The Story of Sushi (30 page)

T
he semester at the California Sushi Academy came to a close with a series of three practical exams. The students were tested on the preparation of cooked appetizers, sushi, and sashimi. The final written exam would come a few days later.

After their last practical exam, Kate and Marcos hopped into the Mustang and set off for a last lunch at the Jewish deli downtown. Heavy fog billowed in off the ocean, blanketing Hermosa Beach in the gray hues of a Japanese ink painting.

“I’m sad it’s over,” Kate said.

“I’m really sad I’m leaving Hermosa,” Marcos said. “I really like it out here.”

Kate decided to treat herself to a cigarette, and cracked open a pack of Marlboros. “I
am
looking forward to getting some sleep. Seems like I haven’t slept in three months. Always thinking about something. The Laundromat. Where’s my textbook? Where’s my hat? I’m going to be late.”

She was silent for a few minutes. “I still hear Zoran’s voice in my head whenever I do something stupid.”

Marcos nodded. “Me, too.”

Downtown L.A. came into view. The glass towers punched high into the air through a film of brown smog. An hour later, in the same booth at the deli as before, Kate ordered a big piece of chocolate cake for dessert.

“I wonder what Zoran is doing right now,” she said. She chuckled. “Probably wrestling a kangaroo.”

She took a bite of cake and stared out the window. After a moment she spoke again.

“The best thing I learned this summer,” she said slowly, “was that I could stick with something, even through all my doubts.”

A jar of red licorice sat on the deli counter. Kate remembered that Jay had said Zoran liked licorice. She asked the waitress for a few sticks. She offered one to Marcos.

“No, thanks. But Zoran would like it.”

Kate nibbled on a stick.

“Even though he was really mean to me,” she said, “he was also really nice to me, the bastard. On the sashimi test, he called time
right
when I put down my last cut of fish.”

They settled their check and wandered outside. Mexican women sat on the curb in the hot sun, waiting for a bus. Marcos and Kate strolled down the street and found a quiet curb of their own. They sat and smoked cigarettes. Kate turned her face to the sun.

“Sushi is the first thing I’ve gotten excited about in a long time,” Kate said. She took another drag on her cigarette and blew out the smoke. “I needed this. I think it’s given me confidence.”

T
oshi peered out the window of the Boeing 737. Green fields came into view as the plane sank toward Sacramento. Stretching north through the Sacramento Valley are half a million acres of rice paddies. Ninety-five percent of the rice are the short-grain and medium-grain Japonica varieties used for sushi.

A trade group called the California Rice Commission had contacted Toshi months ago. They’d been planning a “Sushi Masters” competition in Sacramento, the first of its kind. The commission had invited Toshi, as CEO of the California Sushi Academy, to serve as presiding judge. Tonight, he and five other judges would confer the title of Sushi Master on one of eight sushi chefs nominated from around the state.

The event would also honor the first sushi chefs and restaurateurs in L.A.’s Little Tokyo in the 1960s and 1970s—or at least, those that were still alive and could be located. Katsu Michite, the chef whose restaurant Toshi had frequented when he’d gotten his first job in Malibu, would be there, along with other stalwarts of traditional sushi in the United States.

Rumor had it that some of these men looked down on Toshi as an opportunist who lacked proper credentials. Worse, Toshi could assume that they already knew what had happened—that after losing his first restaurant, he’d now driven his second restaurant into the ground. Never mind that without chefs like Toshi, who’d
thrown tradition to the wind, average Americans might never have warmed to sushi, and there might not even be a Sushi Masters event to honor the founding fathers of American sushi.

When the plane touched down on the tarmac, Toshi looked stoic. Earlier that day at the academy, he’d administered a final practical exam for his students. After the exam, Toshi and Jay had driven straight to the airport. Toshi had scarfed down a cheese pizza at the departure gate.

Downtown in Sacramento, they entered a vast four-story atrium. A long table with black-and-red tablecloths stretched through the middle of the hall, and in the center towered a four-foot ice sculpture, in which was embedded a bright red Japanese character: “sushi.”

The private opening ceremony for the pioneer chefs was already under way. Toshi adjusted his gray suit jacket and red tie. Nearby stood a cluster of Japanese men in black suits. A lone woman in an elaborate kimono provided the only color.

Toshi scanned the group, keeping his distance. He identified Rocky Aoki, the founder of the Benihana chain, whose tight curly hair and dark glasses made him look like a member of the yakuza. Near Aoki stood the silver-haired president of the Mutual Trading Company, Noritoshi Kanai, the first person to recognize that Americans might actually eat sushi. Toshi’s eyes landed on his old mentor Katsu, and then on Teruo Imaizumi, a chef who’d been present at the creation of the California roll; he was in a wheelchair.

The president of the rice commission, Tim Johnson, was giving a speech, pausing every few sentences so his words could be translated into Japanese.

“A hundred years ago, we had the first successful rice crop in California, after fifty years of trying. It was short-grain Japonica rice.” Johnson gestured at the Japanese men in black suits. “You allowed our industry to begin, and you have allowed our industry to thrive.”

Frank Rehermann, chairman of the commission and a rice grower himself, took the podium. He was a big, balding man. He doubled over in an awkward Japanese bow, directed at the men in black suits.

“
Konnichiwa,
” he said. “One-third of California rice sales are
to Japanese customers in the United States. A fifth of our crop is exported to Japan. People here took great risks in gambling to bring sushi to the United States, at a time when most of us didn’t even know what sushi was.” He bowed again, this time deeply. “
Domo arigato
.”

The sushi pioneers in their black suits applauded stiffly. A few of them delivered speeches. One admitted that he still couldn’t understand why Americans had adopted sushi at all. He called it a “miracle.”

Hardly.

Toshi had heard enough.

Minutes later, a commission official rushed Toshi into a silent conference room. The shades were drawn. Toshi glanced around the table and took a quick inventory of the other judges.

One was Japanese—the president of a Japanese restaurant association. The rest were Caucasians—a state senator whose district included Little Tokyo, a writer for a food magazine, and a chef-instructor from the Culinary Institute of America. One more judge, an executive chef at a trendy group of grills, bars, and cafes in Sacramento, was on his way.

“This is the judges’ war room,” the official explained. “The chefs’ war room is in there.” He gestured at a set of closed doors. Behind those doors, in a large hall, eight sushi chefs were completing their preparations.

“Toshi is our consulting judge,” the official said. “If any of you have any questions about how to grade something, please consult with Toshi.” He handed out clipboards with scoring sheets and gave each judge a calculator.

The competing chefs would be required to create three presentations. The first would be a traditional platter of
nigiri
sushi and Japanese-style thin rolls. The second would be an American-style creative roll of their own devising. The third would be a “governor’s roll”—containing a selection of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s favorite sushi ingredients. The “Governator’s” list included sea urchin gonads.

The sound of taiko drums thundered through the wall. Guests had begun to arrive. The commission was expecting 250 luminaries and VIPs to attend.

“Things are getting started,” the official said “The competition begins at six o’clock. The chefs have forty-five minutes.”

Toshi wandered back out to the atrium and found Jay. They sidled up to the hors d’oeuvres. Toshi surveyed the food.

“Sushi again?”

Jay snickered. “See, aren’t you glad we ate at the airport?”

The chef-instructor from the Culinary Institute of America conferred with Toshi on scoring standards. A few minutes later, the eight contestants took their stations along three walls of the hall. The commission had chosen them based on popularity. Each chef had earned a top ranking in California’s largest newspapers and dining guides. Of the most popular sushi chefs in California, only two were Japanese. Another two had Chinese roots. Three appeared to be Latino and one was Caucasian.

A commotion drew Toshi’s attention. A camera crew pointed bright lights on one of the chefs, while a man with a microphone interviewed him. A crowd gathered. Toshi strolled over and maneuvered his way to the front.

It was the younger of the two Japanese chefs, Taro Arai. Arai’s restaurant was here in Sacramento, and he was a local sushi celebrity. He was tall and ebullient, with an orange headband, highlights in his hair, a flashy baseball jersey, and oversized black shoes with enormous silver buckles. He beamed at the camera as he answered questions. He was clearly the crowd favorite.

Toshi was looking not at Taro Arai but at his table. It was a jumble. Vegetables and sauce containers were strewn across the surface, along with Arai’s extra-long black-handled sushi knife and his Razr cellphone. Toshi shook his head and clicked his tongue.

A thunderous drum roll signaled the start of the competition and the eight chefs burst into action. The man with the microphone ran from table to table and delivered play-by-play updates over the PA system.

Jerry Warner, the Caucasian chef, had not set any ingredients out on his table, which stood nearly bare. He produced a single cucumber and commenced the process of column-peeling it, just as Toshi’s students had learned to do. The TV camera and announcer swung by Warner’s table for a moment and then hurried on, returning to Taro Arai’s station across the room. The crowd followed. Warner kept his gaze on the knife and cucumber.

At Arai’s station Toshi stood directly in front of the young Japanese chef, inches from his table, and stared at his cutting board. Arai’s long knife flashed around the cutting board so fast that bits of food seemed to scatter and vaporize. Every few seconds, Arai glanced up and fired another winning smile into the crowd while he worked, never ceasing to slice, peel, chop, and squeeze. He squeezed
nigiri
so fast that his hands were a blur—each packet of fish and rice popped out from his fingers in under five seconds.

Toshi scribbled on his scoring sheet and moved on. At several stations he deducted points simply because the chefs wore watches and rings. Not even his students committed such blatant violations of basic hygiene. One chef even wore a chef’s jacket with fancy pinstripe sleeves that scraped the food as he worked. Toshi was flabbergasted.

Toshi arrived at Jerry Warner’s table just as the first drumbeat thundered through the hall, marking ten minutes. Toshi watched Warner slice a block of yellowtail. Warner’s workspace was immaculate. Toshi returned to Arai. Jagged cuts of vegetables and fish and half-finished rolls lay scattered across his table. Arai slapped slices of whitefish onto a mound of rice and tossed on elaborate garnishes of sauces and multi-colored fish eggs. He kept smiling at the crowd of onlookers.

The second drumbeat sounded. Toshi completed another circle. He deducted more points from the other chefs, this time for using their bamboo mats upside down, for not squeezing their cucumber rolls tight and square, and for letting onions and avocado slices come in contact with plates and work surfaces. The third drumbeat sounded. Toshi visited Warner again. Warner was plating his completed sushi. Otherwise, his table was empty and
spotless. Toshi returned to Arai. Arai’s table looked like a grocery store hit by a typhoon.

The final drumbeat sounded. Each chef set out three plates. Toshi ignored the sushi. He strode behind the tables to scrutinize the floor and shelves at each station, checking for neatness, organization, and dropped food.

Jay rushed over to Toshi. “They need you in the war room.”

Toshi shook his head. “I need more time.”

When he was ready, Toshi joined the other judges. As the double doors closed behind him, the noise of the crowd faded to silence. The judges hovered over two tables against the wall. The contestants’ plates of sushi were laid out like a buffet. The chef-instructor from the Culinary Institute of America, Ken Woytisek, loomed over one of the tables in his starched white chef’s jacket. He was looking down at Taro Arai’s plates.

Woytisek was an imposing man, with a high receding brow and a sharp nose. He taught classes on Asian cuisine. He’d traveled to Japan, India, Vietnam, Thailand, Korea, and China. Toshi approached and stood beside him. Woytisek turned to Toshi, pointed at Arai’s sushi, and said, “What’s all this shit?”

Toshi chuckled and nodded. He strolled down the table, raised his clipboard, and started deducting more points from other contestants. He sampled a couple of the rolls and skipped the rest. He sat down, punched the keys of his calculator, and handed in his scoring sheets.

Toshi turned to Woytisek. “Messy chefs!”

“I wasn’t impressed with what I saw out there,” Woytisek said. “Nor with what I tasted.” Woytisek noted that only the elder Japanese chef had prepared a bucket of water and washed his hands.

Toshi nodded. “I would never let my students make sushi that way.”

“They haven’t been trained properly,” Woytisek said.

Toshi nodded again. He handed Woytisek his business card. Woytisek offered one of his own.

“The best part of the day,” Woytisek said, “was meeting you.”

In the cab on the way back to the airport, Toshi and Jay reviewed the outcome. The awards had played out as Toshi had predicted. The judges had shut Taro Arai out of every category. There was such a thing as a sushi chef performing too much.

None of California’s most popular sushi had much impressed the judges, and in the end, the title of Sushi Master had gone almost by default to the chef whose traditional platter was the simplest, and whose fundamental sushi-making techniques had somewhat resembled those of a traditional Japanese chef. Neither Toshi nor Jay found it ironic that the chef who’d earned the title of Sushi Master was a white guy named Jerry Warner. It confirmed everything that they believed about sushi in America. And it reminded Toshi of why he ran the California Sushi Academy. Toshi believed that anyone could become a sushi chef. Hell,
he
had become a sushi chef.

On the plane, Toshi ordered a Scotch and leaned back in his seat. Twenty-five years ago, he’d broken with tradition and introduced sushi to Americans, American style. He’d helped sushi grow deep roots in his adopted homeland. Tonight, he had seen how badly sushi in America now needed discipline. Ken Woytisek had put it exactly right. California’s most popular sushi chefs hadn’t been properly trained.

As the plane descended over L.A., Toshi gazed down at the lights of the sprawling city. Maybe American sushi still needed him after all.