Nobu

by Nobu Matsuhisa

  TRYING OUT NEW DISHES WHEN THE BOSS WASN’T LOOKING

  Around the same time, the senior coworker who I had been working under opened his own restaurant, and I became senior sushi chef at Matsuei-sushi. The boss left most of the work to me, and, although perhaps I shouldn’t boast, many of the guests had become my fans.

  There were many bars and restaurants in that area of Shinjuku, and Matsuei-sushi’s regulars often visited several establishments in a single night. Occasionally, someone might arrive quite drunk after closing and demand a drink. Because I was live-in staff, I would come out right away to let them in and prepare them a snack and a drink. Having watched the way my boss treated his customers, I think I just automatically assumed I should do my best to fulfill their requests, regardless of how unreasonable they might be. They affectionately called me “Matchan” and would stop by casually for a drink and a bite when pub-hopping. Some of those who woke me up after hours are now regular guests at Nobu Tokyo. They were not just my seniors in age but also in experience, and as they were active on the world stage, the tales with which they entertained me greatly influenced my life.

  Once my boss began leaving things more up to me, I was no longer satisfied just to make what people ordered. The desire to experiment with new ideas surged inside me. For example, I was one of the first to serve sardine and Pacific saury as sashimi at a time when few chefs served these fish raw. In summer, I purchased fresh sea bass and served it as arai (thin slices in ice water) or as nikogori (jellied fish) to accompany drinks. Wanting to try my hand at some of the kappo dishes I had eaten in Kyoto, I sometimes bought fish without asking my boss for permission. When he happened to find out, he would grumble about my unnecessary expenditures.

  THE ORIGIN OF MY PHILOSOPHY “PUT YOUR HEART INTO YOUR WORK AND COOK WITH PASSION”

  Of course, whenever I made something new, I would recommend it to whoever was there. Matsuei-sushi guests were all quite wealthy and well established in their fields, and I’m sure that the dishes I was capable of producing would have been nothing new to them. But to me, they were my creations. I really wanted people to try them, and my guests must have sensed my enthusiasm because they all urged me to go ahead and serve what I had made.

  I was always trying to imagine how each guest would respond to a new dish. My longing to see delight on their faces seemed to spark one idea after another. All my thoughts were focused on how to make them happy. I planned what to say when recommending a new dish, how to present it and how to explain it. This enthusiasm was infectious, and my guests responded in kind. I think that this was the origin of my philosophy “Put your heart into your work and cook with passion.” In particular, I think that this experience of preparing food for my guests while watching their reactions across the counter inspired the very popular Chef’s Omakase course at my first restaurant, Matsuhisa.

  I was just a simple-hearted sushi chef who loved his work. The customers treated me with good-humored affection, perhaps because they liked my attitude and thought I was an interesting young man. The well-known interior designer Tadashi Akiyama, in particular, taught me many things.

  Once, however, I went too far. Keisuke Serizawa, the famous textile designer, was at the counter, and in my eagerness, I kept pressing him to try one new dish after another. “Let me eat what I want!” he finally exclaimed.

  Although some customers could be a bit demanding, I never lost my temper. I loved listening to them, and, as I was young, I could listen without bias to anything they had to share. I often asked them questions and soaked up their answers like a sponge. If they said, “Give me another drink,” I said, “Yes, sir,” and if they said, “You want one, too?” I said, “Yes, sir.” Being young has its advantages.

  With Mr. Akiyama.

  AN OFFER TO START A SUSHI RESTAURANT IN PERU

  I think it was right around the time Yoko and I were talking about getting married that Luis Matsufuji began frequenting Matsuei-sushi. A second-generation Japanese-Peruvian, Luis was a prominent businessman whose parents had made it rich growing black pepper in Peru. Probably everyone in the capital of Lima knew his name. He was a dynamic person who went fishing on the Amazon with the well-known Japanese novelist Takeshi Kaiko.

  When he came to Matsuei-sushi, he would sit at the counter and tell me stories of Peru. Before I knew it, the picture he painted of the Amazon overlapped with my image of my father in Palau. Because he was so dynamic, I found his stories captivating. Spurred on by my enthusiastic response, he would become even more animated. He became one of my fans, and we hit it off well. One day he said, “You should come to Peru. We’ll start up a sushi restaurant together.”

  Here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fulfill both of my dreams simultaneously: to be a sushi chef and to work overseas. I knew immediately that that was what I wanted to do. But I owed Matsuei-sushi a lot. My boss had literally been like a father to me. I had even asked him to serve as the nakodo (ceremonial matchmaker) at our wedding, a role as important as best man. How could I ask him to let me go to Peru? I agonized over this for some time. When I finally made up my mind and consulted him, he suggested that I go and see what it was like first. And that was how I ended up going alone to Peru to investigate.

  It was my first trip overseas ever. But as my image of “going overseas” was not going to New York or London but to “primitive lands” like my father, Peru fit my image perfectly. On my first visit, the country seemed backward. There were only three or four Japanese restaurants in Lima at that time. Having come all this way, I wanted to see what working there might be like and spent a few days working at a restaurant called Tokyo Sushi. Although they told me many things, my skills were frankly superior. Despite the fact that the fish varieties used were unfamiliar, I was confident I could prepare them better.

  Yoko and I decided to move to Peru after our wedding. But when my mother heard this, she rushed over to our apartment and, falling to her knees, grabbed my legs and burst into tears. “Please don’t go!” she begged. Before World War II, many Japanese had immigrated to Peru, but quite a number of families that had boarded ships bound for South America never returned to Japan. Having heard such stories, my mother must have been worried that she would never see us again. I explained that times had changed. Far from being a frontier land, Peru could now be reached by plane, and we would not be gone for life. In the end, I managed to convince her to let us go.

  2

  Once You’ve Hit Rock Bottom, Impatience Vanishes

  * * *

  A series of failures in foreign lands

  PERU LIMA MATSUEI-SUSHI OPENS

  I felt guilty for leaving Matsuei-sushi after all my boss had done for me, but he gave me a noren curtain emblazoned with the words “Peru Lima Matsuei-sushi.” He’d had it specially made for the entrance of our new restaurant. I was thrilled. This custom, which is known as norenwake in Japanese, showed that he believed me capable enough to use his name.

  Many of our friends and relatives came to see us off at Haneda Airport. With the noren carefully stowed in our luggage, my wife and I boarded the plane, which took us via Canada to Peru on the opposite side of the world from Japan. It was Yoko’s first trip abroad. She spoke some English, but I spoke none, and I had no Spanish, either. Still, I wasn’t concerned. After all, this was my second trip to Peru, and, this time, I was traveling with Yoko. It was 1972, and the Japanese economy was booming.

  In Peru, we relied on the Matsufuji family. Locally, Luis was known as Don Lucho, and he really was the don of the family. His four younger brothers—Jorge, Dario, Carlos, and Mitsuo—were likewise influential businessmen. A second-generation Japanese-Peruvian cameraman named José Hitotsuishi and his Okinawan-born wife, Natsuko, also took good care of us. When they invited us to their home, Natsuko fed us things like soki-soba (Okinawan-style noodles) and a local chicken and rice dish called arroz con pollo.

  Peru is where I first encountered cilantro, which Peruvians love. Put off by its pungent smell, I c
ouldn’t eat it at first. But because it is an essential part of Peruvian cuisine, I decided to train myself and tried adding it to food in different ways, starting with a single leaf in clear broth. Eventually, I grew to like it. Now, it has become an essential ingredient in several dishes on the Nobu menu. Every region in the world has certain foods that are cherished by the local people. In Peru, I learned the importance of tasting and getting used to unfamiliar foods, instead of deciding that I don’t like something before I’ve even tried it.

  Most Japanese-Peruvians are descendants of immigrants who began crossing the sea at the end of the nineteenth century. To me, they seemed to have retained the culture of “good old” Japan. This was reflected in their style of speech and the use of polite expressions, their ethics and respect for others, and their hospitality. They were generous of spirit and strictly disciplined, and a firm inner conviction permeated their words and actions. My grandmother was born during that same period, and because she raised me, I found the atmosphere in the Japanese-Peruvian community very comfortable.

  There was another reason I felt comfortable in Peru. Tokyo, where I had lived and worked for many years, was in the midst of rapid economic growth, whereas Lima was still peaceful and quiet, despite being the capital of Peru. It reminded me of my hometown in Saitama where I had spent my childhood.

  We renovated a place where Don Lucho had once lived and called it Matsuei-sushi. It could accommodate a total of about one hundred guests, with a twelve-seat sushi bar on the first floor and tables and two private rooms on the second floor. Yoko and I chose to live above the restaurant.

  This was my very first time running a restaurant on my own. Although I had complete confidence in making sushi and preparing fish, I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little anxious about whether we would succeed. Still, I was optimistic that things would turn out all right. The economy in Peru was good, and many major Japanese trading companies had branches there. Our main guests were Japanese businessmen and second-generation Japanese-Peruvians. Thanks to them, the restaurant prospered, and we were kept very busy.

  As I couldn’t possibly cover the entire restaurant on my own, I invited two friends from Japan, Tsuneo Asakura and Toshi Konishi, to join me. Asakura had worked as a chef at the Japan Airlines Flight Crew Training Center in Napa, California, while Konishi had been the itamae, or chef, at Izumi, a restaurant in Shinjuku that served chazuke, a bowl of hot rice and condiments with hot green tea or dashi poured over the top. I used to visit this restaurant on my days off. Neither of them had made sushi before, so I taught them how. It was great fun working with these Japanese friends every day, and business was good enough that we could enjoy occasional holidays.

  My friends and I studied Spanish together during our breaks. I think that I learned the language not just through books or a teacher, but also while moving and working. For example, I’d be in the kitchen on the second floor cooking and would need a bamboo basket from the sushi bar on the first floor. Looking down from upstairs, I could see it, but not knowing the Spanish word, I couldn’t ask for it. Feeling a bit frustrated, I would run downstairs, grab it, and say, “What’s this?” “Canasta,” the Peruvian staff would say, and the next time I would be able to call out, “Bring me the canasta.” That’s how I gradually learned Spanish. As I became more fluent, my work became easier. The merchants from whom I always bought fish came to know my preferences and would set some aside for me. One of the women who used to work there now works for Konishi’s restaurant in Peru. I was very moved to see her again when I visited in 2012.

  GETTING CONGER EEL CHEAP IN PERU

  In Lima, it was easy to get excellent ingredients for making sushi, including black porgy, flounder, and octopus. In the early morning, the stalls of the city’s largest fish market were lined with fish and shellfish that had been trucked long distances, such as Patagonian toothfish (also known as Chilean sea bass), abalone, and scallops. In the evening, fishermen crowded along a street called Calle Capón in the city center to sell their fresh catch. Prices were never indicated, which meant that everything had to be negotiated. I was careful to buy as cheaply as possible and never reveal what we could actually afford.

  One day, I went to Calle Capón and found a conger eel. Excited, I asked the vendor, “Can you get more?”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “What do you want that for?” he asked.

  Peruvians, I realized, must have no custom of eating conger eel. My bargaining instincts kicked in immediately. In my halting Spanish, I explained. “My dog comes from Japan. He loves eel. But in Peru, no eel. Now he’s very homesick.”

  The vendor grinned. “In that case,” he said, “come again tomorrow.”

  The next day I went again and found a heap of conger eels. The vendor told me that the fishermen caught plenty of them when they set their traps at night. “How much?” I asked.

  “Take the whole lot and give them to your dog,” he replied. I felt bad taking them for free, so I gave him a bit of money. Needless to say, Matsuei-sushi’s special that night was conger eel.

  It soon became a popular item on our menu, and a Japanese chef from another restaurant went looking for some at the market. Coming across the vendor who always saved them for me, he asked him how much. “Oh, do you have a Japanese dog, too?” the vendor asked. The truth was out, but Lima was a good-natured place. The next time I met that vendor, he just winked at me and laughed. Peru has since become an exporter of conger eel.

  CLASHING WITH MY PARTNER OVER THE COST OF INGREDIENTS

  Once the restaurant began to flourish, Yoko and I, with the help of a Japanese businessman, moved into a large mansion of about ten thousand square meters, complete with a maid and gardener. Just before our eldest daughter was born, we invited my mother to come and help with the baby. It was also a chance to reassure her that we were doing fine. This was the woman who had clung to my legs and begged me not to leave Japan, but she was so taken with life in Peru that she stayed a total of ten months and only returned to Japan when my eldest brother insisted that it was time she came home. Until she passed away at the age of ninety-three, she kept saying that she wanted to go back to Peru again. Those ten months must have seemed like heaven to her.

  Matsuei-sushi in Lima, Peru.

  This stable life, however, lasted only three years. One night Don Lucho and his family called a meeting. When I got there, they were already drinking. Fortified with liquor, they began saying things that went against my convictions, such as profit comes before quality. When I tried to protest, they cut me off in Spanish. Lucho owned 51 percent of the shares in our business while I owned 49 percent. Laws prevented foreigners from holding a majority stake, and Lucho had more clout than I did, even though the difference was only 2 percent.

  I want to use the best ingredients possible. This was true then, and it’s still true now. Good-quality ingredients are what makes it possible for chefs to serve their guests with confidence and provide the finest service. So it’s only natural for a chef to select the best fish that are available. It’s instinct. Good quality inevitably means a higher price. But if instead of trying to squeeze out extra profit, we set a reasonable price that matches the quality of the ingredients, we will inevitably please our guests. Besides, the majority of guests at our restaurant were Japanese businessmen who were accustomed to eating good food all over the world and frequented the best restaurants in Japan. We couldn’t get away with cutting corners just because we happened to be a sushi bar in Peru.

  If this happened to me now, or if we could have spoken in Japanese, I might have been able to listen better to what they were saying and find a compromise. But I was young, and the fact that they were drunk and yelling at me made me angry. I felt that they didn’t understand me and were bossing me around. The blood rushed to my head, and I couldn’t be bothered trying to reason with them. Before I realized it, I had blurted out, “I’m quitting, then.” I have no memory of Lucho’s expression when I told him that. I was probably to
o upset for it to even register.

  I had lost my job and was without a plan, despite having a wife and child to support. Japan was very far away, and I was stuck in Peru, a stranger in a foreign land. My family and I might be turned out into the street at any moment. But I could not turn back, and I did not want to return to Japan. I decided to consult Teruo Nishimura, one of our regulars. Mr. Nishimura happened to be the First Secretary at the Japanese embassy in Peru and had a great sense of humor. Our families had become so close that my mother and his had gone back to Japan together. He introduced me to Mikado, a Japanese restaurant in Argentina where he had once been stationed. We packed our bags, and a few weeks later Yoko and I flew to Buenos Aires with my pots and pans and our one-year-old daughter. Even then, I wasn’t worried.

  THE FRUSTRATION OF BEING UNABLE TO DO THE WORK I WANT

  Mikado was a small restaurant run by the Imamura family. In addition to myself, two Japanese-Argentinians worked there. The salary was a little under $200 a month. Fortunately, prices in Argentina were the lowest in the world, and we were somehow able to make ends meet. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment owned by Mr. Imamura.

  But the restaurant had few customers; often we had only one party per day. Argentinians don’t eat supper until about nine or ten at night, and customers tend to linger. In addition, Argentina is a land of meat eaters. At that time, a whole beef tenderloin only cost a dollar and fifty cents, which made it far cheaper to eat meat than fish. In such an environment, few people bothered to order sushi, which was expensive, and I only received a few orders a day.

  This gave me plenty of free time, and I began to read a lot. It was hard to get Japanese books, so I read whatever I could get my hands on. I remember plowing through all twenty-six volumes of Sohachi Yamaoka’s Tokugawa Ieyasu and the eight volumes of Ryotaro Shiba’s Saka no Ue no Kumo (Clouds Above the Hill). Buenos Aires was beautiful and a great place for taking walks with our daughter in the park. I also enjoyed fishing in the pond in Palermo Park in the city center. There were ginkgo trees, and we used to gather the nuts in autumn and eat them. Although still in my twenties, I felt like I was living the life of a retiree.