Nobu
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Contents
Preface
To See My Guests Smile
1
Drawn to Foreign Lands and Sushi
Thanks to my years as an apprentice
Longing to travel like my father
Inheriting my grandmother’s fighting spirit
The day I decided to become a sushi chef
Driving without a license and getting expelled from school
Three years of washing dishes and delivering sushi
A combination platter for baseball star Sadaharu Oh
Sticking it out made me what I am today
Work for a fine person, not for a fine shop
Aim high and you will grow
The search for good food leads me to my future wife
Trying out new dishes when the boss wasn’t looking
The origin of my philosophy “Put your heart into your work and cook with passion”
An offer to start a sushi restaurant in Peru
2
Once You’ve Hit Rock Bottom, Impatience Vanishes
A series of failures in foreign lands
Peru Lima Matsuei-sushi opens
Getting conger eel cheap in Peru
Clashing with my partner over the cost of ingredients
The frustration of being unable to do the work I want
Reduced to poverty in Japan
Forward from the brink of despair—a millimeter a day!
Going solo to Los Angeles and vowing to make a comeback
My wife’s courage reunites our family
Uniting cooking methods learned in South America with sushi
Covert plans to sell the restaurant and fear of losing my job again
A proposal and a push from a benefactor
3
A Place Filled with the Laughter of My Guests
Launching Matsuhisa, my first restaurant
Just happy to do the work I love
One or two hours of sleep a night, every day a battle
For my guests, I can do anything!
New dishes born from my passion for sharing the delicious flavors of seafood
Cuisine is like fashion, always evolving
Hot food should be eaten hot, cold food, cold
Sushi bar omakase is the origin of Nobu Style
My guests’ laughter is the best background music
The key to good service is to anticipate your guests’ needs
A tuna bought on impulse inspires new signature dishes
Importing raw fish from Japan
Labor costs are cheap if you employ people who are motivated
Good ingredients come first, profit, later
Learning the importance of praise
Media attention attracts celebrities
4
Robert De Niro, the Man Who Waited Four Years
The beginning of the Nobu management team
Meeting Robert De Niro
He waited four whole years
When the time is ripe, there is no anxiety
A pro systemizes the kitchen
If you strive passionately to communicate, broken English still gets through
You can’t do your best when you’re feeling stressed out
Changing the image of Japanese restaurants
An emergency call from New York
My guests’ smiles mean more than Michelin stars
I never forget my roots—Matsuhisa
Venturing into the world of movies
Pursuing a single job can broaden your horizons
5
Conveying the Taste and Service of Nobu to the World
What to keep and what to adapt to the locality
No Nobu without De Niro
Nobu London stays open for Christmas
Going straight to Mr. Armani himself
Experienced Nobu staff teach others
Creating new tastes
Japanese cuisine is the heart of Nobu Style
Why I spend ten months a year traveling around the world
Why I pair local chefs with native Japanese chefs
I ask my staff to aim for my best
It’s selling, so why worry? This attitude can lead to major loss
Don’t ban new dishes, make them better
Never forget the essence—in cooking, simple is best
6
Transcending a Crisis in Our Partnership
Constantly perfecting quality
Pulling out of Paris
Starting over in Paris
Nobu doesn’t bargain
Relationships where 1 + 1 = 100
The growth of the Nobu management team
It’s fun to work with partners who have high ideals
When a Nobu opens, the town changes
True competition lets rivals coexist and prosper
Waiting until the three key players are ready
The importance of repetition
Why I’m always willing to take photos with my guests
We don’t need a manual for hospitality
When you have to reprimand staff, put yourself in their shoes and choose your words carefully
Being an example is more effective than reprimanding
You can’t teach someone to have a “hungry spirit”
Always thank the dishwashers
7
Heading into a New Stage
Launching Nobu Hotel
From restaurants to hotels
Reflecting Nobu concepts in hotel service
Welcoming our guests with Japanese tea and sembei crackers
Twenty-four-hour Nobu room service
One manager’s courageous decision
A restaurant where young employees thrive feels great
Pioneering new things is always met with criticism
Developing original tableware to convey Japanese concepts
A thank-you letter from a cruise passenger
A spirit of mutual learning, not rivalry, makes organizations stronger
My staff’s success is my success; I want them to grasp opportunities
Having chefs who are team players is yet another Nobu strength
Maybe I did it
8
Work Hard with Passion. The Rest Will Come.
Toward our next dream
Communication is more important than a manual
You’ve mastered your trade when you can raise an apprentice to your level
You can copy my recipes, but not my kokoro (heart)
What to do with the rest of my life
The immaturity that blinded me to the suffering of my best friend
Working as hard as I can is the easiest way
I can strive because I’m a coward
Don’t bother aiming to become a global human resource
Paying it forward
In the end, it all comes down to passion
What if we all tried to see things from the other’s perspective?
Afterword
About the Author
Preface
* * *
To See My Guests Smile
I entered the world of cooking as an apprentice chef at a sushi bar in Shinjuku when I was just seventeen. At the time, I never imagined that one day I would run over thirty restaurants and hotels on five
continents.
People often ask me for the secret of my success or my method for succeeding globally, but I have never thought of myself as “succeeding.” Quite frankly, I’m still learning, and I don’t believe that there is any golden rule that guarantees success. I simply threw myself into my work and did my best to do the right thing.
In my business, that means choosing the best ingredients, caring about my guests, putting my heart into my cooking because I want to please them, and offering dishes at a price that matches the quality of the food. If you consistently offer good food and good service, your guests will always come back. To me, the “right thing” means constantly repeating this process.
The restaurants that bear my name, Nobu, are considered high end, but they’re not exclusive. Families with small children are welcome at all Nobu locations except those in luxury hotels. I want Nobu to bring smiles to our guests’ faces with the first bite of food, to give them a place to relax, enjoy good conversation over a great meal, and leave happy. And I constantly encourage our team to strive for this goal.
Nobu originated with Matsuhisa in Los Angeles, my very first restaurant. It was nothing special—just a little thirty-eight-seat establishment that was later expanded to sixty-five seats. Nobu’s roots can be traced back even further to Matsuei-sushi, the sushi bar in Shinjuku where I spent my years as an apprentice.
Sushi is a simple dish that is prepared right before the guest. The ingredients are just fish and rice; the tools, a knife and ten fingers. The heart of the sushi chef communicates directly to the guest. It’s impossible to fake it. Or to cut corners. Even the smallest of actions must never become “routine.” I must put my heart and soul into everything I do. This dedication, this passion, is the essence of Nobu. Size makes no difference. Whether it’s a restaurant that seats 38 or 374, I treat every guest as though each meal is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion.
Collecting Michelin stars is not my aim. All I want is to see my guests smile. For me, the greatest happiness, the highest honor, is to please my guests. So I try to imagine what I might want if I were them and spare no effort to provide it. If there is any key to global “success” in what I do, perhaps it is this simple approach. And I’ll keep on going this way, moving forward little by little, without pausing or rushing, always mindful of my roots.
Along the way, I have faced some major stumbling blocks. But each time, I have managed to overcome them. Whenever I hit an obstacle, I search for a solution and carry on. Gradually, the hurdles that appear before me have become smaller. I find that if I plow ahead, no matter how impossible that may seem, and just do my best, someone is bound to lend a hand. Keep moving forward, even if it’s just a millimeter a day. That’s my motto.
I went through a lot before I reached this place: the death of my father, getting expelled from high school, years spent working my way up from the bottom rung, anger and frustration in Peru, discouragement in Argentina, and a setback in Alaska that was so severe I contemplated suicide . . . I hope that the lessons I have learned through these experiences will inspire those who long to pursue their dreams.
1
Drawn to Foreign Lands and Sushi
* * *
Thanks to my years as an apprentice
LONGING TO TRAVEL LIKE MY FATHER
I don’t remember my childhood in much detail. Instead, fragmented images flash through my mind.
My father ran a lumber business in Sugito, a town in Saitama Prefecture. Sometimes he went overseas to buy lumber. He must have been a busy man. The last of his four children, I have almost no memories of playing with him. What I do remember is the warmth of his back when I rode behind him on his motorcycle. He often took me with him when he went places for work. It was the 1950s, and much of Saitama remained undeveloped. I loved speeding through the beautiful countryside, slicing through the wind while clinging to the back of this man whom I admired so much.
One day, I returned home from school to find my father about to leave. I held on to the back of his motorcycle and insisted that he take me, too. I must have really pestered him, because I remember that someone finally took a photo of us together, my father astride the bike and me standing on the back with my hands on his shoulders. But my father said he was going too far to take me with him and left alone. I can still see his back receding into the distance . . . It was a June afternoon, just two months after I began elementary school.
The next image is of my father in a hospital bed, covered in blood and groaning in pain. He’d been in an accident. This scene is followed by one of his funeral. Many relatives were there.
My memories jump like this from one scene to another.
Never again would I cling to my father’s back and ride through the wind. Never again would he hoist me onto his shoulders. Never again would we play catch together. I think it took some time for this to sink in.
I was so jealous when I saw my friends riding on their fathers’ shoulders or playing catch together. Sometimes I felt lonely, wondering why my father had to die. At those times, I would look at his photo. In it, he’s standing in front of what looks like a palm tree. Beside him is a local man dressed only in a loincloth. Later, I learned that this photo was taken during the Second World War when my father went to Palau to buy lauan wood. In those days, few Japanese civilians traveled overseas on business. I was very proud of him for traveling all alone to unexplored territory. And I felt the pull of distant lands myself. “When I grow up, I want to go overseas just like my father,” I thought. That was my first dream.
INHERITING MY GRANDMOTHER’S FIGHTING SPIRIT
The Matsuhisa family had lost its main breadwinner. My mother must have been at a complete loss when my father died so suddenly. Although she had helped him with his work, she didn’t even know the price of the company’s products. Once I remember her saying, “Your father came to see me last night.” Perhaps she had dreamed of him.
The customers demanded to know what she was going to do. She consulted my eldest brother, Noboru, who was then in grade twelve, but my second-eldest brother, Keiichi, intervened. “Let him graduate from high school,” he said. “I’ll take a year off.” He helped my mother until Noboru graduated the following spring and then reenrolled in grade ten while Noboru took over the company.
Noboru’s grades were good, and he had planned to go on to university and become a doctor. My father’s death, however, meant that he had to give up this dream. For a while, he became quite sullen and angry, perhaps due to the stress. Sometimes he drank and vented his frustration on my mother. In retrospect, I can see how hard it must have been for both of them.
Because of our situation, I spent most of my time with my grandmother. Born in the Meiji era (1868–1912), a time of great social upheaval in Japan, she was strong-willed and an avid pro wrestling fan. Rikidozan was her favorite wrestler. One day, I got into a fight and came home crying. She scolded me, but not for fighting or for crying. In those days, schoolboys still wore geta, or heavy wooden sandals. “Why did you come back with your geta on?” she demanded. “If they made you mad enough to cry, at least throw your geta at them before coming home!” Perhaps it’s from her that I inherited my fighting spirit, which forces me back on my feet whenever I fall.
THE DAY I DECIDED TO BECOME A SUSHI CHEF
When I was a child, I slept near the kitchen. I would wake every morning to the tap-tap of the knife on the cutting board, the scraping of the pot against the burner, the sound of water gushing from the kitchen faucet, and the savory aroma of soup stock and miso as my mother made soup. She was the old-fashioned type of housewife who kneaded the fermented rice bran in the pickling crock every day. She was a good cook, too. Although not the type to make elaborate, time-consuming dishes, she could whip up a meal without wasting time and effort, using whatever ingredients happened to be on hand. It made her happy to see us enjoy her cooking. She must have been incredibly busy, juggling both the business and the housework, but mealtime when I was a boy was fun. My first m
emories of food come from the joy of our family gathered around the dinner table.
The photo of my father that I always looked at as a child.
One day, my eldest brother, Noboru, took me to Uokou, a sushi bar in front of the local train station. It must have been when I was still in junior high school. Back then, sushi was a special treat ordered in for guests, and we would be lucky to get any that was left over. There was no such thing as conveyor belt sushi, and going to a sushi restaurant was extra special. I expect that I behaved like a spoiled brat and insisted that Noboru take me. He ducked under the noren (shop curtain) and slid open the door. I peered around him to see inside. The sushi chefs behind the counter called out, “Irasshai!” (meaning “welcome”). I felt very nervous, as if I were sneaking into an adult world where kids didn’t belong. Yet, at the same time, I was spellbound by the microcosm of the sushi bar into which I had stepped for the first time in my life.
Seeing how nervous I was, Noboru ordered for me. The distinctive fragrance of vinegared rice and the swift, unerring movements of the chefs captivated me. “Toro, gyoku, shako, agari, sabi . . .” I hadn’t a clue what they were saying, but the sound of the words that flew back and forth made my heart sing. Then, pieces of sushi, made especially for me, were placed on the counter, and I popped them in my mouth. They were really and truly delicious.
The restaurant, the movements of the sushi chefs, the exchanges across the counter, the conversations among the customers themselves, the sheen of the sushi toppings, the aroma of sushi rice . . . It was all the coolest thing ever. I decided then and there that I wanted to become a sushi chef. This became my second dream.
Before that, I had been drawn to such professions as gym teacher or soldier in the Self-Defense Forces. These worlds seemed dynamic and disciplined. Actually, I now see that they share something in common with the precise movements of a sushi chef. Those were the kinds of things that attracted me when I was young. But although I was drawn to foreign lands and sushi, it did not yet occur to me to choose a path in life that would fulfill those dreams. I had been born into the lumber business and, just like Keiichi, my second-eldest brother, I went on to Omiya Technical High School. There I joined the boys’ cheerleading squad. Again, I think I chose it because I loved dynamic action.