ladies’ room and slipped out of her uniform into a pair of pants and a tight shirt.

Meanwhile, at the front sushi bar, the chefs were running out of fish. Zoran sprinted to the walk-in. He returned with a 2-foot slab of salmon draped across his arms. He cut it into chunks at his station, his knife flying.

Kate emerged from the ladies’ room. But instead of leaving, she returned to the hallway, and leaned her elbows on the pickup shelf behind the front bar. She watched Zoran work. She wanted to say good-bye, but she wasn’t sure how. After a few minutes he noticed her.

“Hang out, sweetie,” he whispered, “don’t leave.”

Zoran manhandled a couple of rolls to completion. Then he leapt up the two small steps from the floor of the sushi bar and into the hall. His hands were covered in fishiness. He straightened his arms and pressed them against the sides of Kate’s body, his fingers clenched in fists so they wouldn’t touch her. He gave her a squeeze, like a piece of sushi, and then let her go.

“Take care, sweetie.”

He rushed back behind the bar.

A
t midnight the dining room was nearly deserted. The toasts had continued until the end. Now, one last group of customers lingered at a corner table.

Behind the sushi bar only Tetsu remained. The other chefs had cleared the fish cases, cleaned up, and scattered. Tetsu had stayed behind the bar to stow a few final odds and ends. He saw a full glass of beer in a corner of the counter. He called out to the table across the room. “
Kanpai!
” Without waiting for an answer he chugged the beer and flipped the glass upside down. He wiped his mouth. “I feel terrible.”

The back room was empty and dark except for a row of lights shining onto the back sushi bar. Behind the bar stood Takumi, illuminated like a solitary actor on a stage. Next to him was a steel canister of leftover sushi rice.

Takumi planted his right foot back, so he stood at a 45-degree angle to the counter. He settled into his stance. He dipped his fingers in a bowl of water, clapped, and jabbed one hand into the rice. He brought his hands together. He squeezed and turned, squeezed and turned, and deposited another rectangle of rice onto the countertop. The countertop was littered with the rect
angles of rice he’d already made, forty or fifty of them, laid out in long rows like tombstones.

Takumi kept replaying the scene from that morning. He pictured Toshi at the classroom table, whipping out
nigiri
like a kungfu magician.

Takumi jabbed his hand into the canister for more rice.

The swinging doors banged open. Tetsu stumbled into the workspace behind the back bar. He leaned heavily on the counter and eyed Takumi’s technique. Like the other students, Takumi still held the
nigiri
close to his face.

Tetsu grunted and spoke. “Nobody wants to eat sushi made by somebody who is all hunched over like that. It’s unappetizing. You have to make it look dramatic. That way they’ll want to eat it.”

Tetsu straightened. “You need to decide on a motion that’s comfortable for you. Hold your arms up, and keep your arms out from your sides. Keep them loose. If your arms are too tight, you’re going to wear yourself out.”

Tetsu stuck his hand in Takumi’s rice canister and rolled a cylinder of white grains.

“Use your thumb to punch a hole in it,” Tetsu said. That was another trick of the sushi chef. Indenting the clump of rice at the beginning of the process introduced air and empty space into the interior of the
nigiri,
so it would disintegrate easily in the mouth when eaten.

Tetsu was unsteady on his feet, but he closed the cylinder around the hole, bent his fingers at right angles, and pressed the cylinder into a perfect rectangular packet. All this happened with one hand, still in the rice canister.

“After a while it becomes unconscious,” Tetsu said. His eyelids drooped. He looked like he was about to become unconscious.

Tetsu snapped the rectangle of rice in half and showed Takumi the cross section. The center was an airy space of loose grains, while the edges were firm walls of packed rice.

“You need to make them with your whole body,” Tetsu said. He teetered toward the counter and picked up an imaginary slice of fish with his left hand. He brought his hands together. As he squeezed and turned the
nigiri,
he drew his hands in a sweeping arc across the front of his body, just as he had earlier behind the sushi bar.

“From start to finish, you should use the same set of motions every time. When you reach the end of your routine, your
nigiri
will be done.” He plopped the rectangle of rice on the counter, adding to Takumi’s graveyard.

Takumi nodded.

“You also need to be able to adjust your
nigiri,
depending on the customer and the situation,” Tetsu went on. The sushi chef’s job wasn’t simply to make sushi. A good chef had to make snap judgments about every customer who sat at his sushi bar.

“Maybe they want a quick lunch,” Tetsu said. “If so, you make them nice, fat
nigiri
with more rice. If they’re here for a leisurely dinner, you only want to put a slim little pack of rice under each piece of fish—and even less if they’re drinking sake. You learn to tell by watching their faces if they’ve come to drink or to eat.

“And, of course, for a man, you usually make the
nigiri
a little bigger, and for a woman, a little smaller. But it’s different in every case. Look, if a big, fat guy sits down at the sushi bar, you figure he likes carbohydrates, right? So you make his
nigiri
with more rice. But you also have to figure out what kind of mood they’re in, and what’s their purpose in coming to the sushi bar that day.”

Tetsu chuckled. “With American customers, it’s different. You’ve got to judge how much experience they have eating sushi. A lot of Americans dip the rice side of their
nigiri
in the soy sauce instead of the fish side. Well, of course, in that case a properly made
nigiri
will just fall apart. So you have to squeeze the
nigiri
together much more firmly for them. But if you do that to Japanese people, they’re going to tell you your sushi sucks—it’s too hard and doesn’t melt in your mouth.”

This was a practice that the venerable sushi chef in Japan, Jiro Ono, followed when he encountered a Western customer. “For foreigners, I make the sushi so hard that Japanese customers would refuse to eat it,” Ono once told an interviewer. It’s likely that many American sushi enthusiasts have never experienced a proper
nigiri.

A customer who chooses to use chopsticks instead of his fingers will also require a firmer pack of rice.

Takumi stared down at his rows of rice rectangles. “So it’s really about adjusting to the needs of the customer?”

Tetsu nodded. “That’s the sushi chef’s job. You’ve got to figure out what the customer’s needs are and adapt.”

Tetsu drifted away. Takumi reached for more rice and went on practicing.

After a while Tetsu returned. He’d changed out of his uniform. The aura of sushi master had vanished. He leaned against the counter looking like an oversized schoolboy. His stocky legs stuck out of a pair of shorts and he wore a baseball cap turned backwards.

Takumi dipped his fingers in the bowl of water and clapped. Tetsu stopped him.

“Too much water.” Tetsu said. He told Takumi never to dip both hands into the bowl of water. “Too much water, and your
nigiri
will fall apart.”

Tetsu demonstrated. He wetted just the index finger of his right hand. With that one wet finger, he painted a circle of water onto his left palm. Then he rubbed his hands together as if lathering them with soap, spreading a thin sheen of moisture across his skin. He cupped his right hand and knocked it twice against his left palm.

“I do it exactly like this, every time,” Tetsu said.

Now that his hands were primed, Tetsu reached into the rice canister, formed a rectangle, and picked up another imaginary piece of fish with his other hand. He pressed both hands together and carried them across the front of his body in an arc—squeeze, turn, squeeze, turn—and banged out another
nigiri.

He repeated the water routine, dug in the canister for more rice, and swept his hands through the air. He banged out another, and another.

“It should never take you more than ten seconds to make a
nigiri,
” Tetsu admonished. “And when you’re busy, you’ve got to do it in five.” He blasted through the routine again. “So count to five while you’re making each one. As soon as you put your hand in the rice, start counting and move your body through that whole set of motions—in five seconds. The
nigiri
has to be finished by the end.”

Tetsu raced himself. “Five seconds!” His hands were flying now in a blur across his body. “Four seconds!” He deepened his stance. He dipped his finger in the water, rubbed, and clapped. The hands flew. “Three seconds!”

He left Takumi to race himself, and went on home.

Takumi tried to master Tetsu’s tricks, slowly at first—the water, the hollow rice rectangle, the sweeping arc.
It’s just like making pasta,
he thought.

He speeded up. He jabbed his hand in the rice and rushed through the motions, trying to complete his
nigiri
by the count of 5. He succeeded only in ripping it to shreds. He peered down at the disintegrated pile of loose white grains in his palm and laughed.

He tried again, and again, and the faster he went, the more the rice simply fell apart. He laughed again. He stopped and surveyed the array of white rectangles on the counter. There must have been sixty or seventy.

Suddenly Takumi grew sober. The rice was sacred. Seven deities in every grain. A single
nigiri
contained five or six hundred grains. Takumi stiffened, then bowed formally to the pantheon before him.

He apologized to the rice. He must redeem these deities, Takumi decided. He must master the art of sushi. He wiped his arm across the countertop. A quarter of a million little gods fell into the trash.