The Story of Sushi: An Unlikely Saga of Raw Fish and Rice

by Trevor Corson

  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.

  48

  PIZZA PARTY

  Friday morning, Kate walked into the empty dining room at Hama Hermosa in flip-flops, her lovely brown hair dangling loose for the first time all semester. The other students trickled in. Without their white jackets and hats they looked like ordinary civilians. Only Marcos, in a tight black T-shirt, looked more mature and handsome than he had in his rumpled chef’s gear.

  Takumi, though, was wearing his chef’s jacket. He’d been kneading pizza dough and simmering tomatoes in the kitchen.

  They sat at tables in the dining room and Jay passed out the final written exam. Kate signed her name at the top and decorated it with a love heart. The students bent over their tests.

  The dining room had been stripped bare. The artwork was gone. Nail heads protruded from the walls. In the foyer, the shiny gold Buddha had vanished. The only decoration that remained was Phil Jackson’s signature on the wall.

  When Takumi completed his test he rushed back to the kitchen. He donned an apron and poured himself a glass of red wine. He sprinkled flour on the counter and leaned into his pizza dough with the heels of his hands. He wore a baseball cap, backwards, emblazoned with the Japanese character “sushi.”

  One by one, the other students finished their tests. A group of them went out for ice cream and strolled in the sun near the beach, while Jay tallied up the students’ scores for the semester.

  Around noon, the restaurant manager shoved the dining room tables together to form a large rectangle. He spread out white tablecloths, and Toshi set out silver wine chillers loaded with ice and expensive bottles of sake.

  The students reconvened and welcomed family and friends. Marcos’s mother had flown in from Colorado. Soon Takumi carried in platters of pizza, spaghetti, and risotto from the kitchen, and the kitchen chef brought in chicken wings and pork stew. Jay had brought ribs.

  Jay called the group to attention.

  “I was really surprised by your sashimi test,” Jay said, referring to a section of the practical exams. “Everyone has really improved.” He paused. “I’m really proud of you guys.”

  Jay held up a sheaf of papers, one for each student showing his or her total score for the semester and where they ranked. “These don’t show who got what score, except for your own.”

  Toshi grabbed the papers. “I can tell who was Marcos and Katie!”

  Everyone laughed, even Kate.

  Toshi grew serious and called out names, one by one. Each student stood up, and Toshi presented the new graduate with a diploma, a class photo, and a scorecard. The students applauded each other. When Toshi got to Kate, he gave her a hug. When he called out Marcos’s name, Marcos looked surprised. “I graduated?” He raised his fist.

  Toshi handed out awards, one for the student who earned the highest score in the class, and another to Takumi, who came in second. Then Toshi announced a special award.

  “Kate!”

  She stood up and he handed her a stuffed kangaroo—a mini Zoran.

  Next, Toshi delivered a short speech.

  “This week I went to the Sushi Master’s competition. I was not very impressed. I was wondering why I had to decide a Sushi Master from them. My students were better.” The class cheered and Toshi nodded. “They were messy. So remember what I told you. Keep clean, keep your cutting board clean. Okay, that’s it.”

  Toshi asked each student to give a speech, too. When it was Kate’s turn, she stood up and cleared her throat.

  “I wish I’d prepared something!” She paused. “Oh, wait.” With a flourish, she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. Everyone laughed. “First,” she said, dabbing her eyes like a swooning movie star, “I’d like to thank the Academy!” More laughter.

  Kate grew serious. “I had a really good time with you guys, especially being one of two girls.” In the end, Kate did feel like one of the guys, and it was clear that her classmates had accepted her. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

  When it was Takumi’s turn, he hooked his thumbs on the straps of his apron and bowed. “Thank you very much,” he said. He hesitated. “I have to study English more. Thank you very much.”

  “Let’s toast,” Jay said, “to the thirtieth class of the California Sushi Academy.”

  After the formalities, Kate gave each of her classmates a manila envelope. Inside was a note, plus an enlargement of a photo her mom had taken of the group during the student sushi bar.

  Toshi shouted out to the group. “Okay, let’s eat!” He paused. “Ah, we have no sushi today.”

  There were chuckles. Everyone dug in, happy to be eating cooked food.

  Soon, Marcos said his good-byes. Kate gave him a hug. Toshi clapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Good luck.”

  Toshi sat down and munched on a piece of Takumi’s pizza. He snorted a happy laugh.

  “Good class,” he said. “Good teamwork.” A few minutes later he slipped away.

  Takumi sat in a booth with Tetsu. Takumi would board a plane for Japan in a few days. He looked forward to seeing his wife and daughter, but he dreaded arriving at Tokyo airport. The paparazzi would no doubt be waiting. Takumi hoped to return to America someday, perhaps to open his own restaurant.

  Kate hung around until the party petered out. Finally she said her good-byes and went home. She came right back the next day.

  Kate had completed all her intern hours, but Jay was teaching a final civilian class and Kate wanted to help out. She ladled out sushi rice with the bamboo paddle. She fetched plates, cut nori into half-sheets, and helped the beginners with their basic cucumber rolls—the kappa-maki.

  While they worked, Jay tried to convey the importance of the cucumber roll to the group. “If you screw up a kappa-maki in a job interview,” Jay explained, “it’s like having an accident during a driver�
��s test.”

  Kate nodded and pursed her lips. “That damn kappa-maki was my nemesis.”

  Before the end of class Jay delivered a few final words.

  “Everyone take a good look at Kate. She may be serving you sushi someday.”

  Kate held out her hands, flipped them like a magician performing for a crowd, and smiled.

  The class dispersed. Sunshine streamed through the skylights, illuminating Kate’s white jacket. She stood where Zoran used to stand, at the head of the table, and made herself a spicy tuna roll, the motions now familiar and comforting. When she’d finished, she wrapped up the leftover sushi rice and spicy tuna mix so she could take it home and practice. She wiped down the classroom table until it was spotless. She put away a few odds and ends. Then she stood still and looked around the room.

  The room was silent. The floor freezers and the fridge sat unplugged, their doors propped open. The classroom shelves were empty. Kate gazed at the corkboard on the wall. Some Polaroid photos that the students had taken of each other hung from pushpins. The photos had already yellowed, as if they were a hundred years old.

  She peered into the front sushi bar. The lowboy fridges under the counter sat silent, their doors propped open, too.

  “So empty,” Kate murmured. “So weird.” She gazed at the empty fish cases.

  Jay stood in the hallway and watched her, his shoulder against the wall. She strolled back into the classroom and ran her fingers down the length of the long steel table.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” she said. She glanced once more at the place she had stood for twelve weeks. “Good-bye, table.” She waved, then turned away.

  On the service shelf in the hall sat a stack of plates bearing the logo of the California Sushi Academy. She looked at Jay.

  “Can I take a plate?”

  “You want a CSA plate?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jay nodded “Go ahead.”

  She hugged the plate to her chest.

  “Oh,” Jay added, handing her a book. “Something for you from upstairs. A sushi cookbook.”

  “Thanks, Jay.”

  “Work hard, make us proud.”

  “I will. Monday, I’m going to start looking for a job.”

  Epilogue

  49

  HOMECOMING

  When Kate returned to her apartment, she was sniffling. By Monday she had the flu. She lay around feeling wretched. One day she got a call from Jeff, the job guy and restaurant consultant. He told her that a shopping mall near Beverly Hills had launched an upscale food court with a sushi bar. It was no nightclub, but they were looking for chefs.

  The manager drove down to Torrance to interview Kate at Starbucks. He looked Asian, but she wasn’t sure if he was Japanese. The place was scheduled to open November 16—Kate’s twenty-first birthday. Kate was willing to wait if it meant getting a job in the area. Jeff had recommended a few of the other students from the class for jobs there, too. It would be like old times.

  November 16 turned into December. Kate sat around her apartment with nothing to do. She got depressed. The one bright spot arrived in her computer’s inbox, from Australia. An e-mail from Zoran, saying hi.

  The sushi bar finally opened the second week of December. Kate drove to the mall. With traffic, the commute was two hours each way.

  The manager ran the operation like a sushi-roll factory. Kate and two of her classmates were the cheap labor. They squeezed out California rolls and spicy tuna rolls a hundred at a time, and stuffed them in fridges for the lunch rush. This was not how Kate had been taught to serve sushi. She rarely interacted with customers. She never received any tips.

  Every day Kate dragged herself out of bed at 5:00 a.m., arrived at the mall by 8:00 a.m., and worked a ten-hour shift. The shifts grew longer. One day she was in the middle of a fourteen-hour shift when a woman took a bite from one of the mass-produced California rolls and complained. ‘This is rancid!’

  Kate wasn’t surprised. The roll wasn’t fresh. Before Kate could say anything the manager interceded. He blamed Kate, and apologized to the woman. ‘I won’t let you pay for anything that she made that you don’t like.’

  Tears welled up in Kate’s eyes, but she held them back. The manager told her to step outside and have a smoke. It was her only break all day.

  By the weekend Kate was sick again. On her way to work she called in and asked if she could switch days. On the phone, she got the feeling that they didn’t care that she was sick, and that she was expendable.

  She turned the car around. She called one of her classmates and told him not to expect her at the mall anymore. He quit a week later. When Kate received her paycheck, it was less than half of what they owed her. Her sushi diploma hadn’t even earned her the minimum wage.

  Kate rifled through her collection of photos and found a picture of herself that she liked. It made her look tough. She stuck the picture on the dashboard of her Mustang.

  Then Kate drove around Torrance. She stopped at every sushi place she found, walked in, and asked for a job. The Asian sushi chefs just looked at her funny. She walked back out and sat in the car for a minute and stared at her picture. Then she drove to the next place and did it again.

  By mid-January Kate was out of money and sinking back into depression. She lost her appetite. Her weight was down 10 pounds. She conceded defeat, loaded up her belongings, and drove back to San Diego. She couldn’t afford an apartment so she moved in with her grandparents. She drove down to Mexico to visit friends and sit on the beach for a week and think.

  Kate had worked a lot of different jobs. She had never liked anything as much as interacting with customers at the sushi bar. Staring out at the Pacific Ocean, Kate decided she hadn’t come this far to give up sushi. She drove back to San Diego with a plan.

  First, Kate swallowed her pride and went to work at the surf shop owned by her ex-boyfriend. It was only to pick up extra cash. Luckily the ex-boyfriend was away.

  She still had the picture of herself stuck in the dashboard of her car. She drove up and down the boulevards of Pacific Beach in San Diego. She’d never seen so many sushi restaurants. A one-mile stretch contained Haiku Sushi, Mika Sushi, Kabuki, Tokyo House, Zen Five Sushi, Mister Sushi, Reggae Sushi, and Pacific Beach Sushi. Surely, one of them would need a chef. She walked into each restaurant and introduced herself. These Asian sushi chefs looked at her funny, too. Pacific Beach Sushi offered her a job as a waitress.

  Then Kate noticed a brand-new restaurant off the main drag called Wasabi Sushi. A “Help Wanted” sign hung in the window.

  She took a deep breath and strode in. Customers sat at the sushi bar. Kate introduced herself to the Asian man behind the bar and explained that she was a graduate of the California Sushi Academy, and that she was looking for a position as a chef. The man listened to her pitch. He offered Kate a piece of advice. ‘Girls can’t be sushi chefs.’

  She walked back out and sat in her car and stared at her picture. It no longer helped.

  In the comic book Sushi Chef Kirara’s Job, the young female chef Kirara is full of confidence when she enters the televised sushi-making competition “Sushi Battle 21.” She advances to the final showdown, where she faces her muscle-bound arch-rival, the male chef Sakamaki. Whoever wins five battles first will win the overall competition.

  Kirara loses her first three battles against the huge man. Her confidence is destroyed.

  Kirara’s teacher tells her to stop focusing on her outward technique. Instead, her teacher says, Kirara must show the judges her soul.

  Two weeks later Kate’s grandmother handed her a newspaper with three classified ads for sushi-chef positions. Kate dutifully called all three and left messages.

  She was driving around town running errands when her phone rang. She spoke with a man named Jack. He told her to stop by the restaurant.

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, right now.’

  Kate swung the car around and pulled into a half-finished re
tail development near the football stadium. She found the place. It was next to a McDonald’s. It was called Oki Ton Japanese Bistro.

  In the entryway hung an elegant kimono. Kate peered inside and saw a thick wood sushi bar topped with a serving step of black granite and a row of shiny black fish cases. From the ceiling hung yellow paper lanterns and sloping sections of pale wood, evoking the roof of a Buddhist temple. Standing in the middle of it all was a tall man with a pointy chin, a long sharp nose, and salt-and-pepper hair. He wasn’t Asian. Actually, he looked Italian. This was Jack.

  Jack told Kate the manager would return in a few minutes. Perhaps the manager would be Asian. When the man arrived he looked like Jack. He held out his hand. His name was Arbie. He was Jack’s brother.

  Jack and Arbie Kenefick were Bostonians with Irish-Italian roots. They had recently returned from a couple of decades in Japan. Their goal was to serve Japanese food in the United States in a more authentic fashion than the Japanese did. When they saw Kate, they thought she might be able to interact with American customers more easily than someone who wasn’t American. The result would be an experience closer to what a Japanese customer at a sushi bar experienced in Japan.

  Arbie chatted with Kate for a few minutes.

  ‘Why don’t you come in the day after tomorrow and do prep,’ Arbie said. ‘We’ll see what you can do.’

  Oh crap, Kate thought, they’re going to make me cut cucumbers! She was out of practice. She knew what would happen if she screwed up a cucumber roll in a job interview.

  When Kate returned two days later, she hunted down prep work like a tuna hunting squid. She washed and cooked rice. She prepped crabmeat and spicy tuna mix. She quartered avocados. She stirred water into the wasabi powder. She cut cucumbers. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the guys—the other chefs, the dishwashers, even the delivery men—and did everything they did.