Nobu

by Nobu Matsuhisa

  From the outside, it probably looked like a luxurious lifestyle, but I really wanted to work and was quite frustrated at being so underemployed. After over a year of this, Yoko became pregnant with our second child. For the first time since I had moved overseas, I started to feel anxious. I was worried that when our family increased, I might get stuck in this pattern for the rest of my life, and was beginning to question whether I should keep on like this.

  Around this time, I learned that the interior designer Tadashi Akiyama, who had taken me under his wing when I worked at Matsuei-sushi in Shinjuku, was coming to Peru to attend the wedding of Don Lucho’s younger brother Dario. I begged Yoko to let me use what little cash we had to buy a plane ticket and flew to Peru to meet him. It was he who had introduced me to Don Lucho in the first place, a meeting that had led me to Peru, and I felt that I owed him an explanation. Even more, I wanted to consult him about my future.

  When I asked him what I should do, Mr. Akiyama was blunt. “You’ve already given it your best shot, so it’s time to smarten up and go back to Japan. You’re a good sushi chef. You might as well be in Japan working rather than wasting time worrying about your future in a foreign country.” Thanks to his advice, I decided to go back. We packed our bags immediately, and with my pots and pans, my young daughter, and my pregnant wife, I crossed the Pacific Ocean again, this time in the opposite direction.

  REDUCED TO POVERTY IN JAPAN

  I had left Japan with a dream, only to return disillusioned. When I got back, I was in for another shock. Having been away four years, I called up everyone I knew and suggested that we get together, but they all made excuses. I’m pretty sure they were afraid I would ask them for money. I felt forsaken and very alone.

  We went straight to my family home in Sugito, but it wasn’t easy living there with a wife and child. The only person who welcomed me back warmly was my friend Sakai, and so I turned to him for advice. He invited us to move out near him and found us a place in Yono, a city in Saitama Prefecture. He even let our family of three stay with him and his family for a few days until we were moved in.

  Our new home was a tiny six-tatami-mat room. Though it was old and dilapidated, we were relieved to finally have our own space where we didn’t have to worry about getting in anyone else’s way. Our second daughter was born while we lived there. The night Yoko went into labor and was in the delivery room, Sakai and another good friend, Yoshizaki, stayed with me and my daughter in our run-down apartment until morning.

  I had to find work on my own. My first job was at a sushi shop in Yono, but I couldn’t agree with the owner’s approach. Perhaps I didn’t like being treated like an errand boy and ordered to “Do this” and “Do that.” Anyway, I didn’t last very long there. Around that time, a friend from the gang of delinquents I used to hang out with in high school opened a sushi restaurant in Konosu, and asked me to help him. This meant commuting from Yono to Konosu every day. Even so, life in Yono wasn’t bad. Though poor, we never had to worry about what anyone else thought, and we were happy just being together as a family and having a roof over our heads. I never missed the luxurious life we had led in Peru. At the same time, however, I felt uneasy because I couldn’t see any future for us there. It was as if I could see the dream I had cherished from childhood crumbling before my eyes. Once again, I began to agonize over whether I should go on like this. While my friend who ran the restaurant in Konosu was very good to me, I found it hard to be indebted to him for the work.

  Then I heard that a friend of Nobuo Kaneko, an actor well known as a gourmet, was going to start up a restaurant in Alaska and was looking for a partner. Kaneko had been a regular at Matsuei-sushi, and once again Mr. Akiyama arranged for me to meet him. Through Mr. Akiyama’s introduction, it was decided that I would go to Alaska. By that point, I didn’t care where I went or under what conditions: I just wanted to get away from Japan. I felt ashamed, as if I had failed. It seemed as if almost all my friends had disappeared and everyone had given me the cold shoulder. Going to Alaska was my escape.

  FORWARD FROM THE BRINK OF DESPAIR—A MILLIMETER A DAY!

  I begged Yoko to give me just one more chance, then set off alone for Anchorage, while she and our two children went to her family home in Kurashiki. I had to borrow the entire sum for my airfare.

  The restaurant was still under construction, and, for the next six months or so, I wielded a saw and hammer to help build it. Kioi, a Japanese restaurant, finally opened at the beginning of October, and my family came to join me from Japan. Business was brisk right from the start, and I breathed a sigh of relief. On Thanksgiving, we closed the restaurant and took our first holiday since the opening. My family and I were at the home of Masatoshi Tauchi, a Japanese friend who worked at a different restaurant, when suddenly, the phone rang. It was my partner at Kioi.

  “Come quick!” he said. “There’s a fire!!”

  At first, I thought it was a bad joke, but when I stepped outside and looked in the direction of the restaurant, the sky was crimson, and smoke was rising in the air. Then I heard the fire engines.

  Borrowing Tauchi’s car, I rushed over. It was late November, and snow was falling on Anchorage. The restaurant burned red against the snow-covered streets. The fire had engulfed the building and was burning so fiercely that I couldn’t even get close. The falling snow vaporized in the flames that lit the night sky. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The restaurant had only been open fifty days. My mind and my whole body went numb with despair. As I stood there in stunned disbelief, scenes from Shinjuku, Peru, Argentina, and Saitama swirled through my head like the images in a revolving lantern, then evaporated. With each vanishing image, I felt as though my body was being whittled away. Flames and smoke rose before my eyes. The building crackled and roared as it came crashing down . . . This is it, I thought. My life is over.

  I have no idea how I got home that night. When I came to my senses, I was sprawled across the table. I drank some water and threw it right back up. My legs were so weak, I couldn’t stand. My brain was empty. Neither my mind nor my body registered anything that was said to me. What was I to do? . . . Ah . . . Enough . . . , I thought. I might as well die . . .

  For a while, all I could think about was death and how to go about dying. Should I get lost in the mountains and just disappear? Should I throw myself into the sea?

  This period could have lasted a week or just a single night. I had no sense of time.

  It was Yoko who saved me. She never left my side. Later, she told me, “I knew that you could rise above it. I was sure that you would carve a path to our future; that you would make me happy.” It was her belief in me that carried me through.

  As time passed, my awareness crawled back from the brink of despair and drew closer to reality. The innocent laughter of my children reached my ears. They knew nothing of what was going on and were simply overjoyed to have their father home. Their laughter sounded angelic. At that moment, I thought, I’ll give it another try! This time I’ll be patient. I’ll keep moving forward one step at a time, even if it’s just a millimeter a day.

  Until then, somewhere inside I had always been conscious of the success of my friends, some of whom now rode around in Mercedes-Benzes. Ambitious, I had wanted to be successful, too. But at that moment, I let go of everything. I had hit rock bottom, and there was nowhere further to fall. For the first time in my life I felt totally detached.

  My wife is standing by me. My children are alive and well. I may not be feeling great myself, but I’ve done my best and survived another day. I was ready to accept that this was good enough. For the first time, I could really live each day without feeling driven.

  Even now, just remembering what happened in Alaska makes me tremble. But I think that losing so much in my late twenties is what led me to my simple way of life. I work hard to make good food and provide good service, not because I want to own a lot of restaurants or make a lot of money, but because I want to make my guests happy.

  GOING
SOLO TO LOS ANGELES AND VOWING TO MAKE A COMEBACK

  Although the restaurant had burned down, I had come all the way to Alaska, so I thought I would stay and try again. But my partner decided not to sponsor my visa, and I had no energy left to try and negotiate one for myself. I could not stay, yet I did not even have enough money to buy tickets to Japan. That is when our neighbor, Ko Ishizu, stepped in. Ishizu was a pilot with Japan Airlines and the nephew of Kensuke Ishizu, the founder of VAN Jacket Inc. He provided tickets for all four of us, plus a loan of five hundred dollars. Our friendship continues to this day. Really, I owe him my life.

  I happened to know a sushi chef named Mr. Seki in Los Angeles. We had met when I was on my way back from Argentina. When the restaurant in Alaska burned down, I called him to ask for help. “Just get yourself here right away,” he said. I made a brief stop in Japan first, though, because I needed to take my family home, and there was the issue of the visa as well.

  Coming back was even more miserable than our return from Argentina. When I left for Alaska, I had announced to everyone that this was my last chance, yet here I was, back again. As before, it was Sakai who helped us out. He arranged for everything we needed and, thanks to him, I was able to make sure that Yoko and the children made it to her parents’ home in Kurashiki. A week later, I boarded a plane for Los Angeles as if running away yet again. I had one suitcase and a total of twenty-five dollars.

  Mr. Seki introduced me to Mitsuwa, a small, newly opened Japanese restaurant owned by Mr. Hiro Nishimura, a respected chef and pioneer of Japanese cooking in Los Angeles who had cooked for Emperor Showa during his visit to the city. Mr. Nishimura ran the restaurant with his family, and I was put in charge of its six-seat sushi bar.

  In those days, you could still travel to America without a visa and apply for permanent residency. Mr. Nishimura prepared the application for me and taught me the basics I would need to survive in America, such as how to get a credit card and how to rent an apartment. He also sold me a car at a very low price because it was hard to get around Los Angeles without one.

  My English was minimal, but I had picked up some Spanish in Peru and that is what I used in my attempts to communicate with customers at the sushi counter. This actually came in very handy as there are many Spanish speakers in Los Angeles. Word soon got around that the sushi chef at Mitsuwa spoke Spanish, and I gained a following of regulars, many of whom still come to Matsuhisa and Nobu.

  MY WIFE’S COURAGE REUNITES OUR FAMILY

  Meanwhile Yoko was struggling. She applied to the American embassy in Japan for a visa but was turned down. The embassy could not issue visas to the family of someone who was working illegally in the United States, which was basically what I was doing because I didn’t have a visa yet. We stayed in touch mainly through letters.

  After living apart for more than half a year, Yoko finally took action. Bringing our two daughters and my pots and pans, she traveled as a visitor to Los Angeles. She was very nervous when going through customs. Later she told me, “The customs officer winked at me. I’m sure he knew he shouldn’t be letting me through, but when he saw how determined I was, he must have decided to let me go anyway.” She and our two daughters stayed, and two years later our whole family was given permanent residency.

  Thanks to Mr. Nishimura of Mitsuwa, who helped us get our green cards, and to the courage of my wife, our family was now able to live together without fear. When we received our green cards, Mr. Nishimura sent me out into the world. “You’re free now,” he told me. “You could make more money working elsewhere, so go wherever you like.” Mr. Nishimura helped me at one of the most difficult times of my life, taught me the skills I needed to live in America, and then willingly let me go, rather than trying to tie me down with feelings of obligation. He was both a very strict and a very generous man.

  UNITING COOKING METHODS LEARNED IN SOUTH AMERICA WITH SUSHI

  I soon found a job at Osho, a Japanese restaurant chain that had three shops in Los Angeles, and was put in charge of the eight-seat sushi counter. Regulars from Mitsuwa also followed me there. This is when I first began experimenting with original cuisine, drawing on my experience in Peru and Argentina.

  Because Lima, Peru, is right on the sea with a good supply of fresh seafood, its residents often eat raw fish. For example, ceviche, a popular local dish, is basically raw fish marinated in lemon juice, and I thought it could be adapted for a sushi restaurant. Traditionally, however, it’s marinated for so long that the flesh turns white. Accustomed to the delicious flavor of fresh sashimi, I felt that the lemon overpowered the flavor of the fish, which meant that no matter what kind of fish was used, they all ended up tasting the same. To me, this seemed a waste.

  In Japanese cuisine, a bit of sudachi juice is often squeezed on the fish slices used to top sushi. Taking a hint from this, to retain its distinctive flavor, I mixed the seafood with the ceviche sauce just before serving instead of marinating it for longer. As restaurants in America didn’t serve ceviche back then, this dish provided a taste of home for the many Hispanics who lived in Los Angeles. The lemony fragrance actually brought out the distinctive flavor of the seafood, making it even more delicious. It was soon a popular item on the menu.

  Many years later, this dish made its way to Peru where it was also enthusiastically embraced. The government of Peru even appointed me as a tourist ambassador for promoting Peruvian cuisine to the world. I was honored and happy to be able to repay the kindness that so many Peruvians had shown me when I lived there.

  One day, at an Italian restaurant, I tried soft shell crab for the first time. Soft shell crabs are eaten whole, either sautéed or fried, just after they’ve shed the hard outer shell, leaving only a soft shell beneath. They were so good that I wanted to try cooking them myself. I bought some immediately and served them deep-fried. One of my guests, however, remarked, “This is a sushi bar. You should make it into a sushi roll.” Though surprised, I followed his advice. It tasted great. That was the origin of Soft Shell Crab Rolls, a Nobu signature dish.

  Another signature dish, Black Cod with Miso, also originated around this time. Americans love tender-fleshed fish such as salmon, tuna, and hamachi (young yellowtail). Taking a hint from this, I went to the market to search for types of fish that would please them. There I found frozen black cod, which was quite cheap. I was instantly inspired to make saikyo-yaki, which involves curing the fish in Kyoto-style white miso overnight and then grilling it. At that time, it was almost impossible to find this kind of miso in the States, so I added mirin (sweet cooking wine), sugar, and other ingredients to ordinary white miso and then tried packing the cod in it. In Japan, we usually wrap the fillets of fish in cotton cloth and coat these with miso, but instead I placed the fish directly into the miso mixture. When grilled, it was succulent and tender. Americans are less accustomed to eating high-protein white-fleshed fish, but this one struck them as delicious, and it became another instant hit.

  Word soon spread that interesting and innovative cuisine could be had at Osho. The sushi counter was always full, with a long line of people waiting outside.

  At the counter of Osho.

  COVERT PLANS TO SELL THE RESTAURANT AND FEAR OF LOSING MY JOB AGAIN

  I had pulled myself up from rock bottom, found a job I enjoyed, and was making enough income to gradually pay off my debts. I could even take a few holidays and was very happy living with my family of four in our little apartment. Now that my worries were over, I just wanted to keep pleasing my guests with good sushi and innovative cuisine. About six years after I began working at Osho, however, a customer who worked for a real estate agent told me that the restaurant was up for sale. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

  That’s ridiculous! I thought. But, as the saying goes, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I knew that it was a common practice in the States to start up a business and then sell it once it turned a profit. This made me uneasy. One day, while out golfing with the owner, I asked him bluntly, “Have
you put the restaurant up for sale?”

  He looked surprised for a moment, but then said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to sell it.” I breathed a mental sigh of relief.

  Several months later, however, someone else told me that the restaurant was up for sale, and this filled me with fear. If the restaurant was sold, I might lose my job again. The trauma of that night in Alaska when I had watched the restaurant go up in flames returned to haunt me. Again, I checked with the owner.

  “Well, it’s true that I was thinking of putting it up for sale a while ago,” he said. “But I decided against it. After all, it would be hard for me to make a living without it.”

  This did not banish my anxiety, but I didn’t want to make trouble. “So I can trust you, then, right?” was all I could say.

  Rumors of a pending sale, however, continued to reach my ears. It seemed the owner was not being straight with me. Of course, even if the restaurant was sold, I could have chosen to stay and work under the new owner. But it was quite possible that he or she would decide to switch from Japanese cuisine to Italian or French. Still traumatized by the incident in Alaska, it seemed too great a risk not to know who the new owner would be. If the current owner had told me honestly that he was planning to sell the place, I could have plotted my future course of action, but the rumors were setting off warning bells. Unable to trust him, I told him I would be quitting in six months’ time. This gave me some leeway to look for a new job. The restaurant was sold soon after I left.